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Until the following month.

After I’d treated the sheep, I was relieved that Cameron’s ute wasn’t blocking the driveway and even more relieved (for reasons I didn’t want to think about) that he wasn’t ten metres up a tree. I parked the ute, ate a sandwich and went to bed.

Now it’s Friday morning. When another cramp hits, I roll into a ball on the bed in the loft. My breaths bounce off the walls and the ceiling. I scrape tears from my face.

It hurts, Mum.

You’re a woman now, Amelie. It’s perfectly natural.

Other girls at school don’t get it like this. It doesn’t happen to you.

When I was sixteen, I went to a gynaecologist, who diagnosed primary dysmenorrhoea, natural contractions in the lining of the uterus. Many women have this pain, some of them mildly, others, like me, acutely. I’ve been checked regularly and I’m fortunate it’s nothing more serious. Warm compresses and a bath work well, but there’s no bath in the cabin and I can’t find my hot water bottle so a shower will have to do. I grit my teeth and climb down the ladder to the compact bathroom. The water is warm, and I imagine it’s helping, until another cramp hits and I’m bent double all over again. My hair gets wet. Damn.

The crunch of tyres on gravel as a car pulls up. Double damn. I pull on shorts and a T-shirt and run my fingers through my hair. Keith Urban will greet whoever is there then maybe they’ll go away. Not entirely confident about that and knowing how hard it will be to hide the cramps whether sitting or standing, I perch on the ladder to the loft, one foot on the ground, the other on the bottom rung.

‘Amelie!’ Cameron knocks on the door, left ajar so Keith Urban can come and go, and it opens wide. ‘What’s going on?’

I’d like nothing more than to stalk to the door and slam it in his face so I don’t have to talk to him and, even more importantly, so I don’t have to explain why I can’t stalk to the door and slam it in his face.

‘What do you want?’ My hair is dripping down my neck to my T-shirt. It’s a new T-shirt, white with yellow stripes. Blue denim shorts. No bra. I cross my arms but not for long because another cramp hits and I need to hang onto the rail. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You told Julia you had to see a client.’ Factual. More than a hint of accusation. ‘I saw your ute.’

‘I’m on my way.’

He looks me up and down. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I didn’t want to let Julia down. I’m sorry I had to cancel.’

‘It’s not fair to blame her for what I did.’ He stabs through his hair with a hand. ‘What you think I did.’

‘Please don’t do this now.’

‘When do we do it? In another sixteen years?’

‘I don’t—’

‘Your resentment. My guilt. Yes, I fucked up afterwards, but I had no part in what they did. I wasn’t even there.’

‘It’s done.’

‘I would have stopped it.’

My fingernails must be digging divots into my palms but all I’m aware of is the incendiary fire in my abdomen. ‘Please stop talking about it.’

‘I didn’t know you were there.’

‘I saw you.’ My voice is scratchy.

‘After it happened.’

‘I heard what you said.’

‘If I could take those words back, I would.’

Even through my pain, I sense his. ‘Forget it.’

‘I can’t and neither can you.’ He steps closer. ‘I knew the risk you were taking when you wouldn’t wear your glasses. It scared me.’