He would have liked to linger, to study each of the paintings – and the other objects he’d glimpsed as they walked through parts of the house – an exquisite wave-like Murano vase, some glass and marble sculptures by British and Australian artists, and a cream and soft grey porcelain assemblage by an Australian ceramicist he admired.
There was a baby grand piano as well. “You play?” he asked.
“No, not me. My mother, Helen.”
When they sat down to lunch on the terrace, Ian poured chilled white wine into each of their glasses. Sensing that Lisa was about to tell her father he didn’t drink alcohol, Adi gently touched her knee as he accepted the glass and, when she glanced at him, shook his head.
“How’s Mack, dear, do you still see him?” Helen asked.
“Of course. He’s fine, busy with the new
