3.4
It was Saturday. Angus was at work on his screenplay. There were pages of writing scattered across the kitchen table. Looked like he’d be working all afternoon. With every passing day of her pregnancy she had less time for the larrikin, who, ever since that single petulant growl, had fused with the image of her father that she carried in the deeps of her psyche. She stood in the doorway and watched him for a while, before grabbing her shoulder bag off a chair.
‘See you later,’ she said breezily.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Choir.’
‘Have a good time,’ he said, without looking up.
She walked purposefully through the front door, letting the fly screen swing shut of its own accord. She stepped down from the porch and picked her way across the garden. She didn’t allow her thoughts to wand
