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to a younger girl.’
    ‘What did he do?’ I asked, resigned to some embarrassing attempt to pick up that ‘young flesh’ my mother spoke of so scathingly.
    ‘Look, I really can’t go into it,’ said Bethany, when another voice cut in loudly: ‘But I can, so what about it? Is the old deadbeat yours?’
    ‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘Who are you?’
    ‘Allie. From California,’ said the young woman.
    She shone with health. Her hair was as glossy as a chestnut horse’s coat, her skin was lightly tanned and she stood a good two metres high, a lot of it long, smooth, muscular leg. Most of which was revealed in her bicycle shorts.
    ‘Come and let me buy you a drink,’ I offered. ‘That old deadbeat is my father and I’m looking for him.’
    ‘Better you than me. Just wait until I change and I’ll meet you back here, okay?’ she said, eyes widening as she took in Daniel.
    She whisked away and I smiled my thanks at Bethany, who went back to her computer, never once having looked me in the eye. Nige grinned at Daniel and I saw his trotter close over a ten dollar note which had miraculously appeared on the polished desk.
    ‘It all goes on expenses,’ he said.
    ‘But no one’s paying us for this,’ I protested.
    The crowd in the YMCA ebbed and flowed. Chinese students chattered past, carrying bags from McDonald’s. Australians belted up the stairs bearing cartons of sushi and tempura. I heard a fascinating babble of languages — Greek, Arabic, Japanese, even French. Daniel was drawn into a sharp discourse in a harsh language, all consonants — must have been Hebrew — by four tall olive-skinned boys with number one haircuts, flourishing maps. They were accompanied by four tall, olive-skinned girls, stalwart and very pretty with their glistening black curls. The Israelis were going to St Kilda and I idly wondered about the fate of anyone who decided that those girls were fair game …
    Then Allie was back in a bright purple tracksuit and hot pink trainers. I had seen their kind before.
    ‘Oh, they’re Fair Trade hi-tops,’ I commented. ‘Goss just bought a pair. Are they comfortable?’
    ‘I guess. It makes me feel better knowing that I’m not walking around in something which some little kid has gone blind making,’ she told me. ‘Are we going to take Mr Wonderful?’
    ‘As soon as he explains the tram system,’ I said. Daniel handed back the map, farewelled his compatriots, and we went out of the Y.
    ‘So that creep is your papa, eh?’ Allie asked me as we crossed the road to the Stork. ‘Bad luck.’
    ‘I have always thought so,’ I said, wondering a little at the candour of Americans. This was the sort of fresh faced, innocent plain speaking that started wars.
    Daniel took over. ‘Come along, ladies, there will be a fire,’ he said, shoving open a recalcitrant door and letting out a scent of beer, cooking and wood smoke. I have always liked the Stork. The food is restaurant class and the wine list is extensive, but it is still basically a comfortable pub where anyone is welcome, even if he or she is wearing work clothes. Indeed, occupying the big table in the saloon bar was a gang of Maori women in their roadwork boots, looking amazingly sexy in their blue singlets and dungarees. They were drinking beer as though the six o’clock swill was still a reality, and picking bits of concrete debris out of each other’s hair. I’d heard them working. Male road crews are quiet. The Maori women talk all the time, in a high shriek with frequent laughter, as they tunnel their way down gutters or excavate for pipes. Their comments on passing men, however, cannot be quoted in any reputable newspaper, which was, I suppose, why no one but me had noticed them.
    Allie looked a bit askance at all this rampant femaleness but settled down near the fire and accepted a glass of Australian red wine, which was nice of her considering that California made good red wine of its own. I had a glass of Marlborough Sound