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rested in the balance. And not just theirs. My head itched as my heart and my brain fought against each other. Even though this was his holiday, it was my life. It was important that I teach him compassion, even though my housemates were nothing to me—and in Simone's case, less than nothing.
    'Well?' he asked.
    'You haven't harmed Simone or Andrew, have you?' I answered, clutching his knee. 'Or Jason, or any of them?'
    'Tsk, tsk,' he clucked. 'Now that I know your wishes, though I am not completely convinced ... no.'
    'And the house?'
    'A total loss, sorry to say.'
    'Not so bad,' I said without thinking.
    'Eh?'
    'Insurance,' I explained. And then I felt remorse for people I didn't even know, and with the way my life was going, I was sure I would never know. I felt for the future of people wanting insurance. The more accidents, the more rates go up. Insurance companies must follow the rules of profit. No one I knew now would understand me in this silly remorse, but I learnt it at the bank, and it stuck.
    But enough pity for them. I felt for my bag and something to blow my nose on. 'My stuff!'
    I had to ask, hating having to. 'Where'd you put my stuff?'
    He shook his head, and offered his hand. 'Ready, Angela?'
    ... everything ...? everything!
    He stood and adjusted his crotch with an impatient jerk.
    There was one thing left. 'The store. My job. I have responsibilities.'
    'Sorry,' he said. That tone, I recognized. The same gentle élan I'd used on Gordon.

—7—
    Brett gave me five minutes to think of a 'comfortable lodging with service to my desire, or I will choose for both of us'.
    I assumed he meant super-fancy room service, and I only vaguely knew how room service works. As to the place ... But those years of browsing style magazines in Bettawong's coffee shops came in useful now as I remembered an intriguingly exclusive little hotel.
    The Restonia, I recollected, didn't 'do bookings'. Its clients were 'friends' who 'come for stays'. The write-up had reeled off a list of rumoured friends—movie and music names I instantly forgot—and their memorable reasons for choosing the Restonia: its 'discretion' and its claim to service 'every desire'. The rumour of its secret vehicular access had been mentioned, and tantalizingly unconfirmed.
    I had never progressed beyond youth hostel, so I didn't know how we would go getting in, assuming the Restonia wasn't full of friends. I looked like I had slept in my clothes, but everyone does when they arrive fresh from overseas in our arse-end continent. Brett looked fab, but I didn't know if an establishment this exclusive could deal with people without credit cards. Then I thought it was probably the only hotel I could think of, that would possibly be used to accommodating a man with wads of cash in his pants, and no memory of where he put his wallet.
    In the pale light of dawn, I led off on our trek, walking towards the centre of town, and then veering off. The air was fresh, and there was almost no traffic. Brett walked beside me, and when I found an all-night city petrol station and went in for directions, he accompanied me, standing beside me as I asked to use their phone book, then handing me the petrol-smelling street directory they handed him when I asked if they had one. Our destination was only three blocks away, though these grease-heads had never heard of it.
    When we finally arrived, I almost missed it.
    The Restonia was a confusingly small, unremarkable upended shoebox packed between two defunct old clothing factories in a quiet street. Beside the solid front door, a small brass plaque saying only 'The Restonia' was screwed to the smut-dusted stone above a brass buzzer. It was 6:30 am. I pressed the buzzer and there was a thirty-second delay. Then, fast as a footfall brings red ant soldiers from their nest,  the door opened and three men swarmed, closely followed by another with a polka-dot bowtie and patent leather slip-ons—the manager, who introduced himself to