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down my right cheek.
     
    “Okay,” I agree, “as long as you realise that it’s only really, really, very precautionary. And only on the condition that I get my say too.”
     
    “Deal,” she says. “Now listen, Dan. You know how much I love you and care about you and want you to be happy?”
     
    I nod in acquiescence.
     
    “Well, I’ve been mulling this over a lot recently,” she continues, “and don’t take it the wrong way. I’m very fond of him, but I’m not sure Hugo’s the ‘one’. I don’t think he’s enough for you, or could ever be or give you what you need. You need somebody who can give you more - more excitement, more impulsiveness, more of a challenge. I just know that for you, Hugo will always be the easy option and long term I don’t think he could ever make you happy. Not as happy as I think you could be.”
     
    I nod, presuming her lecture is over, baffled by her concern in me when she should be thinking of herself, but apparently there’s more.
     
    “Oh, and one last thing, you won’t forget that pact we’ve always had, about neither of us getting involved with or ending up with a married man, will you?”
     
    I shake my head, saying no, of course I haven’t forgotten. I will never, ever break that pact. Then I have my say, trying desperately, all the while, not to cry. I tell her that she’s my best friend. That we’ve done everything together for nearly twenty years, so look you here, Missy, don’t go baling out on me now. Not just for me, but for you. I tell her she and me have got sidetracked. What happened to our plans to travel the world and live abroad? Hey, what say we go to Australia together? So we can both get to be outdoors for a whopping fifty per cent of the time because that’s what life’s like in Neighbours ! Just imagine, two sexy bald chicks, painting Sydney red, wouldn’t that be brilliant? We haven’t got any commitments (I momentarily forget Hugo) and she’s on the cusp of meeting Mr. Perfect. Hey, what about that Simon Shufflebum? You weren’t disinterested by him?
     
    She’s correcting my intentional mistake, reminding me it’s Shufflebottom, which makes all the difference, and she’s meant to be seeing him in a few days’ time, when the nurse interrupts. She’s come to whisk Amber away to chop off her tresses. Just before the nurse moves the bed, Amber says: “by the way, thanks for the flowers. They’re beautiful and my favourite colour.”
     
    As I watch her bed being wheeled into the distance, I can no longer help myself. I explode uncontrollably into a heaving, convulsing wreck. I put my head into my lap to muffle my wails so the people round the other three beds in the ward are spared my agony and can only see this seated, hunched-over torso. Then Mrs Slater comes back, strokes my hair and comforts me like a baby. “Shush, shush. I’ve got a good feeling Danni. It’ll be alright.” We dry our eyes and pull ourselves together.
     
    *****
     
    Five minutes later the nurse wheels Amber back. Once again, her eyes are closed. I’m not sure if she’s sleeping or not, but just seeing her eyes shut makes me nervous. They’ve wound a white scarf, yes, once again that damned white, around her head, so she’s spared the indignity of anybody else seeing her head hairless. I’m wondering whether Amber has even had a peek in the mirror yet, then overhear the nurse say to Mrs Slater, Mrs Slater with the same red hair as Amber’s, although hers is more a mahogany compared to Amber’s ginger, that they’re going straight down to theatre now. We follow her bed towards the operating room, tracking a yellow line most of the way. It’s a bit like the yellow brick road in the Wizard of Oz . Amber even looks a bit like Dorothy. I know it was all a dream, but didn’t that film have a happy ending?
     
    Mrs Slater and I are standing on opposite sides of Amber, holding onto the metal bed frames as we walk along. She’s flanked by the two