She opened her eyes, and found herself on the footpath outside The House – the Harry Seidler one she’d loved so much when she was twelve, whose rooms she’d imagined and recreated with cardboard and Paddle Pop sticks.
Oh, did I fall asleep inside a theater? Not the strangest place I’ve woken up. I start to get up, but two figures take the stage. As my vision adjusts, I see it’s a fat guy with thick, curly red hair and a pencil-thin woman with long red hair.
Immaculately poised, with just the right amount of expressive grief and sorrow when necessary, she’d answered his sizzling questions—“What do you think about the death of Ms. Benson? Did you know about the affair?