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passage snaked, in an L-shape, around it. Along this passage on the left were the various bedrooms and bathroom, before it ended with a right turn into the family room which, in turn, had a set of decorative bi-fold doors on the immediate right leading back into the lounge-room.
    But the family room was the heart of the house: the command post, first aid station, homework centre, laundry folding area, negotiating station and facilitating zone – a place for dinner parties and slumber bashes, for bedsheet tents and teddy-bears’ picnics, elaborate Lego villages and jigsaw puzzles. A huge square room, it encompassed the kitchen in onecorner where a door led through to the laundry and seldom-used back door, and even a flexible dining-room, which moved to wherever Jill felt like dragging the heavy oak table and chairs at any particular moment. And on sunny days, like this one, the whole room was filled with strips of reflected light from the cream vertical blinds covering the two double-sash windows at the far end, and the glass sliding door in the corner.
    Today, however, the ribbons of sunshine only served to highlight the layer of dust on the furniture and illuminate the dancing little motes as they floated through the air, leaping gaily from one surface to another. There was a pile of dirty shoes by the sliding door and grubby fingerprints spaced themselves at intervals across the walls. Next to the computer, which was almost obscured by empty CD cases and game boxes, there were the remains of what looked like a picnic, with empty Twistie packets and biscuit crumbs and dirty plastic cups. The only ornament in the room, a dreadful china cow with an enormous salmon-pink udder (a Christmas present from Jill’s youngest daughter last year that had sat centre-stage on the buffet since then), appeared to be missing several teats, which meant that there would probably be shards of china somewhere nearby. Dirty glasses, mugs and bowls adorned the small end table by the tapestry sofa, which was itself covered by a selection of glossy magazines folded over to display articles with names such as ‘To tongue or not to tongue – is that the question?’
    Well, reflected Jill, at least that was one question she didn’t need answered. Instead, standing by the entrance, she closed her eyes for a second before continuing over to the kitchen and dumping the plastic bag down next to its relatives by the rubbish-bin. From here she could see the overflowing sink that, ever since the dishwasher had broken down a few daysago, everybody – except her – was simply using a receptacle for dirty dishes. With a tacit expectation that, when needed again, they would be miraculously clean, dry and available from within a cupboard. She stared at the dishes for a few seconds and then turned to look around the whole room slowly. And all of a sudden, the exact words she needed came to her: ‘Enough, Jack. I’m sorry but I’ve had enough. I’m tired of cleaning the same rooms day after day, only to wake up the next damn morning and start all over again. I’m nine years overdue for long-service leave and I want it now . I want to sit around on an inner-city balcony sipping champagne and watching life go by, instead of directing it. Then I’ll decide if I want to come back. Ever.’
    A dusky grey Persian cat, which was draped over a small fish-tank that sat at one end of the buffet opposite the island bench, lifted its head lazily at the sound of Jill’s voice and regarded her through slitted eyes. Then, obviously deciding she wasn’t worth the effort, it went back to its unblinking seafood survey.
    ‘You should be worried, you know,’ Jill said to it threateningly, ‘because if I leave – when I leave – your chances of a regular meal are going to get mighty slim.’
    Stroking the glass lovingly with one paw, the cat continued to ignore her so Jill turned away and wandered slowly over to the dining-table, half of which was not just clean but