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almost kicked her out of home for it. Told her she could join a freak show, hell she cared, then she cried and asked Grace how she could be so cruel to herself. Lizzie’s dad would never cry over her spoilt back, but still, she’s taken to being extra careful, keeping her shirts tucked in and the bathroom door closed. He doesn’t come near her anyway.
    Lizzie can’t bear to compare her tattoo to Grace’s, to see what expression her woman has. Lizzie looks for her tattoo all the time, though, as Grace moves around the room, gesturing in her conversation so that her blouse lifts up. Sometimes Lizzie wonders if the ink under their skin has held them together too long.
    In the lounge room at the party, Grace waves at her current man. Frank, he calls himself. He comes over and greets them. ‘You young ladies look good together.’
    They smile up at him from the chair, tipsy, and Lizzie tries to imagine how Frank sees them. She hopes he thinks she’s beautiful. She’s terrified of not being noticed, even though she doesn’t like his face, the downward curve of his shoulders. He gathers their glasses and returns with them overfull. Lizzie takes a slug of hers, settling back in the chair, crossing her ankles. She lets herself drift. Frank drags a chair closer to them. He directs his attention to Grace. Lizzie watches the room for Joe.
    A man and a woman come in and stand awkwardly at the doorway, then the man sees her father and moves towards him. The woman hangs back as the man introduces her, his hand on her elbow. She smiles, peers under the cloche brim of her hat. Later, Lizzie sees her huddled with a group of three women, laughing hysterically. Her hat’s gone.
    The drink moves through Lizzie. Her dad is friends with too many fools: men from the tracks and the fan-tan dens, who lurk in darkened cinemas with their hands on their crotches. The women they bring with them are vacant or skittish.
    Lizzie stumbles into the kitchen for another drink. Joe’s standing there with his hat in his hands. Her vision rolls. He becomes the centre of the room. ‘Joe!’ It comes out louder than she meant. He looks over and smiles. She has to concentrate as she walks to him. Asks him if he wants a drink. He nods. Bottles of warm beer and spirits sprout like saplings from the benchtop. She holds a few up to the light, but all that’s left are the dregs. Embarrassment furs her back. ‘Sorry,’ she says quickly, grabbing an empty bottle and telling Joe she’ll go ask her dad. Joe pulls his mouth down.
    She finds her dad waving his arms about while he talks, waiting for the men around him to laugh at his jokes, which they do after he pauses. She stands behind him, arms crossed. When he turns to her, his eyes are bloodshot. ‘May I help you, my darling?’ Posh and formal, as though he’s a butler.
    She holds up the bottle, shakes it. ‘Any more?’
    Her dad snatches the bottle out of her hands and strides off to the kitchen. Lizzie wishes she hadn’t asked. He scans the bottles on the bench, finds them all empty, squats down, starts riffling through the cupboards, clattering the bowls.
    â€˜Don’t have to be stroppy about it,’ she says. ‘I was just asking.’
    â€˜People are tight these days.’ He speaks into the cupboard. ‘Don’t bring anything to share. All on me.’
    Lizzie can’t look at Joe, who brought nothing.
    He says, ‘No worries, mate, I’m alright.’
    â€˜No,’ Lizzie’s dad says. ‘Guests need something to drink.’
    â€˜Dad –’
    â€˜You know how much this costs me? A blessed lot. You drink me out of house and home.’
    â€˜Didn’t drink hardly any. Plenty others –’ Lizzie gestures to the room of people, their full glasses.
    Joe says, ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll find something else.’
    Her dad stands up and slams the cupboard