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Stella-Jean took a break from scrapping with her brother to pipe up, ‘Get the big box, Mummy, it works out nearly two dollars cheaper.’ And she was right. It was almost uncanny. Gerry had started calling her the Pocket Calculator. On their holidays in Bali they’d all come to rely on Stella-Jean to calculate the exchange rate from rupiah to dollars, and get a fair price. Not the cheapes t price; she always stopped bargaining at a certain point and the Balinese sellers always agreed: fair.
    Stella-Jean had stopped her profit-and-loss summary now and was looking at her mother expectantly.
    ‘That’s terrific, sweetie,’ Susanna said, scrambling to catch up. ‘You’re, ah, doing very well, then.’
    ‘You weren’t listening to me, were you? I said, how soon after Christmas are we going to Bali? You have booked, Mum, haven’t you?’
    This was not a moment Susanna had been looking forward to. ‘I, ah … I don’t know that we’ll be going to Bali at all this summer, I’m afraid. I’ve got to focus on work for this exhibition next year. And the article I have to write.’ What Susanna didn’t say was that, apart from these demands, she was also hatching a secret plan for a trip to Europe with her mother, after the dreaded exhbition was over. Europe was expensive, but if she put aside what she’d have spent on the family going to Bali, she’d be able to save enough. And Jean, who couldn’t cope with tropical humidity, had always longed to visit Italy. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’
    ‘Mu- um !’ wailed Stella-Jean. ‘We have to go to Bali. I have to talk to Putu, about business .’ Seb sniggered loudly and she turned on him, suddenly furious. ‘What are you laughing at?’
    ‘ Biz-ness, ’ he mocked, putting air quotes around the word. ‘Look at you, you’re wearing a flipping tea-cosy on your head! What business is it again? Nutbar Enterprises?’
    ‘Shu t up ,’ she shrieked.
    ‘Okay you two, that is enough!’ shouted Gerry. He thrust his almost-empty dinner plate away; it hit the cast-iron pot with a clang as loud as the bell at the start of a boxing round. Everybody jumped, and Tigger leapt from a chair where he’d been snoozing unnoticed and streaked for the backyard, the cat flap slapping behind him. In the sudden startled silence, the scrape of the screen door at the front of the house sounded very loud.
    A woman’s voice called, ‘Hello-o-oh? Anybody ho-ome?’
    ‘Oh, great,’ said Gerry, rolling his eyes. ‘It’s the God Squad.’
    Susanna hissed, ‘Can we all just pretend to be civilised, please?’, shooting a fierce look around the table as she jumped to her feet. ‘Come in, Angie, come in! Have you eaten?’
    ‘I’ll fire up the Gaggia.’ Gerry headed over to his pride and joy, the gleaming coffee machine on the bench. Almost the only thing he and his sister-in-law had in common was their love of good coffee.
    Susanna’s younger sister, her figure set off by a vintage dress with a cinched waist and darted bodice, chattered nonstop all the way from the front door, while eight-year old Finn bobbed in her wake whining, ‘I’m ti red! Where’s Stell -a?’ He made a beeline for his cousin, pushing his chair up next to hers. Susanna was used to seeing big dark circles under Finn’s eyes, but tonight he looked almost too exhausted to eat. Stella-Jean, however, had already spooned a sizeable portion of curry and rice onto his plate, and Finn started wolfing it down. Where did that skinny little body fit it all?
    ‘Nice dress, Auntie Ange,’ said Stella-Jean. ‘Gotta love a sweetheart neckline.’ Her aunt made a little playful curtsey, hands tipped toward her sculptural collarbones.
    ‘So, how’s god today?’ said Gerry. ‘Omnipotent as always?’
    ‘And full of eternal love, even for you, Gerry,’ Angie answered gaily, lifting her wavy dark-blonde hair up and back with both hands. ‘Ready to receive you, any time.’
    ‘Good for him. Tell him not to hold his