Mary Peacock. Stabbed and killed husband. Australia on a convict ship. Set up own refuge for women. ‘I should warn you,’ Nell’s new agent added, ‘they’re seeing everyone, the world and his wife, or should I say husband?’ He coughed, embarrassed. ‘The thing is, they don’t know what they’re looking for. A quality apparently, so just go along and . . . meet.’ ‘They’re seeing everyone, apparently,’ Nell repeated the news to Sita when she came in from work. ‘Well, they’re not seeing me.’ ‘True,’ Nell bit her lip. Sita was temping as a receptionist for a software company specialising in games. She’d been working for this same firm, on and off, for a year, and although she insisted it was boring, it was clear to Nell she was unusually content. Sita emptied the contents of her carrier bag on to the table, – apples, satsumas, and a string bag of mixed nuts – hazels, walnuts and brazils. Their shells clinked seasonally.
