The receptionist apologised with her whole professional face. The storm had filled the motel. There was one room left, and one bed in it, a queen that had seen better decades. She slid the key across the laminate as if it might go off.

I am Tess. I am twenty-nine. Finn is thirty-one, and we had been in a car since Coffs Harbour because a client in Byron wanted two people who could pretend to like each other in a meeting and we are, unfortunately, good at the pretending. We are not a couple. We are a long argument that sometimes shares playlists. I…