Brooke had been irritated by the photo and the shopping expedition.
Now she found the photo on her phone, cropped out Savannah’s face and did her first reverse image search.
The internet said, That’s not Savannah Pagonis, that’s Savannah Smith.
Two years ago, ‘Savannah Smith’ had been photographed at the bookstore launch of a celebrity chef’s new recipe book. It was definitely Savannah, although her style had changed dramatically. Her hair was longer and curlier then and she wore bright red lipstick and big earrings.
But what did that tell Brooke? That Savannah once had a different surname and hairstyle? A former marriage? It was hardly shocking that Savannah had been at the launch of a recipe book.
Brooke sighed. She shouldn’t be disappointed. She didn’t want to find out that her parents were living with a serial con artist, did she? Maybe she did. Maybe she was hoping for an excuse to drive over there and yell at Savannah, You stop being so nice to my parents!
She looked at the time. She kept forgetting that her friend Ines would be turning up soon. Word had recently got out about the separation （not thanks to her, she’d told no-one except her family） and people had begun to message Brooke their condolences, as if Grant had died. Ines’s text had been brief. Just heard. I’ll come over tonight.
Brooke texted back, I might have plans!
Ines texted, No you don’t.
Well. It was true. Her only plan had been to investigate Savannah and write an article, Ten Tips for Back Pain, in the hope that she could get it placed on a women’s health website. She was trying to ‘build her profile’。 She also needed to do a new ‘engaging’ post on Instagram.
She kept Googling ‘Savannah Smith’， trawling through multiple wrong Savannah Smiths across the world until she stopped on a grainy black and white image from a newspaper article dated fifteen years earlier. The headline read: ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD SAVANNAH DANCES INTO A BRIGHT FUTURE!
It was only a very short one-paragraph story from a local newspaper in Adelaide about how Savannah Smith had won first place in the biggest ballet competition in the region and how it was a great thrill for the quiet, shy, talented little girl because it was her dream to one day dance professionally.
The photo on Brooke’s screen showed a little girl in a tutu, up on her toes, arms above her head in that classic ballerina pose. A very skinny, almost skeletal, intense, serious-looking little girl with her hair pulled so tightly back from her head in a bun that it looked painful. Her elf-like ears stuck out. She didn’t have the right ears for a ballet dancer.
Years ago there had been similarly hyperbolic newspaper stories about the future tennis careers of Brooke and all three of her siblings. It happened all the time. Talented kids turned into ordinary grown-ups: butterflies became moths.
Apparently her dad had a project underway where he was carefully laminating every single one of their ancient press clippings for posterity, which made Brooke feel melancholy. What a monumental waste of time.
Something about the photo tugged irritably at Brooke’s memory. The little girl reminded her of someone or something in the past. Something to do with a migraine, her vision blurring, the smell of fresh-cut grass, someone shouting.
The doorbell rang and she jumped, startled out of her reverie.
Ines arrived with a bottle of champagne and an overloaded recycled shopping bag looped over one shoulder.
‘Too heavy!’ said Brooke as she swiftly removed it and led Ines to the kitchen, suddenly filled with affection for her old friend. She hadn’t forgotten her friends but it did strangely feel as though she was just now remembering them.
‘Love the overalls,’ said Ines, indicating Brooke’s blue denim overalls, which she’d pulled out from the back of a drawer on a whim. ‘Very retro.’
‘They’re comfortable,’ said Brooke. ‘Grant said they made me look like a zookeeper.’
They opened the champagne and Brooke filled her in on everything Savannah. ‘She’s been doing all the cooking for them.’
‘What a lowlife.’ Ines handed her a fizzing glass of champagne.
Brooke giggled, and then stopped abruptly, because she realised how the sound and feel of that voluptuous giggle was both familiar and unfamiliar, like something she’d thought she’d packed away forever along with her old schoolbooks and uniform. This had been happening more and more as the weeks went by and Grant’s presence became fainter. Brooke was discovering old habits, old clothes, old music and now, her old laugh. It was absurd to think she hadn’t laughed in ten years. She certainly had laughed because Grant was funny. So funny. He was proud of his wit. It was important to him that he be recognised as ‘the funny one’ in their relationship.