As Felicia Arkle hurries away, Kaitlyn Eastwood carries her Costa Coffee almond flat white past the clown to a side door on Quex Road. Here, she climbs threadbare steps to the second floor of Merlin House, an ugly nineteen seventies block that squats above the fashion store on the corner. The company Eastwood works for services properties for absent landlords, sending cheap Romanian labour to fix problems as best they can while creaming off a tidy profit. This is not why she left Australia. Her desk doesn’t even have a window and they share a kitchen with whoever is renting the other units, a revolving door of men and women with broken English who disappear into locked offices. A man with a greying beard and a belly always stares at her. Eastwood can feel his eyes on her when she makes coffee from the machine, which is why she has taken to wearing baggy jumpers and paying for take-outs from the café across the road. Back home in Tasmania, waves lap a long beach as gulls pick pristine sand for mussels and clams while labradors and collies chase balls excitedly in the surf. Here in London, her fingernails need cleaning every day and the cleansing pads she uses on her face turn black. She misses her dog, her mum, her church. Eastwood sits back down at her laptop as buses rumble on the street beneath and opens Facebook to look at pictures of Lara and Maddy’s twenty first party in Taroona.