The next morning Rona was due to meet Brent for coffee. The sun glared viciously through her sunglasses as she stumbled uncertainly down the road from her house to a nearby café, where she found Brent already waiting.

"God, you look awful" he said as she sat down and clutched her head unhappily.

She groaned. "I was out with Sacha last night. Christ, that girl can drink when she has a mind to."

"Well I bet she's feeling great too, then."

She looked at him over the top of her sunglasses: all Brent could see was an eyeball, peering out between two of Rona's fingers. "Oh, fuck" she said. "I better go and check on her later. Last time I saw her she was unlocking the door to her flat." Rona shut her eyes against the light. "God, I hope she's okay."

"Well she's a big girl, I'm sure she can handle a hangover."

At the mention of the word Rona groaned again, then continued: "It's not the hangover I'm worried about. I think she's going through a rough patch but - but she's too fucking tough, or something, to let anyone help her out.

"Help her out how? What's wrong with her?"

"She reckons she needs a job."

"What do you mean, 'reckons'?"

Rona shrugged.

"Rona" said Brent. "Mate. Not everyone can live on the dole like you. Some of us like to have a little more comfort. How long's she been looking for work for?"

"I don't think she's had a job since she moved down here. So, about four months I guess."

Brent nodded in understanding. "Sounds pretty tough."

"Yeah, I guess so."

A waitress came and gave them each a menu. "Thanks" said Brent. He turned back to Rona: "Now, Rona, please tell me you tried to help her out."

"Well . . . I helped her drink. Does that count for anything?"

Brent sighed and cocked his head, shaking it slightly at her.

"Oh, fuck off!" snapped Rona, clasping her head again as soon as she spoke. "I'm too hungover for your holier-than-thou crap. What am I supposed to do? I don't know anything about finding work. I mean, not real work. And I've already told her she should try the dole and she wasn't interested."

"What about the magazine? She could write for that."

"Sweetheart" said Rona condescendingly, "it's volunteer. Street press. Free. Doesn't pay."

Brent smiled. "I know that. But: think about it. She hasn't had a job for four months at least, she's new to town, she's living in a flat - by herself?" Rona nodded. "Okay, so she's living by herself. What she needs more than anything else, I'd reckon, is just something to fucking do. It doesn't matter whether it pays or not, as long as it gets her out of the flat and doing something. Trust me, I know about this stuff." He pointed a finger at Rona. "Talk to your editor. If you're Sacha's friend, talk. To. Your. Editor!"