2.

'Swing the golfclub a little more. Put your whole body into it,' says Peter.

Janice adjusts her scarf (Hermes, her mother's), straightens her skirt, which has twisted along with her swing, and lifts the golfclub again. She pulls in her stomach and smiles at the camera. She knows it's only digital but she feels celluloid. 'Point of etiquette, number two,' she elocutes. 'Quiet. Golf requires a lot of concentration, so don't go chattering across the green. Imagine you're in a library, and the little flags are the librarians with their fingers pressed to their lips. When you're drinking cocktails after the game, that's when you can gossip about Miss Hunter's recent engagement, or Mr Eagleton's new polo horse. Compose your anecdotes for later, and watch this.' The club cracks the dimpled ball into an arc. Janice shields her eyes from the sun and follows its descent into the creek. 'Fuck,' she says.

'Cut!' says Peter. 'That's great. You were hot. I think we got it that time.' He folds up the camera and zippers it into his bag. He pulls Janice towards him and slides his cool hand under her shirt. He puts his other hand down the waistband of her skirt (which has yet again twisted, the zipper running down her belly) and runs his finger around the elastic of her underpants.

'What, here?' says Janice.

'Why not?'

Janice watches as another ball charts the contour of the hill, hits the grass and trickles into the hole. 'Maybe we should go to your place instead.'

'Oh, no. My place is kinda messy. All my equipment and shit.'

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'I still haven't seen your place. When are you going to invite me over?'

They are interrupted by the roar of a golfcart carrying a fat white-haired man and a thin white-haired woman. 'Is that a hole in one?' Janice hears the man say. 'I say it is. Look, Sherry, a hole in one!'

'My, aren't you clever,' says Sherry. She pats the white-haired dog in her Louis Vuitton tote bag. And then the moment is gone.