I collapsed on the kitchen bench, dropping my shopping bags on its granite surface. It was cool against the cheek I laid on it. There was a stick of celery prodding me in the kidney. "Ugh. I can't move."

Liv came into the kitchen behind me. "I told you not to carry the bags. Sit down already, madwoman. I'll do everything."

"I'm serious, I can't move." One of the muscles in my lower back was screaming about the position I was in, bent over my kitchen bench, but the rest of them were blessedly quiet. I knew, the moment I moved, most of my back and legs would make it known that they didn't like what they'd been asked to do in the past week.

Liv deposited her load in a rustle of plastic bags, and then her hands curled under my shoulders. "Come on."

With her help, I staggered out of the kitchen, and collapsed onto the couch. "Ow."

"What now?"

"I found the remote." It was so predictable that I was laughing even as I twisted to pull the rectangle of black plastic out from between the cushions I was lying on. I chucked it on the floor. Television was the last thing I cared about right now. "How did you survive this, Liv?"

"After the first week, you get used to it," she told me, heading back into the kitchen.

I stretched a little, and winced. I rubbed at my thigh. "I'm not sure what's worse, the horse or the sword." Horse training was giving me the sort of aches that made me swear never to whinge about period cramps ever again, but with my arms feeling like tortured jelly from hefting several feet of steel, just about any task was impossible.

Which was why Liv was in my kitchen right now, cooking me dinner. "You'll get used to it," she repeated. Her head appeared out of the doorway. "You said you had oregano?"

"Yeah; spice rack's in the little cupboard above the stove."

"Right." She paused, looking down at me. "This'll be a little bit. Why don't you go have a hot bath? You'll feel better."

I tipped one leg off the couch, and braced myself. "Great idea." With a groan, I heaved myself upright again, and grinned at her. "Don't burn the place down."

She pouted. "You spoil all my fun."

The bath was heavenly. I sank into it as into the arms of a lover. Very poetic, Miranda. Better than any lover I'd ever had. The hot water didn't try and tie my brain in knots, didn't accuse or make excuses, didn't grope me when I wasn't in the mood. It just lay there, heavy and supportive and leeching my aches and pains out of me bit by bit. I tilted my head back against the edge of the bath, and considered never moving again. Faint strains of music started; Liv had found my stereo and my U2 CD.

Eventually - quite quickly, in fact - the water started to cool, and my fingers started to prune, and I found that it wasn't as hard to climb out of the bath as it had been to climb in.

There were absolutely delicious smells wafting through the kitchen when I wandered in, tightening the belt on my dressing gown. Liv looked up from the stove with a smile. "Feel better?"

"Much." My hair was damp, but I twisted it up roughly onto my head, relishing the movement. There were faint twinges across my shoulders, but I ignored them. She started bustling about with pasta bowls and cutlery, serving up. "You're a goddess, I told you that, right?"

She smiled at me. "I'm your fairy godmother. Are you recovered enough to open the wine?"

"I'll make an attempt."

It proved harder than I thought, since my usual method was to hold the bottle opener in one hand, and the bottle itself gripped between my thighs. Trying that brought curses from me, and laughter from Liv; the next option of under my arm wasn't much better. In the end Liv swapped two full bowls of thick, tomato-ey chorizo and pasta for the still-unopened bottle, and told me to set the table.

"I'm useless!" I moaned dramatically, falling into my chair, while she poured the wine.

"Don't be stupid." Liv set down the bottle, and raised her glass. "That which doesn't kill us makes us stronger," she declared.

I groaned - I'd always hated Steel Magnolias when my mother used to cry over it - but raised my own glass to hers with a ting. "Then we must be fucking Superman."

Liv screwed up her nose, but not at the wine, which was beautifully smooth and rich. "He's not my type," she said.

The pasta was just as good as the wine. "Wow."

She laughed at my expression. "You looked surprised."

I recovered quickly, sipped more of the wine. "Well, you know, Australian prejudice. We're taught that American film brats can't do anything."

"I can't do anything else," she agreed, laughing still. "But Dad always said everyone should have one thing they could cook. I just cook mine really well."

"You certainly do." I forced myself not to eat too quickly, shifting in my seat a little. My muscles were starting to tighten up a little, but nowhere near as bad as before.

Liv noticed my agitating. "It should all be fine from here. You usually only have one day of agony."

"Oh, joy."

She ignored my sarcasm. "But if you're still sore tomorrow, see if you can find Orli," she advised.

"To take my mind off the pain?"

She laughed. "No. The boy's a genius at back massages. He says he's had enough to be a credited professional. You know he broke his back, right?"

"Yeah." That was one of the personal details that just seemed to ooze their way through the cast and crew. You knew things about people and had no idea how you knew them, except you'd all been living in each others' pockets for too long. I was a new addition to the process, but it moved at the speed of gossip.

We ate. I topped up our wine glasses. "So, if Superman isn't your type, who does ring Liv Tyler's bell?" She started laughing, and I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively. "C'mon. Billy was very interested in 'taking advantage', I seem to recall, that first night I was here."

She waved a dismissive hand. "God, no, he didn't mean it. It's just a joke."

"Oh?" I was an actress; I could do a very melodramatic 'unconvinced' with ease.

"No, see, my boyfriend and I broke up a few weeks back."

I lost the act. "Oh, Liv, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

But she just waved a hand again. "Don't worry! It's no big deal. That's the thing; the hobbits just joke about it all the time. It's, like, that's how they give me their support and let me know they're there for me and, y'know, shit like that."

Over the raised lip of my glass, I watched her. "It's no big deal?"

She thoughtfully wound her pasta around her fork. "No, it's really not. I know Roy and I aren't finished with each other. It's like... well, like there's this little 'to be continued' message. But we were really serious, and I hadn't even really noticed it happening. I just... I guess I just wanted to be single just to be me for a bit before..." She blushed a little, and chased a last piece of chorizo around her plate. "Before anything else."

Sitting in a house that wasn't quite mine with this blushing girl talking about marriage, however backwardly, I suddenly felt amazingly old. I could remember sun-soaked summers and short nights and not being tied down. These days I didn't think in terms of 'being me', just in terms of taking it as it came, the drawbacks to being single (far less sex, no man around to open the difficult jars) versus the drawbacks of being in a relationship (emotional uncertainty, having to plan your life around someone else).

I told myself it was just my body making me feel aged, and I drained my wine.

While we did the washing up, we drank the rest of the wine. Half a bottle each made us tipsy enough for Liv to drape the tea-towel over her head and walk like an Egyptian. I giggled and splashed water at her; she flicked me with the towel.

There wasn't a lot of washing up, and I'd miscalculated on the liquid, so I had bubbles up to my elbows. So much for gloves. As I messed about, Liv said: "I'm really glad you're here, Mir."

"Hmm?"

She was blushing a little, or maybe it was just the wine. "Don't get me wrong, the guys are great. Lots of fun, and really great friends, and there're lots of really nice girls in the crew, but…"

I scrubbed at the bottom of the pan. "But it's nice to have someone in exactly the same position?"

"Yeah!" she agreed brightly. After a long moment's thoughtful pause, though, she started rambling. "Except, of course, we're not the same because we're totally different people and, like, you're Australian and pronounce things weird. Like depot."

I was almost finished. I drained my glass, wine stain inside, suds outside. "Liv, finish your wine."

"I have," she replied, but her voice sounded odd, and when I looked, she was balancing the empty glass on her forehead, head tilted back.

Fortunately, when we both collapsed laughing, she caught the glass.

I made coffee after that. There was a block of dark chocolate with almonds in the cupboard for emergencies; we declared this was one, and ate half the block, dipping it in the coffee to half-melt, and getting it all over our fingers.

"Do you miss Roy?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said, in a voice that had 'Well, duh' written all over it. "Of course, y'know. You miss your boyfriend. Even when he's not your boyfriend anymore."

"That's the thing," I philosophised, leaning against the sink and talking mostly to Eric, oblivious in his pot. "Do you miss Roy, or do you miss your boyfriend?"

Neither Eric nor Liv seemed much impressed. She squinted at me. "Huh?"

I shook my head, and turned away from the unresponsive potplant. "Never mind."

She stretched, and started to gather herself. "Time I went, I think. Before I fall asleep on your kitchen counter."

I walked her to the door, but she forebade me to go out into the cold. I contented myself with thanking her profusely from the doorstep. "Thanks so much, Liv. For dinner and all of it. I wouldn't have survived without you."

She grinned, so bright and sunny it was impossible not to grin back. "No problem. You'll feel so much better tomorrow, I promise."

Tomorrow - barely tomorrow, still really last night, as far as I was concerned - the phone rang.

I half-scrambled out of bed, and fell on the phone. "H'lo?"

"Mir! How are you feeling?" Male. Accented. Far too fucking cheerful.

I cleared my throat and tried to open my eyes. What time was it? "I'm not in my body," I croaked.

"Lazy bint," the caller abused me, and resolved into a recognisable voice. "C'mon, they're going to want me for feet in a minute."

"Dom -"

"How d'ya feel?"

My body coalesced around me, surprisingly pain-free. "Uh, OK, actually. It seems to be going."

"We'll make a warrior of you yet!" he crowed.

I prized my eyes open, and found the clock. "Dom, it's fucking 5am. I hate you."

He laughed. "Now you're really one of us!"

In the silence after he hung up, I decided he was probably right. But I was still going to kill him.