The Many Faces of Sophie

“Some doors are painted with stars and fire—others glow quietly from a laptop screen. Both can wreck you if you’re careless.”

I let out a sigh of relief as the quiet settled over me, the kind that seeps into your bones when the source of irritation has finally vacated the premises. Leigh’s absence was like a sudden drop in background noise I hadn’t realised I’d been straining against.

Now it was just me—and the rather unglamorous but undeniably pressing matter of finding caravans for the settlers in Bixbus. The task loomed in my mind like a stubborn pop-up ad: necessary, inconvenient, and impossible to ignore. I knew nothing about caravans beyond vague childhood memories of static ones parked near windswept beaches, usually containing the faint smell of damp and despair. Still, necessity is the mother of invention—or, in my case, the push into yet another rabbit hole of questionable Google searches.

I pulled my chair in close to the desk, the fabric of the seat catching slightly on my jeans, and took a breath to clear my head. The laptop’s soft hum was oddly reassuring, almost in sync with my pulse. "That’s what we have the internet for," I muttered, more to convince myself than anything else.

My fingers moved quickly, tapping in the query. There was a strange kind of comfort in the familiar clack of keys—though I suspected that comfort would evaporate the moment the results loaded. If I was lucky, I’d find something affordable, sturdy, and functional. If I was realistic, I’d be wading through listings that made me want to send an apologetic fruit basket to the people of Bixbus.

My initial search led me straight to Hobart’s online marketplaces. It was familiar ground—if not in this context, then at least in memory. I could still picture the sprawl of the city in my mind’s eye: the damp-bricked alleyways, the uneven kerbs, the quiet little shops you only found if you weren’t looking for them. Starting here felt like fixing a pin to a known point on a vast, mostly blank map. At least if I failed, I’d fail somewhere that still smelled faintly of Salamanca Market coffee and sea air in my imagination.

The glow of the screen caught the edge of my cheekbones, painting me in that unflattering blue light that makes even the healthiest person look like they’ve been quietly unwell for a week. Still, I leaned in, letting the listings fill my vision. A parade of caravans scrolled past—some battered enough to be considered historical artefacts, others so pristine they might have been staged for an advertisement involving smug retirees and a golden retriever.

Each one, regardless of condition, felt like a tiny beacon of possibility—a chance to turn Bixbus from a settlement of makeshift shelters into something resembling a community. I flicked between tabs, zooming in on photos that revealed both hopeful potential and hidden horrors: peeling laminate disguised as “rustic charm,” suspicious stains in corners the seller clearly hoped you wouldn’t notice, and prices that suggested the owners believed their aluminium shoeboxes had appreciated like fine wine.

I read the descriptions with a sharp, meticulous eye, toggling between curiosity and cynicism. “Recently refurbished” could mean “structurally sound,” or it could mean “we painted over the mould.” Either way, the weight of each choice pressed against me, a reminder that these weren’t just listings—they were futures.

It didn’t take long before the search results started to resemble a grim parade of “absolutely nots.”

One listing, proudly titled Vintage Classic, looked less like a caravan and more like a set piece from a documentary about post-apocalyptic survival. The exterior was a patchwork of faded paint and corrosion, like it had been left too close to the sea for thirty years and then briefly set on fire. The seller claimed it had “loads of character,” which I could only assume meant tetanus.

Another, more optimistic seller had decided to photograph theirs from a single, inexplicable angle—so close that the entire image was just an unhelpful rectangle of dented aluminium. The description read simply: Needs TLC. Which, in my experience, was code for currently inhabited by possums.

My personal favourite, though, was the “off-grid ready” option that boasted an innovative ventilation system. Translation: no roof. The photos showed the interior wide open to the sky, like some avant-garde outdoor living experiment. I could practically see the listing being pitched—“Imagine cooking dinner while rain falls directly into your spaghetti.”

I scrolled on, partly entertained, partly horrified, wondering if these owners genuinely believed someone would buy their scrap heaps, or if they just wanted strangers to marvel at the audacity. Either way, Bixbus would have to do without the possum motel, the rust sculpture, and the roofless al fresco dining experience.

When a few promising options finally surfaced from the digital swamp, I felt a small but undeniable spark of cautious optimism. They weren’t perfect—one had curtains so offensively floral they could probably induce hay fever just by looking at them—but they were solid, functional, and unlikely to collapse mid-transport.

Under the guise of Sophie, my freshly minted online persona, I began reaching out to the sellers. Sophie was friendly but vague, the sort of person who might own a golden retriever and a collection of tasteful mugs. I crafted each message with care, striking that delicate balance between extracting the information I needed and giving away absolutely nothing of myself. The internet might be a marketplace, but it was also a hunting ground for those who could unravel your identity with three clues and a mildly obsessive disposition. Protect your privacy, I reminded myself, mentally checking the locks on the walls I’d built around this new, carefully constructed version of me.

The process was strangely absorbing—typing out queries, negotiating meeting times, pretending to be someone who used exclamation marks unironically. As I corresponded with the sellers, the physical boundaries of my bedroom pressed in: the walls close, the ceiling low. Yet the laptop in front of me expanded everything, flinging open invisible doors into places I hadn’t been in years, and to people who didn’t know me at all.

It struck me, not for the first time, that portals came in different shapes. Leigh’s had swirled with colours and danger. Mine hummed quietly on a desk, spilling possibilities into the room with each click of the trackpad. Both could take you somewhere unexpected—both could land you in trouble if you forgot the rules.