‘For God’s sake, Mum, I’m twenty-nine.’
Heather had pursed her lips. ‘Exactly, Isobel. Female fertility falls off a cliff after thirty. Everyone knows that.’
‘Yours didn’t,’ Issy muttered, but she gave up. She’d never won an argument with her mother.
Anyway, Heather hadn’t even asked her if shewantedmarriage and kids, although that was probably a good thing. What would her answer be? Issy thought her maternal instincts would have kicked in by now, but so far babies were still just snotty, demanding inconveniences that meant she rarely saw her best friend anymore. The last time she’d met Lara was for a highly unfulfilling conversation over bad coffee at a dreadful ‘pram-friendly’ café, which had ended prematurely when it was nap time. Lara had sent her a text explaining she was unable to make it to the party, citing teething as the reason, which seemed utterly ridiculous to Issy, but it was no great loss. Lara was no fun these days, anyway.
Without warning, a memory flashed in Issy’s mind, powerful, visceral. She was riding a bolting horse. How old was she, she wondered? Eight? Nine? She could almost feel its wide back under her legs, her terror, heart racing, as she clung to the reins, the saddle, to stop herself being thrown off.
How bizarre! She shook her head, shaking off the sensation of the memory, and looked back at the photo.
‘We do make an exceptionally good-looking couple,’ she said.
Hugh murmured agreement, reaching a sleepy hand under the covers again to find her. A pleasant tingling sensation rippled through her as he stroked her bare thigh.
It wasn’t that shedidn’twant to marry him. It was just so … unexpected. It had taken her by surprise, that was all. It was totally normal to feel overwhelmed. Once she got used to the idea, everything would be fine. She tossed the paper onto the floor and straddled him, determined to ignore the queasiness in her stomach.
‘Good morning, my dashing prince,’ she said, looking into his dark brown eyes. She felt him harden beneath her as he pushed up her pink silk camisole and tossed it aside, his eyes travelling over her bare breasts. She leaned down and kissed him deeply.
Chapter 7
Jenny was sitting in the armchair when Meg arrived with the Sunday papers under her arm and a takeaway coffee in each hand. A book lay in her mum’s lap, but her gaze was out the window.
‘Mum?’ Meg held her breath. It was hard to tell what sort of day her mother was having until she spoke.
Jenny looked over. ‘Meg, what a nice surprise. Two visits in one week.’
Meg smiled, impressed that her mum remembered she’d come on Tuesday but bristling at the subtext.
‘I got you a cappuccino, extra chocolate,’ she said, deciphering the writing on the lids and passing Jenny one of the cups.
‘What are you reading?’ Meg asked, putting the papers down and pulling over the spare chair.
‘Reading?’
Meg gestured to the book in her lap. Jenny gave a tiny shrug and lifted the book to show the cover.
‘Gone Girl,’ Meg read. ‘I’ve seen the movie. Ben Affleck. Any good?’
‘I don’t know.’ Jenny laughed, but her eyes were sad. ‘I think my novel-reading days are over. I can’t remember anything I read.’
She put the book aside and reached for one of the papers. She looked at the front page, then she let it drop into her lap and sat back, closing her eyes. Even the briefest conversation sapped her energy. Sometimes Meg wondered if her visits were worth it. If Jenny wasn’t asleep, she was staring at a wall or out a window. On a good day, like today, the best they managed was a few short exchanges. Most of the time, Jenny didn’t even remember that Meg had come. What was the point?
Meg flipped the pages, reading the headlines. RETAIL SECTOR HOPING FOR RECORDCHRISTMAS SPENDING.EX-OLYMPIAN IN COURT OVER DRUGS CHARGE. TELCO FACES CYBER-ATTACK. She turned the page and inhaled sharply at the sight of Isobel Ashworth staring back at her. How was it that she’d given barely a moment’s thought to these people until she googled Hartwell, and now they seemed to be everywhere? Isobel was dressed in black and white and wore a lopsided hat that sat on her head like a flying saucer. At her side was a smug-looking man who looked like a middle-aged Ken doll.
HOTELHEIRESS OFF THEMARKET AFTERWHIRLWINDROMANCE, the headline read. Meg skimmed the article. Apparently it was a surprise engagement. Why did men do that? Ambush women with one of the biggest decisions of their lives? She looked back at his face. Hugh Thorburn. She knew his type. She’d spent her years at Sydney Uni avoiding men like him. The binge-drinking, rugby-playing, private school boys who would no doubt go on to become respected politicians and business leaders with the help of Daddy’s mates.
Meg shifted her focus to the inset photo of Malcolm and Heather Ashworth. His was the expression of a man who considered posing for a photo a waste of his time. Power oozed out of every pore. Beside him, his wife was undeniably stunning—in a Stepford kind of way—her vibrant blonde hair and gold silk blouse contrasting against her husband’s serious grey suit. If he was the gravitas, Heather was the charisma.
Hearing Jenny stir, Meg glanced up.
Her mother’s face lit up, her eyes wide. ‘I thought you’d never come.’
Meg huffed audibly. This again. It would be nice if just once she could see her mother without the barbed comments. No wonder she avoided these visits.
Jenny didn’t seem to hear her. ‘You’ve cut your hair,’ she said, reaching out and gently touching Meg’s cropped hair.
‘I’ve had it short for years, Mum. Remember? I cut it ages ago after we watchedOrange is the New Black. I copied that actress …’ She let her words trail off, sensing the futility of correcting her. Who did Jenny think Meg was?
