Tears pooled in her mother’s eyes. ‘You’ve grown up so much.’ Her eyes flicked over Meg’s face as though she was trying to take everything in, then she looked down over her denim vest to the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. ‘You have a tattoo?’
Meg nodded, forcing back the threat of tears. She held out her arm so Jenny could see it properly.
‘A question mark?’ Jenny asked. ‘Why?’
‘Because I have a lot of questions and not a lot of answers.’
Jenny frowned, then she leaned back and closed her eyes again. ‘I’m so glad you came,’ she said, her eyes still closed.
‘Me too.’
‘Can you stay for a while or do you have to get back to Hartwell?’
Meg slipped out of the room when she was certain Jenny was asleep. When she reached her car, she sat for a moment, thinking. Where was she going? Not home. Sunday afternoon—Jay and Gav would probably both be there. She shuddered at the thought. Denny’s would be closing soon, as would the library.
The bay. It would be busy down there on a day like this, but the sea air would clear her head. Help her make sense of things. She turned the key in the ignition, thinking of her favourite bench by the water’s edge, the cool sea breeze.
Hartwell, she thought, as she pulled into the traffic on Parramatta Road.Who was in Hartwell?
The question reverberated in her head as she sat at the lights. It plagued her as she changed lanes, crossed busy intersections and navigated the city streets until she reached the car park.
Who was in Hartwell?
It hounded her as she weaved a path between dog walkers, joggers with prams and sprawling family groups with picnic baskets, until the bench came into view. It was taken by an elderly couple with a fat Labrador.
She sighed and sat on the sea wall instead, dangling her legs over the water. The harbour was dotted with yachts. Voices from a cruiser anchored nearby carried on the breeze. Ripples of laughter, the clink of glasses. Carefree rich people wearing collared shirts, sipping chardonnay in the afternoon sun. The boat was almost as big as her apartment.
Hartwell.
The name elbowed its way to the front of her mind again, bringing with it a sense of dread. Her whole life, she’d wanted to know more about her mother’s past, but the conversation was off limits. She learnt that at fourteen, when her mother had smashed a wine glass to emphasise the point. After that, Jenny’s past was bricked up. Sealed. Never to be discussed again.
But now, cracks were forming in that wall.
What else might break, Meg wondered, if that wall came down?
Chapter 8
Issy pressed the button for the penthouse, entered the security code and took a deep breath as the lift doors slid closed. She reached for her phone to reread her father’s message, her stomach fluttering with nervous anticipation.
Meet me at the apartment at 8am, his message read.We need to talk business.
He must have seen Geoff’s interview, which had come out that morning. Finally, her father was taking her seriously! Would he offer her the AsiaPac Head of Operations role? When she’d found out Elliot Blackburn was moving back to the States, she’d made it clear she wanted it. There was another flip-flop in her tummy. Why couldn’t her father give her a little more notice though? Did he do it deliberately? She’d had to cancel her personal trainer at the last minute.
The lift came to a stop and the doors opened directly into the apartment, the Harbour Bridge looming impossibly close beyond the open balcony doors. This was her parent’s Sydney bolthole. It took up the entire top floor of The Brick, an infamous building located almost on the Opera House forecourt that had inspired countless protests twenty years before, when it was in the development phase. The Brick was Malcolm’s first foray into property development and it turned out to be a baptism by fire. He’d persevered, as he always did, and won. As he always did. The residents of Sydney got over it eventually, which was exactly what her father had said would happen. The sub-penthouse—which was half the size of this one— had just sold for seventeen million dollars.
‘Isobel?’ Her father’s voice came from the direction of the kitchen. ‘I’m in here!’
Malcolm sat at the dining table, the magazine open in front of him. She could hardly bear to think of his surprise when he’d seen her on the cover. She’d approved the photo—sitting, chin on hand—but she hadn’t seen the interview yet.
‘Hi, Daddy.’ She kissed his rough cheek.
‘Sit down.’ His tone was gruff, although it often was. He prided himself on being difficult to read.
She sat.
‘Explain this to me.’ He gestured towards the magazine.
She swallowed hard. The excitement she felt a moment ago was now tinged with doubt. ‘It’s an interview.’
