‘She’s had her nose out of joint since I suggested she retire. I thought she might enjoy being down there, give her something to do.’
‘I don’t need someone here checking up on me.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Isobel, I thought you could use some support. From the sound of it you should be saying thank you, rather than complaining—’
Her phone beeped. She moved it away from her ear to read Warwick’s message:Sure, see you then.
‘Issy? Are you even listening?’ Malcolm said, as she put the phone back to her ear. ‘You’re not going to let me down, are you?’
‘Of course not. It’ll be fine.’
‘Will the launch—’
‘Yes! The launch is going ahead as planned!’ She was almost shouting, she realised suddenly, stopping to take a breath. Her father detested shouting, unless he was the one doing it. ‘Sorry, Dad, it’s just … don’t you trust me?’
The question rang in her ears while she waited for him to answer.
Malcolm cleared his throat. ‘Of course I trust you.’
‘Okay,’ she said slowly, not sure she believed him. She sighed. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got a site meeting.’
‘Keep me updated.’
‘I will.’ A pause. ‘Dad?’ But he’d hung up.
She sat, motionless, reflecting on the conversation. Something niggled at her. It felt as though they were ganging up on her. As though they wanted her to admit defeat, to accept that she was in over her head, that she couldn’t pull off the launch.
She swallowed. No. She was being ridiculous. Catastrophising, her therapist would say. Imagining subtext that wasn’t there.
They’d never been an especially close family, despite what people might think, but who was? Spencer in particular had always felt more like an irritating uncle than a brother, a natural consequence of the age gap, perhaps. Eighteen years was a long time. He had just finished his senior year at Dalton Grammar when she was born.
Growing up, it was mostly just her and Heather in the big empty house. And Rosa, of course. Issy would mark the days off on a calendar until Felix came home to visit. He would spin her around until she was giddy, then she’d walk and fall over and they would collapse, weak with laughter. ‘Now aeroplanes, Feelie!’ she would beg him. He would lie on his back, feet in the air, and she would clasp his hands, her tummy balancing on his feet, soaring over him until she tumbled to the ground, where he would tickle her until she begged him to stop.
She tried to conjure a memory of Spencer. She was a flower girl at his wedding to Helen when she was eleven, but she suspected she was just piecing a recollection together from photos. A lilac dress. Little ballet shoes. A flower garland and a basket of rose petals. Helen in a white dress with an enormous skirt. Men in tails. Spencer was among them, presumably, along with Felix and Malcolm, but they were a blur. An amalgamation. She tried to find another memory, an earlier one, but came up blank.
He mustn’t have come home very often, she supposed. He’d lived at St Paul’s College at Sydney Uni while he was studying commerce and business, where three generations of Ashworths had been before him, then he moved into a flat in Elizabeth Bay, a twenty-first present from their parents. Spencer apparently charged rent, pocketing his roommates’ money to fund lavish holidays. Heather had told Issy that once, her tone admonishing, implying that it was evidence of something but expecting Issy to join the dots herself. At the time, Issy hadn’t been able to draw whatever conclusion her mother intended, but the story had stayed with her.
When Issy was in primary school, he sent them photos from a trip to Europe: Spencer and his mates posed with artful nonchalance in front of rented Aston Martins on a twisty alpine pass, snow-capped mountains in the distance. Her mother had pursed her lips and clicked her tongue—her own upbringing had been famously frugal—but Malcolm had waved away the extravagance. ‘You’re only young once,’ he’d said.
Issy reread the text messages, the niggling feeling now stronger. More unsettling. A sense of doubt. Of what, though? Was he encouraging her to push out the deadline? Why would he do that? Unless hewantedher to fail—
There was a beep from her phone. Warwick:Ready when you are.
Damn. She’d lost track of time. She stood too quickly, feeling light-headed, and steadied herself with one hand on the arm of the sofa. It was as though something had shifted beneath her feet, leaving her footing precarious. As though nothing was quite as solid, as certain, as she thought.
Chapter 17
Meg walked into the bar at the Red Lion and glanced around for someone who might be Chris, but the place was deserted except for the regulars sitting on the same barstools as yesterday. She had no idea who she was looking for. His Facebook profile was full of photos of his wife and daughters.
She ordered a Coke and found herself drawn back to the photo wall she’d looked at the day before. Her eyes travelled over the images, snapshots of moments captured long ago, like time capsules. Ghosts, frozen in black-and-white markings on photographic paper. How strange to think these people were once as vivid and real as she was.
Her eye was drawn to a photo of a spectacular house, where a man and woman posed on a sweeping staircase leading up to a wide veranda under a slate roof. She glanced at the caption.Built in the Victorian style, she read,the estate was the home of George Ashworth and family until 1932, when it was repurposed as a hotel. It is now considered the best regional hotel in Australia. There was that name again.
She looked back at the photo. So that was the famous Ashworth Park Hotel and Spa. She’d seen it online when she was looking for somewhere to stay. It was way beyond her budget, but she’d clicked on the link and allowed herself to briefly imagine a parallel universe where she would enjoy a massage and order room service, which she would eat while nestled in downy pillows. She’d even put in the dates, to satisfy her curiosity, baulking at the outrageous cost of a four-night stay. Twenty-four hundred dollars! How could anyone justify—
‘Catching up on your local history, are you?’
She turned to see the owner of the Apple Tree Café giving her a wry smile.
