‘Couldn’t agree more, love. Jeez, honestly, the way some people talk, you’d think we were bulldozing the place.’
‘Did you have a lot of pushback from the locals then?’ Meg asked, keeping her tone casual.
‘You wouldn’t know the half of it.’
‘That must have been annoying. What were the main objections?’
He frowned. ‘Oh, you know … this and that,’ he said, frustratingly vague.
‘Like?’
He shrugged. ‘Some people wanted it to be a museum, others wanted it to remain untouched. I don’t think it helped that it was the Ashworths doing the development.’
‘People don’t like them?’
He scoffed. ‘You could say that.’
‘But they do a lot for the local community, don’t they? I heard they funded some upgrades to the cricket ground.’
Hartwell Cricket Ground was a picturesque, picket-fenced oval with a brand-new grandstand, lights and state-of-the-art electronic scoreboard—two million dollars’ worth of infrastructure upgrades funded by the Ashworths, according to an article Meg had found. Malcolm was quoted as saying it was ‘a chance to give back to the town that made him’.
He let out a cynical laugh. ‘Yeah, yeah, they did.’
Meg frowned, waiting for him to go on.
There was a voice behind her. ‘Excuse me.’
Meg turned to see the austere woman with the sharp grey bob.
‘Sorry.’ Meg stepped aside.
The woman didn’t move. She met Meg’s gaze and held it.
‘I was just talking to …’ Meg looked at the man, realising he hadn’t introduced himself.
‘Warwick,’ he said.
Meg nodded. She swallowed, feeling the need to explain herself to this woman. ‘I’m doing a PhD on historical buildings—’ God, this story was starting to sound stupid now, ‘—and how privatisation and repurposing is the best way to ensure the conservation of the sites for future generations …’
The woman glared at her as though she’d never heard such nonsense. ‘Fascinating,’ she said eventually, with a deadpan expression and a quick raise of her eyebrows.
‘Anyway, I’m just leaving now,’ Meg said.
The woman gave her a tight-lipped smile.
‘Thanks, Warwick,’ Meg added. ‘I appreciate your time.’
At that moment, a black Mercedes came through the boom gate and rolled to a stop beside them. Behind the wheel, Meg could see the ice-blonde hair and oversized sunglasses of Isobel Ashworth.
Chapter 24
‘Morning, Cathy,’ Issy said as she got out of the car, but she was studying the petite woman who stood next to her. Short dark hair, delicate pixie-like face and flawless honey skin, which she’d defaced with tattoos just visible beneath the sleeve of her shirt. ‘Hello, I’m Isobel,’ she said, extending her hand.
‘Megan Hunter-Bainbridge.’ Her handshake was firmer than expected. Issy strongly believed you could judge a person’s grit by the strength of their handshake, a belief she’d inherited from her father, who would line his children up and critique them before they went anywhere important. Little Issy, last in line, would watch with trepidation as he’d ridicule the efforts of her older brothers. ‘Not bad for a girl,’ he’d say to her. She was never sure if it was a compliment or not.
Something about this woman was familiar. ‘Have we met?’ Issy asked, realising as the words came out that she’d been in the café when that awful woman had refused her service. How mortifying!
‘I don’t think so. I’m doing a PhD on historical buildings in Australia, and the best ways of preserving them for future generations—’
