‘Relax, Spencer, it’s Geoff. He’s a family friend!’
He shook his head. ‘Your naivety is breathtaking.’
‘Keep your knickers on. It’s just a puff piece. It’ll be good PR for the Ashworth Group.’
He held her gaze.
‘What?’ she asked, putting her MacBook in her bag.
He smirked. ‘Good PR for Isobel Ashworth.’
‘Oh my God, you must be joking.’
He shrugged.
She hauled her bag onto her shoulder. ‘See you tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
Was he serious? ‘My birthday party.’
‘Oh, right.’ He frowned. ‘I thought it was meant to be a surprise.’
‘It is. But I planned it.’
Spencer scoffed.
She turned towards the door.
‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Before you go, would you mind returning the photo that was on my desk?’ He pointed to the empty space where the frame usually sat.
She sighed heavily, then retrieved the photo from the drawer, put it back beside the monitor and left before she said something she regretted.
Instead of getting an Uber, Issy walked up Castlereagh Street towards the mall. The sun was still low in the sky, obscured behind office blocks. The shops weren’t open yet, but even window shopping would improve her mood.
The interaction with Spencer had left her feeling bewildered. She played it over in her mind. ‘Good PR for Isobel Ashworth,’ he’d said. What did he mean? That the interview was driven by … what? Vanity? Self-promotion? Her chest felt tight. All she ever did was the right thing by the family. Hadn’t she just been saying how much they all respected each other?
She stopped outside Prada, admiring a crimson silk dress in the window. Fit and flare with a plunging neckline. Not a colour she would wear, but stunning all the same. Feminine, but powerful.
She sighed, thinking of Spencer again. Maybe the interview was a stupid idea. He was probably on the phone to their father already, saying that she ‘stormed out’. She couldn’t look sideways without it getting back to her father, who would inevitably use it as evidence that she was still young and irresponsible. Her partying phase still loomed large in her parents’ minds. It didn’t seem to matter what she did, no one ever took her seriously. Why couldn’t they see she’d changed?
She looked back at the dress in the window, thinking of her party that night. She’d bought a whimsical Oscar de la Renta strapless dress in a pink floral print, but Hugh had been far from effusive when she’d modelled it for him. ‘It’s just a little … matronly,’ he’d said. She was hurt at the time—matronly!—but maybe he was right. Maybe it made her look like a pushover. Pretty, but pointless, like the tinsel in the shop window. This dress—the Prada one— demanded attention. She reached for her phone to call her stylist. She would have it by lunchtime.
Chapter 3
Meg woke as the first luminous blue tones of daybreak crept around the edges of the curtains and slipped out of bed. She’d always worked best in the morning, but this was especially true since she’d rented out the tiny third bedroom of her apartment to a gamer who spent his days playingCall of Dutyin the lounge room. On a good day, he’d sleep till eleven. She made a strong coffee—two pods— and sat down at her laptop still wearing her pyjamas.
She opened a new document and sighed. Why had she pitched a story about twin sisters who were dating the same man? Stories like this made her question why she’d become a journalist in the first place, although she was hardly in a position to be picky. Especially after yesterday.
She exhaled loudly then started typing.When 26-year-old Brisbane-based identical twins Gabbi and Holli saw Steve Jackson’s photo on Tinder it was love at first swipe—
A groan came from the direction of the lounge, then a shuffling sound. Meg froze, looking at the back of the sofa. Was someone sleeping there? There was some throat clearing, then a man sat up, his back to her, and coughed into his fist.
‘Who the hell are you?’ she said, staring at the back of his head.
He had tattoos on his neck and dirty blond hair which sat up at a weird angle.
He spun around. ‘Sorry. Didn’t see you there,’ he said. ‘I’m Salty.’
