She thought of the missed call. Curious to hear what he’d said in his voicemail message, she tapped on it, playing it on speaker, but his voice didn’t come.
Instead, there were shuffling sounds, then footsteps. She looked at the screen. The message was six minutes long. A pocket dial? There was a low voice, Hugh’s, but it was muffled. She turned the volume up further, held it close to her ear, but it was no use. She couldn’t make out the words. She put the phone down and lay back, staring at the ceiling while the message continued to play a whole lot of nothing.
Just as she was about to stop listening, there was a second voice. Higher pitched. Female. Issy’s chest tightened as Hugh said something else, followed by a giggle. ‘Shit,’ his voice said, then the message ended.
She pressed play again, nausea churning in her stomach, trying to think of a reasonable explanation for what she was hearing. He wasn’t at the bar. There was no background noise. They were in a quiet room. Were others there? Or just Hugh and whoever’s baby voice she could hear?
The sound of the running water ceased. Her heart raced as she paused the message, closed the app and put the phone on the bedside table.
Chapter 29
‘Name?’ asked the tuxedoed host as Meg arrived at the entrance of the Grand Ballroom. The room beyond the door was already humming with conversation. She inhaled sharply, taking in the sheer opulence of the space. It was like stepping back in time. Gilded wallpaper covered the walls, and overhead, a soaring ceiling rose to a spectacular glass dome.
She’d driven through the imposing gates of the Ashworth Park Hotel half an hour earlier, catching her breath at the sight of the old sandstone mansion, nestled into rolling lawns between towering oaks and pine trees.
Instead of going inside, she’d sat in her car, debating whether she should have come. When she’d accepted the invitation a couple of days before, she wasn’t sure she would actually go, but then she found the pen in Anna’s box and discovered she’d worked for the Ashworths, and it just seemed like fate that she’d been invited. Not that she believed in fate.
Stalling, she’d opened Instagram and searched for Isobel’s profile. Her eyes had landed on a photo of her, radiant in gold, posing in the empty ballroom.Let’s raise some money and have some fun!the caption read.#AshworthGala @theashworthparkhotel.Meg swallowed, looking down at her old Zimmermann dress, then out the window at the guests arriving. Self-assured men in tuxedos and shiny shoes, leading wives teetering on bejewelled stilettos.
Eventually, she’d stepped out of the car. There was a refined stillness in the air, broken only by the rhythmic pop of a tennis ball on racquets somewhere nearby but out of sight and the crunch of pebbles under her op-shop Valentinos.
‘Megan Hunter-Bainbridge,’ she said, half-expecting (hoping?) for the host to say she wasn’t on the guest list and turn her away.
‘Lovely.’ He passed her a name tag.
She pinned it to her dress, then entered the room. It twinkled with thousands of tiny fairy lights and gold balloons. A large banner emblazoned with CRDF WORKING TOGETHER FOR A BRIGHTER FUTURE!hung above a podium. The air hummed with the giddy voices and laughter of guests standing in tight clusters. The women sparkled like Christmas baubles. The men wore bowties, tight around fat necks.
Meg found herself wishing she had a plus one. Someone like Pete. He moved through rooms like this like he belonged there, which was probably because he’d been to a posh private school, where she suspected they must hold lessons in how to handle such situations.
She took a deep breath, relieved at the sight of a waiter with a tray of drinks. She took a glass of Champagne, even though she actually wanted a beer, and stood against a wall where she had a good view of the room.
Her eye was drawn to Isobel, who stood with a circle of blonde women. They all looked somehow similar; the cumulative impact of their expensive haircuts, botoxed foreheads and flawless skin. None shared the magical, ethereal quality of Isobel though, who shimmered like a goddess, radiant in gold silk wide-leg pants with a matching blazer.
Meg felt a sudden surge of self-consciousness and reached for her phone, pretending to be attending to something important that couldn’t wait. What was she doing here? She didn’t fit in with these people. Maybe she should go, before someone worked out she wasn’t who she said she was.
At that moment there was a hand on her shoulder and she looked up to find herself face to face with Isobel.
‘Megan! I’m so glad you could make it.’
Too late. ‘Oh, yes … please, call me Meg. Thanks for the invitation,’ Meg said, impressed that Issy remembered her. ‘What a great cause,’ she added, although she still had no idea what the cause actually was.
‘It’s my mother’s pet project,’ Isobel said. ‘She asked me to step in to host at the last minute because she wasn’t feeling well.’ She lowered her voice, as though she was sharing her darkest secret. ‘She’s over there—’ Issy glanced pointedly at a glamorous woman with an impeccable blow dry, ‘—currently on her third glass of Bollinger, so it seems she’s made a speedy recovery.’ She raised a provocative eyebrow.
Meg felt herself smile, warming to Isobel’s charismatic cocktail of sophistication and irreverence.
‘I’ll introduce you.’ Issy waved to Heather, who excused herself from her conversation and joined them. ‘Mum, this is Megan Hunter-Bainbridge. She’s doing a PhD on historical buildings. She really likes what we’re doing with the Hartwell Gaol development.’
Another guest stepped up to greet Issy and she turned away, leaving Meg with Heather.
‘Bainbridge?’ Heather said, over-enunciating her words as though she was an actor in a play. ‘I think I know your father. Does he sail?’
Meg started to mumble a response, but Heather interjected.
‘Don’t you have extraordinary eyes? So pretty.’
‘Thank you,’ Meg said, pleased to be on firmer ground. ‘It’s called heterochromia. I inherited it from my mum.’
‘It’s quite striking,’ Heather said.
