She looked back at the screen, reread what she’d written, then stared, letting the words blur. What was it that Jenny had said? ‘Have you travelled down from Hart—’ Something. Hartley? Hartford? Who did her mother think she was speaking to? Who did she think had travelled from some place she’d never mentioned?
Meg opened a new window and typedNSW town Hart, reading the drop-down list of suggested endings. There it was. Hartwell. It rang a bell. She had a vague idea of it as a weekend destination for newlyweds. Beyond that, she was blank.
The top result took her to a tourist site.Nestled in the lush rolling hills of the Southern Highlands just 90 minutes from Sydney, the exclusive enclave of Hartwell is one of the oldest settlements in New South Wales.There was a photo of a sandstone church covered in ivy.
She clicked back and scanned the other search results. Real estate listings of mansions on acreage. An article on property magnate Malcolm Ashworth, silver-haired and unsmiling in the accompanying photo. A local news article about the redevelopment of a historic jail built during colonial times, which was set to become boutique apartments and an entertainment precinct.
She skimmed the article about the redevelopment of the jail, then she flicked over to Facebook. She checked that she was logged in to her second account—the one with an alias and a stock photo— although even her real profile was vague and impersonal; she’d inherited her mother’s distrust of social media. For Meg, social media was a research tool, a way to find stories and connect with potential sources. Nothing more. Nothing less.
She searchedHartwell. A few different groups appeared in the list below the search bar.Save Hartwellcaught her eye. She read the pinned post at the top of the page, which questioned the local government’s integrity around development applications, then skimmed the comments. From what she could piece together, police had arrested a couple of protesters a few months before. She felt the flutter that always came when she sensed a story and sent a request to join the group.
She inhaled sharply as she noticed the time. It was almost eleven. How was that possible? She’d got almost nothing done. What was wrong with her? She’d never missed a deadline when she was full time. Never. She prided herself on that.
Was it working from home? It was virtually impossible to concentrate in this flat, with constant interruptions. Random strangers sleeping on the couch. Talkative flatmates who finished your milk. Soon Jay would be up and she’d be subjected to the traumatising sound of a massacre. No one could work productively in conditions like this! And even when shedidhave peace and quiet, it was so dull, so lacking in the buzz of the newsroom, that she couldn’t get any momentum.
She flicked back to her article and reread what she’d written. It was the journalistic equivalent of a McDonald’s cheeseburger: cheap, tasteless and deeply unsatisfying. She slumped forward, resting her head on her hands. It was freelancing. That was the problem. It was soul destroying. How much longer could she sit in these four walls, writing churn-and-burn clickbait forNews Day Online?
Her phone lit up with a text notification:Deborah Jenkins.Deb was chief of staff atThe Timesand Meg’s greatest ally. After the cutbacks, she’d called in a favour and asked Pete to keep Meg busy with freelancing work. Begrudgingly, he’d complied. Meg’s thoughts spiralled back through the last month. Yesterday wasn’t the first time she’d missed a deadline. Pete must have told Deb.
Meg winced as she opened the message.
We need to talk. Lunch at Denny’s?
Chapter 4
Isobel flipped down the sun visor above the passenger seat of the Range Rover and opened the mirror, scrutinising her makeup with the concentration of a fine arts collector inspecting a precious antique. She’d requested a smoky eye, which was heavier than her usual look, but with a nude lip and the shock of the red silk dress, it was perfect. She took a tube of concealer from the makeup bag on her lap and dotted her inner eye. She dabbed it in with her ring fingers, appreciating the way the light bounced off the diamonds in her tennis bracelet, a gift from Hugh. She glanced at him in the driver’s seat to check he wasn’t watching, then smiled at herself in the mirror and raised her eyebrows, a coy hand over her mouth. She grimaced. No, that didn’t look genuine at all. She tried again, this time with more subtlety.
‘What are you doing?’ Hugh asked, as they pulled into the private car park of The Ashworth Double Bay.
‘What? Nothing.’
He gave her a lopsided smile, her favourite dimple appearing in his stubbled cheek, and raised an eyebrow.
‘I was … practising.’ She felt her cheeks flush. ‘Do I look surprised?’ As she repeated the performance, she got the giggles.
‘It’ll have to do,’ he said, straightening his bowtie in the rear-vision mirror. He turned to face her. ‘How do I look?’
She studied his chiselled cheekbones, his strong jaw. He was almost too handsome, if there was such a thing, and he was getting even better looking with age. The grey hair at his temples gave him a distinguished look that she found almost unbearably sexy.
‘Prettier than me,’ she said, then leaned in and kissed him, careful not to smudge her lipstick. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the smoky scent of his aftershave.
‘Impossible.’ He touched the hem of her skirt. ‘I thought you were wearing the pink one with the flowers?’
‘Changed my mind. You like it?’
He studied her. ‘I do. I like it a lot.’
The dimple danced on his cheek as he ran his hand under the crimson silk and up her thigh, brushing his fingertips lightly over her underwear. A tingle ran through her.
She shifted so that his hand moved away. ‘We better get in there.’
He slumped back against the seat. ‘Do we have to?’
‘Come on. They’ll all be waiting for me.’
Issy heard a peal of laughter and a soft clinking of glasses followed by loud shushing as she and Hugh approached the double doors of the ballroom, hand in hand. She took a deep breath as Hugh pushed open the door.
‘Happy birthday, Issy!’ voices shouted in unison as they stepped into the room, which had been decorated with candles, pink balloons and cascades of peonies in gold vases.
