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Chapter One

Louise

The morning light doesn’t smack me in the face. It strokes me. Softly. It must be early. Too early for the sun to hit my east facing window, where I’d left the curtains open. Just in case.

For a few glorious moments, I luxuriate in the soft, lavender-scented sheets. The fluffy pillow. The just-right weight of the summer doona.

It can’t be long before my alarm is due to go off. I stretch and reach for my phone.

7:27 am.

“Fuck.” I gasp, bolting upright. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.”

I tumble out of bed, thrashing my legs free of the previously welcome doona, bashing my shin on the bedframe as I right myself.

The sun isn’t hitting my face. Not because it’s too early, but because there’s a heavy cloud cover. Of course there is.

“How the fucking fuck did that happen?” I bark at nobody.

I don’t understand. I set my alarm for six … fuck. 6 pm. Not 6 am.

Thirty-three—it had to be thirty-three, didn’t it? —I have thirty-three minutes to get showered and to the office. And since it’s a twenty-five-minute trip on a good day—an hour on a bad day—I’m screwed.

Why today, of all days?

With another curse, I hurl my traitor of a phone onto the bed, dive across the room and fall into the ensuite shower, not even waiting for the water to heat.

I won’t have time to wash my hair. There goes my plan for a smooth, elegant blowout. Humidity frizz-chic it is.

It’s a lucky thing I prepped my clothes and packed my presentation materials and laptop last night. My suit hangs neatly from the hook on the back of the bedroom door, underwear in a neat pile on top of the dresser, laptop satchel leaning against the bottom drawer, beside my shoes.

I slap on a bare minimum of make-up—let’s call it the natural look—and sit on the side of the bed. With a deep breath, I take one of four pairs of super sheer tights in hand, pulling them up my legs as carefully as I can.

It’s too hot for tights, but the occasion, and the judgement of our sexist perv of a managing director, calls for them.

Why four pairs, you might ask.

Well, because today is the third. The third of March, no less.

And as everyone knows, three is a very unlucky number.

Which is why there are four pairs of tights. In case I snag one putting them on. Oops, maybe two, dammit.

I drag the delicate cream silk shell top I’ve chosen to wear over my head and stuff my legs into the pencil skirt, squirming my feet into the high heels as I tuck and zip myself up.

I’ve just pulled the front door closed behind me when I remember my phone on the bed. Muttering curse words under my breath, I unlock the door and race back. It takes me a moment to find the phone nestled amongst the still-warm covers. Along with the jacket I’d completely forgotten.

I now have eighteen minutes. No time for the bus. I’ll grab a cab.

For the first time this morning, luck is with me. A cab appears just as a light drizzle starts to fall, doing wonders for the frizz of my hair.

The traffic isn’t quite gridlock, but neither is it free flowing. Even if the planets align and the traffic miraculously disappears, I’m going to be late.

“I’m running really late.” I give the driver a pleading look via the rear-vision mirror. “Maybe rather than taking Military Road, you could go down Avenue Road? Or Belmont?”

“No good at this time of the morning, sweetheart,” he replies sagely with a shake of his head. “It’s slow, no matter what roads you take. And that way we’ll get stuck in roadworks.”

One day they’ll finish the Sydney roads. Not in my lifetime. But one day.