bracing herself for the inevitable confrontation and, she guessed, copious tears. Angel was perfectly capable of it. Generally believed saccharine-sweet, no one knew better than Angel how to make a lot of people uncomfortable. She could turn it on. And off. At the flip of a coin.
Genevieve didn’t know if she could stand it, feeling as bad as she did. After a month of agonizing about this soon-to-be-taken trip to the altar, she had lost weight to the point she was looking more spindly than slim; she had a permanent headache; she was sick to her stomach and trying to smile through it; her emotions so barely under control it hurt.
About to tap on the door and await entrée into her mother’s opulent bedroom that stopped just short of mirrors on the ceiling, Genevieve suddenly remembered with a great sense of relief Angel was going out to dinner with Toby Slocombe. She marvelled she could have forgotten, but then her brain was firing on less than four cylinders.
Toby was one of the high rollers around Sydney Town, recently divorced from his long-suffering wife of thirty years. For once Angel hadn’t been involved having just come out of a rather unsettling experience with a toy-boy a little older than her daughter. So tonight no tears to spoil the mascara. No tears to stain Angel’s ravishing little heart-shaped face. Even so she wouldn’t take it without a bit of light screaming and the usual attempt to talk Genevieve down. Genevieve felt she could just about endure that. Angel’s soft breathy voice raised a few decibels arguing nonstop. No one was home except Genevieve’s beloved Emmy, their long-time housekeeper, baby-sitter, nanny, confidante, social secretary-assistant, referee, who had been more of a mother to Genevieve than Angel the perennial beauty and social butterfly had ever been.
This is supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life, Genevieve thought, avoiding all self-pity. Indeed she felt very isolated and quite guilty, tempted to do a runner. Please God help me through this, she prayed as she rapped on her mother’s door, the great emerald-cut diamond on her left hand winking and blinking heavy enough to anchor a harbour ferry.
“Come!” her mother’s voice trilled.
It was the sort of response one might expect from a celebrated prima donna, not a mother, Genevieve thought. Not a “Come in” much less “Yes, darling.” Emmy, after all, was watching one of her favourite TV shows, not surprisingly, “The Nanny,” and could not be disturbed. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry Genevieve opened the door, her eyes filled with the sight of her mother half falling out of a long sequinned evening dress in a heavenly shade of jacaranda that must have cost as much as the piece of antique furniture Genevieve was about to bump into.
“Lordy, Sweet Mamma,” she said, amazed like everyone else by her mother’s youthful appearance and all-out glamour.
Angel, the picture of seduction, threw out her slender arms and made a full turn. “Like it?”
“What there is of it, yes,” Genevieve agreed slowly. “It’s beautiful. Exquisite.”
“I’d let you wear it only you’re too tall,” Angel instantly responded, smoothing the filmy fabric over her hips.
“I’m not that tall,” Genevieve said. “Anyway, you’ve never lent me anything.”
Angel sprayed herself with another whiff of gorgeous perfume. “Genni, sweetheart, you’ve never wanted for anything. I know you’re beautiful, though I looked twice as good when I was your age, but you have your poor father’s height. And that olive skin.” Angel turned to survey her own flawless strawberries-and-cream complexion.
“Most people think my skin is great,” Genevieve answered casually enough. She always took her mother’s little put-downs with no offence. “Unlike you, I take a tan and it goes very well with my hair.”
“Our hair,” Angel corrected, touching her heavy white-gold naturally wavy locks. In her mid-forties, an age Angel kept quite secret even from her doctor, Angel wore her hair short, brushed up and away from her exceedingly youthful, marvellously pretty face. Genevieve wore hers long, sheets of it, falling to her shoulder blades. Sometimes she had it straightened but it inevitably went back into its waving skeins.
The two of them were very much alike despite the fact Angel was petite and Genevieve stood 5'8" in her stockinged feet with long, light limbs. Most people thought Genevieve was twice as beautiful as her mother and as a member of the Courtland family it was expected she would have brains, something her mother either didn’t have or concealed. Not that it affected Angel’s great ongoing success with men. In fact it might well have contributed to it.
“Genni, do you know what you’re doing?” Angel broke sharply into her daughter’s reverie.
“Nope, what am I doing?” Genevieve asked.
“You’re handling that precious piece of Sevres so carelessly you might drop it. Please put it down.”
“Sorry, Mamma.”
“Darling, haven’t I asked you not to call me that?”
Genevieve laughed, trying to cloak a lifetime’s despair. “You’re one tough lady, Angel. Do you know that? You asked me not to call you Mamma when I was barely ten years old. Not all that long after Daddy died.” It was cruel. Genevieve still thought it was cruel but she had never been one to start, in her own words, “a ruckus.” Not being able to call her mother Mummy or Mum had not only been harrowing, it had somehow affected their relationship. Underneath it all Genevieve felt terrible sorrow her mother wasn’t the complete woman.
In fact Angel was moaning now. “Oh, don’t start that again.” She always did at any mention of her late first husband, Genevieve’s father, Stephen Courtland. Angel had divorced Stephan when Genevieve was seven. Eighteen months later he had been tragically killed in a shooting accident on Jubilee. Jubilee was the Courtland flagship, the desert fortress and ancestral home. The Courtlands controlled a cattle empire that cut a huge swathe through the giant state of Queensland. Blaine was the current custodian of the flame. Blaine Courtland, Genevieve’s kissin’ cousin, prince among men.
At thirty-one, handsome as the devil and just as arrogant, he was a much respected man in a tough man’s world. Blaine had been the hero of Genevieve’s childhood and early adolescence. Eight whole years separated them but they were light years away in substance and maturity.
The little girl Blaine had always called by a string of endearments: flower face, Violetta—because of her eyes—sweetness, cherub, little pal, even pumpkin—she remembered all of them—overnight turned into that silly little idiot Genni who was prepared to waste her perfectly good brain trying to emulate her fool of a mother. Blaine pulled no punches about Angel. He actually called her Jinx to her face. A lot of it stemmed from the fact the Courtland family collectively believed Stephen Courtland’s “accident” had been no accident at all. Everyone knew Stephen had been devastated when Angel walked out on him, taking his adored only child. A serious depression had followed.
“Angel, can I talk to you?” Genevieve asked, picking up her courage.
“I don’t really have time to talk now, darling,” Angel said, hunting up her exquisite evening purse, popping in a fragile lace-edged hanky. “Shouldn’t you be getting your beauty sleep? It’s going to be a wonderful day tomorrow. I’m so proud of you landing Colin.”
Genevieve received a mind picture of Blaine so searing it hurt her head. “I think I’ll pass on Colin,” she blurted abruptly.
“You’ll what?” Angel’s blue-violet eyes started so far from her head she looked like an adorable bug.
