The Forsythes of this world have more respect for people who don’t chase or grovel. Be polite, but firm. I’ll bet it works a charm.’
It did, to Owen’s surprise. ‘She was only too accommodating about it all,’ he relayed ten minutes later, still startled. ‘And she wants you to stay for Sunday lunch. Fortunately for us, her son and his bride-to-be can’t make it that day. Thank heavens for that, I say. And thank heavens the groom doesn’t live at home.’
Fiona already knew Philip didn’t live at home. The phone book had been very informative of his whereabouts over the years. There weren’t too many P. Z. Forsythes in this world, and only one in Sydney. Fifteen months after they’d broken up—around the time he would have finished his law degree—he’d bobbed up at an address in Paddington, only a hop, step and a jump from the city.
The following year he’d moved further out to Bondi. More recently he’d moved again, to an even more salubrious address at Balmoral Beach, which, though over the bridge on the north side, still wasn’t far from town.
Back in his Paddington days, Fiona had used to regularly ring him, just so she could hear his voice, hanging up after he answered. Once, not long after his move to Bondi, she’d rung him on a Saturday night and pretended to be wanting someone called Niger, just so she could extend the conversation for a few seconds, then had got the shock of her life when Philip called out to some Nigel person.
‘He’ll be with you in a sec, honey,’ Philip had said, before putting the phone down. The sounds of a party in the background had been crushingly clear. Laughter. Music. Gaiety.
Fiona had hurriedly hung up and vowed never to do that again.
And she hadn’t. She had, however, never got out of the habit of checking Philip’s address every time a new phone directory arrived, which was how she knew about his move to Balmoral.
Fiona glanced up from her thoughts to find her partner frowning down at her. She smiled up at him. A rather sardonic smile, but a smile all the same. ‘Stop looking so worried, Owen.’
‘I want to know how you’re going to handle telling Mrs Forsythe the truth about yourself.’
‘With kid gloves, I assure you. I can be tactful and diplomatic, you know. I can even be sweet and charming when I want to be. Don’t I always have the mother of the bride eating out of my hand?’
‘Yeah. But Mrs Forsythe isn’t the mother of the bride. She’s the mother of the groom, and you’re the groom’s first wife!’
CHAPTER TWO
FIONA pulled over to the kerb and consulted the street directory one more time to make sure she knew the way to Kenthurst She’d gone there only twice, after all, ten years before.
Kenthurst was not a suburb one passed through by accident, or on the way to somewhere. It was more of an ‘invitation only’ address.
A semi-rural and increasingly exclusive area on the northern outskirts of Sydney, Kenthurst boasted PICTURESQUE countryside with lots of trees, undulating hills and fresh air. The perfect setting for secluded properties owned by privileged people who liked peace and privacy.
Wealthy Sydney businessmen had once built summer houses up in the Blue Mountains or down in the southern highlands to escape the heat and the rat-race of the city. Now they were more inclined to build air-conditioned palaces on five to twenty-five acres out Kenthurst or Dural way, and live there most of the time.
Philip’s father had done just that, though he’d also owned a huge Double Bay apartment where he’d stayed overnight when business kept him late in town, or when he’d taken his wife to the theatre or the opera. It was an enormous place, covering the whole floor of a solid pre-war three-storeyed building, lavishly furnished with antiques, and with a four-poster bed in the main bedroom which had belonged to a French countess. Fiona knew this for a fact because she’d slept in it.
Well... not exactly slept.
She wondered if Philip had ever ‘slept’ with his bride-to-be in that same bed, if he’d taken her to the same mindless raptures he’d taken her own silly self.
Now, now, don’t go getting all bitter and twisted, she lectured herself sharply. Waste of time, honey. Concentrate on the job at hand, which is getting to Kathryn’s house by eleven.
Fiona didn’t want to be late. She didn’t want to give the woman the slightest excuse for looking down her nose at her again.
Gritting her teeth, Fiona bent her head to concentrate on the directory. Once the various street turnings were memorised, she angled her freshly washed and polished Audi away from the kerb and back onto the highway.
A small wry smile lifted the corner of her mouth as she drove on. The car wasn’t the only thing that had been washed and polished to perfection that morning, mocking her claim that she would not get up early on a Sunday for the likes of Kathryn Forsythe.
Pride had had her up at six. By nine there hadn’t been an inch of her body which wasn’t attended to, from the top of her sleekly groomed head to her perfectly pedicured toenails. Fiona had told herself that even if there was only the remotest chance of having to remove her shoes and stockings—or any other part of her clothing—she was going to be as perfect underneath as she was on the surface.
Oddly enough, it had been the surface clothes which had ended up causing her the most trouble. Downright perverse, in Fiona’s opinion, when she had a wardrobe chock-full of the best clothes money could buy.
The fact that it was winter should have made the choice of outfit easier. But it hadn’t. The black suits she favoured for work had seemed too funereal, her grey outfits a little washed out, now that her summer tan had long faded. Chocolate-brown and camel were last year’s colours. She certainly wasn’t going to show up in them! Which had left cream or taupe. Fiona never wore loud colours. Or white.
Certainly not white, had come the bitter thought.
She had dithered till a decision had simply had to be made. Time was beginning to run out.
In desperation, she’d settled on a three-piece trouser-suit in a lightweight cream wool. It had straightleg trousers, a V-necked waistcoat and a long-sleeved lapelled jacket. The buttons on the waistcoat were covered, but rimmed in gold, so a necklace would have been overdone for daytime.
But she had slipped eighteen carat gold earrings into her pierced ears and a classically styled gold watch onto her wrist—both gifts from one-time admirers. Her shoes and bag were tan, and made of the softest leather. They’d cost a small fortune. Make-up had been kept to a minimum, her mouth and nails a subtle brown. Her perfume was another gift from an admirer, who’d said it was as exotic and sensual as she was.
Finally, she’d been fairly satisfied with her appearance, and just before ten had left her flat, ready to face the woman who’d almost destroyed her.
‘But I rose again, Kathryn,’ Fiona said aloud as she turned off the highway and headed for Kenthurst. ‘Just like the phoenix.’
Fiona laughed, well aware that the likes of Noni w ould not even have known what the phoenix was. ‘You’ve come a long way, honey,’ she complimented herself. ‘A long, long way. Worth a few nerves to show Philip’s darling mama just how far!’
The sun broke
