act bearable.
Despite this highly unique stance for a nineties girl, Justine still had a great social life, never lacking in invitations or escorts. Her life was full of fun, without complication, without the emotional traumas which seemed to come with a sexual relationship. All her girlfriends told her tales of woe about their various boyfriends and lovers.
Frankly, Justine thought sex was more trouble than it was worth.
Of course, there was an irritating faction within her female friends who thought differently on the subject. Trudy, who lived two streets away from Justine and who’d been her best friend for yonks, was simply mad about men and sex. Only last week she’d assured Justine that one day some hunky guy would come along and sweep her off her feet and into bed before she could blink an eye.
Justine had scoffed at such an unlikely scenario. He’d have to be a man in a million, that was for sure, with a darn lot of sex appeal and know-how. Nothing at all like Howard Barthgate. Dear heaven, she wouldn’t be going out with the likes of him again!
Dismissing Howard from her mind with her usual slightly ruthless speed, Justine jumped up from her mother’s bed. ‘I think I’ll go make myself some hot chocolate. Want some?’
‘No, thank you, darling. Hot chocolate’s very fattening,’ her mother said with all seriousness as she popped another milk crème into her mouth.
Justine kept a straight face with difficulty as she left the room. Truly, the woman was incorrigible. But she was such a dear, with not a mean bone in her body. Justine would not have had her any other way. It was quite wonderful to have a mother who loved you to death but who didn’t interfere. Justine liked running her own show. She liked it very much.
Her smile was full of indulgent affection as she skipped down the sweeping central staircase, sliding her hand down the carved mahogany banister on the way and thinking of all the times she’d slid more than her hand down that perfectly polished and thankfully sturdy construction. What a wonderfully carefree and punishment-free childhood she had had! Some people called her spoilt and wilful, but Justine didn’t see it that way. She thought she was the luckiest girl in Sydney, and maybe even Australia!
The front doorbell rang just as she jumped off the bottom step into the marble-tiled foyer. She stood there for a moment, startled. Who on earth could be calling at this time of night?
A strange chill invaded Justine as she made her way with uncharacteristic hesitation towards the door.
‘Who is it?’ she asked through the door, a burst of nerves making her voice sharp.
‘The police, ma’am.’
The police! Oh, my God...
She shot back the door chain and wrenched open the door, paling at the sight of the two uniformed officers standing on the front porch. Their serious faces betrayed that their mission was not a pleasant one.
‘Mrs Montgomery?’ the older officer queried with a frown.
‘No. Mum’s upstairs in bed. I’m Justine Montgomery, her daughter. What is it? Has something happened to my father?’
When Justine saw their exchanged glances her head began to swim.
Pull yourself together, she ordered herself. Mum is going to need you.
‘He...he’s dead, isn’t he?’ she blurted out, a silent scream in her head.
The officer nodded sadly. ‘I’m truly sorry, miss.’
‘I...I suppose it was a car accident,’ she choked out, thinking how often she’d chided her father for driving too fast.
The two police officers exchanged another, more meaningful glance, and Justine stiffened.
‘Er...no, miss. Not a car accident. I’m sorry. I really think that—’
‘Tell me, for pity’s sake!’ she interrupted. ‘I need to know the truth!’
The older officer sighed. ‘Your father had a fatal coronary in a Kings Cross club where gentlemen go to be...er...entertained.’
Justine rocked back, gripping the front door for support, her eyes wide upon the bearer of this almost unbelievable news.
‘Let me get this straight, Sergeant,’ she said slowly, her mouth parched. ‘Are you saying my father died in a brothel?’
He looked painfully embarrassed and reluctant to repeat his news. ‘Um...yes, miss,’ he finally admitted. ‘That’s what I’m saying. Look, I realise this has come as a shock. Unfortunately, there—’
‘Who’s that at the door, darling?’
The policemen broke off. Justine whirled round.
Adelaide Montgomery was coming down the stairs, sashing her dressing-gown, a frown on her plumply pretty face. ‘Is there anything wrong?’ she asked worriedly in her little-girl voice.
Justine watched her mother blanch at the sight of the two policemen at the front door, watched as Adelaide’s eyes filled with panic and fear. She clutched at the neckline of her robe with both hands as she swayed on unsteady feet. ‘Oh, dear God, no! Not Grayson...’
Justine hurried to hold her mother before she fainted, knowing that their lives would never be the same again.
CHAPTER TWO
‘A BOARDING house!’ her mother exclaimed in horror. ‘You want to turn my home into a boarding house? Oh, no, no, no. That would never do, Justine. It’s out of the question. Goodness, whatever will my friends think?’
‘Who cares what they think?’ came Justine’s frustrated reply. ‘Most of them are just fair-weather friends anyway. How many phone calls or visits have you had from your so-called friends lately?’ Justine asked her mother. ‘How many invitations? They all came to the funeral, mouthing platitudes of sympathy and support, but as soon as they found out all our money was gone, they dropped us like hot-cakes. It’s as though we’ve suddenly got a brand on our foreheads. Poor, it says. To be given a wide berth.’
‘Oh, Justine, you’re imagining things. Why, only yesterday I received an invitation in the mail from Ivy, inviting us both to Felix’s fiftieth birthday party this coming Saturday evening.’
Justine refrained from pointing out that that was probably Trudy’s doing, Ivy being Trudy’s mother. The invitation had been suspiciously late. Yesterday was Wednesday, after all. No doubt Trudy had made a fuss when she’d found out Justine and her mother were not on the guest list for her father’s party and insisted her mother ask them.
Justine didn’t like Ivy Turrell one bit. She was an awful snob. Her husband wasn’t much better. Felix had made a fortune selling insurance, and only invited people to his home who could be of benefit to him. Naturally, there’d been a time when the well-to-do Montgomerys had always been on the Turrells’ guest-list. Not so for much longer, Justine thought ruefully.
‘People are giving us a little time to get over our grief,’ her mother went on, seeing through her usual rose-coloured glasses. ‘We’re not really poor, and it’s only been two months since your father...since he...he...’
