later—and many more applications that had led to absolutely nothing—her initial optimism astounded her. She literally had a degree, an internship and then almost ten years of nothing.
Well—not nothing. But nothing she was about to put on her CV. A million followers and a charitable foundation that she’d established herself could possibly sound impressive to some HR departments. But they weren’t relevant to the environmental officer roles she was applying for.
And, just as importantly, they would reveal her real name. And she just couldn’t do that.
Although it was tempting at times. Like tonight. How easy it would be to still be April Molyneux and organise the reissue of one of the many credit cards linked to her insane fortune? By this time tomorrow she could be eating all the Thai green curry she wanted.
She could even upgrade to a far more impressive flat.
April pushed herself up and off the couch, to search for something to eat in her lovely kitchen.
Her fridge was stocked only with expensive Australian Riesling, sparkling designer water—also expensive—a partially eaten wheel of camembert cheese—expensive—and the organic un-homogenised milk that she’d bought because she’d liked the pretty glass bottle it came in—probably also more expensive than it needed to be.
April felt sick.
Was she really so disconnected from the reality of what things cost?
Her whole life she’d known she was rich. But she’d thought she still had some sense of the reality of living in the real world: without a trust fund, without the mansion your mum had bought for you.
She’d liked to think she’d projected some sort of ‘everywoman’ persona to her Instagram and Facebook followers. That despite the good fortune of her birth that she was really just like everybody else.
She poured herself a bowl of probably overpriced granola and used up the rest of her fancy milk, then sat back in front of her laptop.
Earlier today, before heading to the gym, she’d scheduled the next couple of days’ worth of social media posts.
April Spencer might be in London, but April Molyneux—to her followers, anyway—was still in Perth, effortlessly adjusting to her new single life.
Before she’d dyed her hair she’d made sure she’d honoured every single product placement agreement she’d signed, and had posed for months’ worth of photos. She’d taken even more selfies, with all manner of random backgrounds—she’d come up with something to caption them with as she needed to.
Plus she still took random photos while here in London—the habit was too ingrained for her to give it up completely. She just made sure her hair and anything identifiably London wasn’t in any of the photos. So the book she was reading...the shade she’d painted her toenails...that kind of stuff. All was still documented, still shared, interwoven with her blonde April photos and carefully coordinated with her assistant back home—thankfully still paid for by the Molyneux Foundation.
So her social media life carried on. Her followers continued to grow.
And what were they seeing?
She scrolled down the page, taking in her last few years of photos in a colourful blur.
A blur of international holidays, secluded luxury Outback retreats, designer shoes, amazing jewellery, beautiful clothes, a gorgeous husband and attractive—wealthy—friends.
They were seeing an unbelievably privileged woman who had absolutely no idea what it was like to exist in the real world.
April slapped her laptop screen shut, suddenly disgusted with herself.
And ashamed.
The whole point of all this—the move to London, her quest for a job, living alone for the first time in her life—had been about finding herself. Defining who she was if she wasn’t Evan’s wife. Or one of the Molyneux heiresses.
But so far all she’d achieved was a self-indulgent month during which she’d patted herself on the back for ‘living like a normal person’ but achieved absolutely nothing other than a new, reasonably priced wardrobe.
She knew her mum, Ivy and Mila all assumed this was just a bit of a game to her. They assumed that once she did eventually get a job she’d supplement her income with Molyneux money. On reflection, no one had pointed out the now damned obvious fact that she couldn’t afford this apartment.
And, unlike April, they would know. Mila had never used her Molyneux fortune: she knew exactly how far a dollar or a pound could stretch. And Ivy had dedicated her life to building up the Molyneux fortune—so she knew, too.
She couldn’t even be annoyed with them. Up until tonight, and that stupid, sad ‘declined’ beep at the cash register, they’d been right.
They’d been right to think that their pampered middle sister couldn’t cut it in the real world.
And, if she was brutally honest, she hadn’t even been trying. She’d thought she had, but people in the real world didn’t have no income for a month—and no savings—and then casually take their time applying for some mythical perfect job while living in a luxury apartment.
She flipped her laptop open again.
She needed to find a job. Immediately.
SHE HAD A nice voice, Hugh thought.
Unquestionably Australian. Warm. Professional.
She didn’t sound nervous, although she did laugh every now and again—which was possibly nerves. Or possibly not. Her laugh was natural. Also warm. Pretty.
Hugh’s lips quirked. How whimsical of him. How unlike him.
Currently, April...he glanced down at the printed CV before him...April Spencer was answering the last of his four interview questions.
Rather well, actually.
He leant back in his chair, listening carefully as her voice filled the room, projected by the speakers hooked up to his laptop.
This was the third interview his recruitment consultant had organised, although the other two applicants had been quite different from April. One an art curator, another an antique specialist.
Both complete overkill for the position. He’d been clear with the consultant, Caro, that his mother’s collections were not of any monetary value—although Caro had made some valid points that knowledge of antiques and curation skills might still be of use.
But still... He felt as if employing either skill-set would be pretending that all those boxes were something more than they actually were. Which was a hoard. A hoard he wanted out of his life.
‘...so I feel my experience working for the Molyneux Foundation demonstrates my understanding of the importance of client privacy,’ April said as she continued her answer. ‘I regularly dealt with donors who requested their names remain absolutely confidential. At other times donors wished for their
