‘You know he’s completely protected,’ Mirabella snorted, still rampaging around Clementine’s office. Humpty remained perched on the edge of his chair, silent and staid.
‘If I had an affair, our prenuptial agreement would be completely invalidated. I would be left with nothing. But if he does — well, there’s no clause in there for that.’
‘But, my love,’ said Humpty, ‘that’s because it’s my assets protected by the arrangement.’
‘You see how he mistrusts me!’ Mirabella wailed.
The session went on like this. Clementine wondered if Amanda Ceravic had suspected Jason was having an affair. As his girlfriend, Clem had had no inkling he had someone else in his life. The broken part of her hoped that Amanda did know and that she was making him pay for what he had done. She hoped he was being tortured. She hoped he was marinating in guilt. She hated him for having a baby. It seemed so much easier for men. After disposing with her, he had carried on with his life, unruffled. And now he was getting the one thing Clementine wanted more than anything.
At this thought she lifted her eyes.
‘That’s an hour,’ Clementine said to Humpty and Mirabella, and closed her notebook.
After the bleakest winter in living memory, spring arrived with a vengeance. At the Randwick racecourse everything was violently colourful. Huge roses had burst open — crimson, cream, pink and peach. The sky was pure blue with not a skerrick of cloud. Floral sundresses and paisley ties were everywhere. For Annabel, however, the Randwick race day was a disaster. It started at 7am with a very bad omen, as they began setting up before the gates opened at 11am.
‘Great hat,’ said Sybilla as they unpacked catering supplies. Annabel was wearing a simple black Nerida Winter fascinator. Pinned to it was a cream iris whose beak-like petals opened to reveal orange insides. The flower had arrived on her doorstep that morning in a clear plastic box with a note from Patrick:
Thank you for the tickets — and good luck!
‘You look lovely, too,’ Annabel said.
Sybilla smiled and put the box of glasses down on the floor. She was wearing a red Zimmermann dress and cloche hat. She looked elegant and professional.
‘Oh, hang on,’ Sybilla leaned forward and reached for Annabel’s headpiece with her fingertips pressed together like pincers.
‘Ew.’ She held the bright green caterpillar in front of Annabel’s eyes. ‘You had a bug.’ She tottered out of the marquee to deposit the caterpillar on a tree branch.
‘Shall I set up these glasses?’ she asked brightly when she returned.
‘Oh no, the catering staff will do that.’
Sybilla had become an invaluable member of the team. If today went well, Annabel planned to offer her a permanent, full-time position.
Sweet Success was competing with the L’ Oreal marquee, the Chandon marquee and a tent sponsored by a radio station. All of them were vying for the celebrity guests so their products would be photographed and their branding would be splashed across the social pages. The marquee would comfortably hold 120 people and they had invited 140, almost all of whom had RSVPed yes.
Already, over-eager starlets and hangers-on were parading up the green, looking more show pony than thoroughbred. There was a shiny-headed shock-jock in cowboy boots and a slim-cut suit escorting a girl in a backless dress with what looked like a vase of flowers on her head. Most of the arrivals were young aspiring stars identifiable by their giddyingly high hemlines. They wore streaks of fake tan like speed marks.
‘Whatever happened to gloves and hats?’ Ant sneered over Annabel’s shoulder, peering at the early arrivals. ‘Give me a pencil skirt and a broad-brimmed chapeau over that any day.’
‘Try not to openly ridicule them,’ Annabel said. ‘And no refusing entry just because you don’t like their outfit.’
Ant and Kathy were in charge of the guest list. Annabel had business matters to attend to. Byron and Hilary Hill were coming, and she was determined to make a good impression. They arrived early with Patrick.
‘Well, well,’ said Byron, looking pleased, as Ant bought over tall glasses of custom-made morning cocktails in Za Vas glasses. They were packed full of fruit juice and soda water, with just a dash of champagne. They were designed to be refreshing and tingly without getting the guests drunk before the first race was run. Annabel took one from the tray and sipped it tentatively. For the first time in a long time she felt nervous. The entire day was an opportunity to exhibit to the Hills just what she could do. It would be a marathon six-hour pitch, and there was a lot that could go wrong. Her nerves were compounded by a conversation she had had with Clementine on the phone earlier in the week.
‘I’m so glad Harry’s coming,’ Annabel had said. ‘After weeks of polite dating and playing by the rules, he’ll be able to see me in my element.’
‘I thought you said Patrick would be bringing those clients you want to impress?’
‘Yes, he’s the one who introduced me to them.’
‘Won’t that be a little awkward?’
Nothing had happened between Annabel and Patrick. For that matter, not all that much had happened between Annabel and Harry. But she had suspected Patrick’s affection, and this morning’s gift had confirmed it. It was as real and present as a radioactive glow, and she knew it was wrong to hide behind the claim that he had never made a move.
‘Oh no, I’ve made a mistake, haven’t I?’
‘You’ll be working. You probably won’t get much of a chance to speak to either of them. But … maybe have a little chat with Patrick.’
‘You’re right. The last thing I’d want to do is lead him on,’ Annabel had said.
And she was just about to steal him away for a quick word when Harry arrived.
‘Sugar,’ Annabel whispered, taking another sip from a morning cocktail. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said to Patrick and the Hills.
The sight of Harry unleashed butterflies in her stomach. Not just butterflies, but centipedes, snails and ladybugs, too. Dressed in an ascot and a waistcoat, he looked like an aristocrat. He waved and smiled, flashing white teeth. Annabel took a breath to compose herself.
‘Harry,’ she reached up and kissed his cheek, letting her lips linger a moment longer than usual.
Today would be the ultimate test of the husband-hunting strategy. So far she had followed the plan to the letter. If everything went as expected, she would wake up tomorrow morning and be Miss Harry Barchester’s Girlfriend.
‘The marquee looks great,’ he said. ‘Mirabella would never—’ Annabel caught her breath. Harry stopped. ‘Ah. You’ve done a magnificent job.’
‘She certainly is talented,’ said Clementine, who had arrived at that same moment. There was another man with her, too. He looked vaguely familiar.
‘This is Cameron Aughton,’ said Harry. ‘I ran into him on the way in and asked him to join me. Cameron used to live next door when Mirabella and I … when we …’ He cleared his throat. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No, not at all,’ Annabel said.
Cameron shook her hand and offered to fetch drinks. Harry grinned and said he was glad to be getting away from his study for a day.
‘What are you studying?’ Cameron asked, returning with a tray of breakfast cocktails and catching the end of Harry’s comment.
As Harry launched into a description of his thesis, Annabel slipped away, relieved she could leave him in Cameron and Clementine’s capable hands while she attended to Byron and Hilary. She was about to go and ply them with race tips when she saw Ant looking stricken.
‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ he said, as he came towards Annabel, swinging a champagne bottle by its neck like a herald’s bell. An apologetic-looking waiter trailed behind him.
‘There’s a food crisis.’ Ant put the bottle of champagne to his lips, but Annabel snatched it away before he could drink.
‘What’s happened?’
Ant rang his hands. ‘The salmon has gone off.’
They had ordered two hundred miniature pancakes topped with lemon cream cheese and salmon.
‘Let me have a look.’
They pushed through the growing crowd to the tables where food and drinks were being served. Annabel put her face to a tray of salmon and sniffed. There was definitely something wrong with it.
‘Throw it out,’ she told the waiter. ‘I want it all gone.’
She took three of the spoiled appetisers from the tray and put them in a cake box. Using a black liquid eyeliner in her handbag, she wrote a warning on the box. Then she stashed it in an esky full of ice. If the catering company tried to charge her for the spoiled food, she had evidence. She called the caterer and vigorously informed him that he had nearly poisoned her guests. He said he could arrange for some more food to be brought over in a couple of hours.
‘A couple of hours?’ Annabel yelled. ‘This is unbelievable.’ She hung up, forced a smile, and tried to play calm and gracious hostess.
She spoke to an NRL captain and a reality star who had made the transition to bona fide drama, and then searched for Hilary and Byron, all the while racking her brain for a magical answer to the food shortage.
‘Interesting cocktails,’ said Byron. He was grimacing.
‘That’s a Russian Spring,’ Annabel told him, adding that she had used Eve’s Garden apple juice.
‘A bar approached us about a promotional line of cocktails using Eve’s Garden, but we didn’t want to muddle the healthy product we were trying to produce with hard liquor.’
‘Okay, enough of that,’ Patrick interrupted. ‘No more shop talk for the rest of the day. You two are here to enjoy yourself,’ he said to Hilary and Byron. ‘Annabel is here to work. But if she starts to talk about marketing concepts, we’ll have to ask her to leave.’
He raised a glass to her. It was cloudy with apple juice.
‘Good idea,’ Annabel said. ‘No more work talk. But we can still talk money. I’ve got a tip for the first race.’
She had spent that morning collecting tips from bookies in the betting auditorium, and had a list of likely winners. This was information she could sprinkle into conversation with the Hills. Patrick had forewarned her that Byron was a keen better. He even had a copy of the racing newspaper
The Sportsman
tucked into his back pocket.
‘What have you heard, then?’ he asked, pulling his
Sportsman
out and opening it to the form guide.
‘My sources tell me Tommy Rockets in race one,’ Annabel said. ‘On the nose.’
Byron looked at the form. ‘He’s twelve to one.’
‘I’ve got very good sources.’
‘He didn’t even place in his last four races!’
‘But he loves a slow track, and this is the first fine day we’ve had in weeks. The last four races he ran were on dry turf. Look before that: three wins in a row, all on wet tracks.’
‘I’ll take that bet,’ said Patrick. ‘Twenty on Tommy Rockets.’
‘Me, too,’ said Hilary. ‘Come on, darling.’
He gruffly agreed. Annabel gave Patrick $10 and asked if he would place a bet for her, too. Then she excused herself and went to check in with Ant and Kathy. More people were arriving. Fifteen minutes out from the first race, the marquee was more than half full. Annabel hoped the extra food would be delivered before they ran out. She called the caterer to make sure he was on track. Waiters were handing out little onion tartlets.
‘Are these sweet or savoury?’ Annabel heard a woman ask, giving her an idea.
‘Sybilla!’
She gave Sybilla her credit card and car keys.
‘We need more food. There’s a place on Avoca Street called Petit Bakery that does cupcakes. I want you to go there and buy every single one they have and bring them back here, otherwise our guests aren’t going to have enough to eat.’
‘When you say all of the cupcakes—’ Sybilla began.
‘We need at least two hundred. I’ll call ahead and warn them you’re coming.’
Sybilla nodded and raced out of the marquee.
Annabel rang the bakery, but nobody answered. Five minutes later she called again. It was a Saturday — they had to be open. She tried to think where else she could send Sybilla if they couldn’t get cupcakes. She needed something ready-made, pretty and easy to transport.
Her phone rang. It was Sybilla. ‘There’s a problem.’
‘Please don’t say that.’
‘The Petit Bakery burnt down last month.’
‘Oh no.’
‘But I know of a place that does macarons. I called them and they said they could have two hundred boxed up and ready to go by the time I got there.’
‘Macarons. Brilliant. Wait, call them back and make it three hundred.’
‘No problem. Just one more thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘How many demerit points have you lost on your licence?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, the macaron place is in Bondi.’
‘I haven’t lost any demerit points. Floor it — we need those macarons.’
Annabel hung up to hear the cheer as Tommy Rockets crossed the line first in the opening race. Byron appeared at her side.
‘Got any more tips?’ he asked.
‘Um,’ she checked her list. ‘Sideswipe in the second.’
‘You little ripper,’ he said.
Patrick put his arm around her shoulder and planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘You’re doing brilliantly,’ he said, then they strode off to the bookies.
Kathy was manning the food-service area.
‘We’ve still got plenty of tarts, but otherwise things are starting to run low,’ she said. Annabel picked up one of the morning cocktails and took a slug. She called the caterer again, but he didn’t answer.
‘There you are,’ said Harry. ‘I hear you’re giving out successful race tips.’
‘Sideswipe,’ Annabel muttered, distracted. She was trying to write an abusive text message to the friend who had recommended the caterer, but the four-letter word she needed wasn’t recognised by the phone’s predictive-text dictionary.
‘I’m sorry, Harry: we’re just having a minor disaster here—’
Her eye caught another potential disaster. Out the front of the marquee a tall and haughty-looking woman was posing for photographs. She wore a tight Wayne Cooper skirt slashed to the thigh and a plunging Maticevski top. A large hat partly obscured her face. Her arms were crossed: it was Mirabella. Annabel could see Humpty standing by, off to one side, carrying a handbag that matched the print on Mirabella’s blouse. He saw Annabel and waved.
She gasped and pulled Harry away from the entrance. The last thing she needed was Mirabella making a scene. Harry had told her that they hadn’t seen each other since he had moved back.
‘Would you pass the Sideswipe tip onto Cameron?’ Annabel asked Harry.
‘Sure, but—’
‘I’m so sorry I have to run off, Harry, but I really have to do something about this spoiled salmon.’
Harry looked confused.
‘Cameron is over in that back corner there.’ Annabel put her hand on his shoulder and guided his attention away from the front of the marquee. She felt around in her purse for loose cash. All she could find was a $50 note.
‘And maybe you could put a bet on for me, too. Sideswipe. For a win.’ She stuffed the note into his breast pocket.
‘Wow, you must have a really good tip.’
‘Oh I do, I do,’ Annabel was practically pushing him away now. She urgently needed him to disappear into the crowd. She needed Mirabella to go away, she needed the caterer to drop off fresh salmon pancakes, and she needed Sybilla to arrive with a tray of macarons. Her phone buzzed. It was a text.