Chapter 4
It was one thing to want to quit her job.
It was another to have quit and only just realised what her life would look like now.
Days at home, dressed not in business suits but Uggs and trackies, as her parents would call these fleece-lined pants that were unfortunately supremely comfortable.
Unfortunate, because they were so comfy she would be happy to wear these the rest of her days.
But one didn’t need to make a style statement when one worked from home.
Of course, one still made something of an effort for the videoconference calls with financial backers—a woman couldn’t look like a complete slob—but a quick brush of hair, a crisp white shirt, and a powerful shade of red lipstick could take a girl a long way.
Business from the waist up, comfort down below.
And when one just so happened to have a background that might include a shot of the Sydney Opera House, well, that was a flex that told its own tales.
Like perhaps there was more to this small-town girl than they might first realise.
And that one shouldn’t judge someone on the university they’d attended, that sandstone hallowed halls weren’t as important as the dynamic forward focus that Dream Match was all about.
She nodded as Gwen Baker, a female entrepreneur who had appeared on Shark Tank Australia, finished her spiel to the select participants for this female-only online business networking seminar that EJ had scored an invitation to.
God bless Liv, whose boyfriend Liam had somehow managed to pull some strings that had resulted in a British Shark reaching out and connecting EJ and Gwen.
This game of entrepreneur endeavour seemed to be all about connections, and EJ knew she had to hustle to make the most of every one.
“Thanks, ladies. This has been great,” Gwen said.
“Thank you so much for giving your time to share your insights.” EJ smiled. She had to be first in with the acknowledgements, to be shown to be a leader, not the one who followed.
“It’s been a pleasure.” Gwen nodded. “EJ, right?”
EJ’s chin dipped. “From Dream Match.”
Gwen’s face brightened. “Oh, that’s right. I’ve heard great things.”
“It’s going really well, thanks to the kindness of so many generous people.”
She pushed her smile down to what she hoped passed as humble.
Nobody liked someone who trumpeted their success, especially in Australia.
The tall poppy syndrome, where people liked to cut others down to size, was an unfortunate quality most successful Aussies were familiar with.
One shouldn’t get a big head, or get too big for one’s britches as Mum might say, oh no.
People who dared to step out of the status quo were rarely encouraged the way they were in other parts of the world.
There was a reason she’d not attended her high school reunion last year.
The video call ended, and EJ exhaled, leaning back in her seat.
Building a business was all about scrambling from one task to the next, all while tossing a dozen balls in the air and hoping none fell.
She might as well be a juggling gymnast doing parkour, doing her best to keep a smile on her dial like she enjoyed the chaos of her life.
She closed her eyes, pressing her knuckles into her forehead.
It was one thing to have time; it was another to realise just how hectic life had been trying to balance everything.
And for what must be the hundredth time, she thanked God for Jordan’s wise advice to quit Donwell.
That, at least, had proved to be one ball she could safely place down, rather than feel like she was responsible for too many things.
The phone rang, and she quickly dealt with the offshore agent who had secured a number of techies for the app who were cheaper than the Aussies.
Plenty of people might complain about telcos outsourcing their call centres, but wage costs were a huge factor in whether a tech company could ever achieve liftoff.
She then replied to an email from Maurice, the business adviser recommended to her by a lead designer of one of Australia’s most successful start-ups, a design app that EJ had used to promote Dream Match way back when.
To have the phone numbers of some of these people, to feel their support, tangible through shared contacts, felt like a dream come true.
The only reason she was successful was thanks to people like the creative tech guru—now rumoured to be a billionaire—and Maurice, and Jordan, of course.
She sat back in her seat, then swivelled to face the million-dollar view that showed the setting of last week’s celebration dinner, the one that had turned a little sour on the edges.
“Ugh.”
The word shimmied off the walls, the quiet in Aunty Marion’s apartment a thousand times removed from the noisy bustle of Donwell’s offices. Not that she missed it at all.
Images flashed of that night at Bennelong.
She and Jordan, happy, laughing. Then that man who’d somehow floated in and stolen attention.
She still felt a little bad for Jordan, but it wasn’t like they were dating.
She was a free agent. Which was why she didn’t like him getting his knickers in a knot because she just so happened to appreciate another man’s attention.
What was wrong with that? But Jordan’s overreaction made her question—once again—whether he did hold feelings warmer than friendship in his heart.
Or was that simply the effect of her working in the matchmaking industry that made her see potential for romance everywhere?
“You’re being dumb,” she muttered to herself. “He doesn’t even think you’re pretty, remember?”
She’d even given him a golden opportunity to say so too—yes, it had been a test of sorts—but as he’d failed to say she was attractive, it probably meant he didn’t think she was.
Which was great. Awesome, actually. Because it meant she didn’t need to waste another second worrying that he might think she was potential girlfriend material.
A meow drew her attention to Charlie, making his presence felt again. She clicked her fingers, but he ignored her, stalking through the room like a diva. Oh well. She had his water and kitty kibble ready.
Her phone rang again, this one from her offsider, Harriet Smart.
Harriet certainly lived up to her surname, being whip-smart, and dux of her year at school.
Harriet was another Wattle Vale escapee—well, technically she’d grown up in the nearby village of Wootten Forest, but that was the next town along, so practically the same—and had come to work for EJ on a casual basis.
“Harriet. What can I do for you?”
“That picture you asked me for? I have Information.”
“Okay.” She bit her lip, glad this was a phone call and not video. She didn’t need Harriet seeing how nervous she was about this, even though Harriet clearly knew how important this was, signposting this with her capital I term before.
“Like, he really is a VIP.”
EJ loved Harriet, but the girl really needed to learn to get to the point. “Got a name?”
“Oh, right! Of course.” Nervous giggle. “Get this: It’s Eric Churchill.”
Breath hitched. “Are you kidding me?”
Eric Churchill. Son of a squillionaire. His dad owned or had a solid stake in most of the media companies around the world. No wonder the man could afford top-shelf champagne. Or was that aged barrel champagne? “Oh my gosh.”
“Right? So, uh, pardon me for asking, but why did you want me to find out about him?”
No way was she going to admit what Eric had done. Harriet would put two and two together fast if EJ breathed another word. So she swallowed. Forced her voice to sound normal, casual, as she said, “Oh, I just saw him the other night when I was at Bennelong.”
“Oh my gosh!” Harriet squawked. “I thought that must be it. Your post the other day looked so amazing.”
EJ had to post regularly on Insta and the like, and prove she belonged in the rarefied air the rich and famous preferred to play in.
Jordan had been a good sport, taking photos of her, the view, her and the view.
And she’d taken a few pics of him too, then a few sneaky pics of the golden table and the guests.
“Wow. So are you going to meet him?”
Having him nod at her, and drinking the drink he’d sent didn’t count as meeting him, did it? And unless a miracle happened, she was probably never going to see him again. “Probably not.” She hoped she’d kept enough regret out of her voice.
“Then why did you want to know?”
She faked a laugh. “Oh, it’s just handy to know who’s who.”
“Who’s who in the zoo,” she could hear Jordan say. Why he had to remain in her head and make inopportune remarks like that, she didn’t know.
“Well, thanks for that, Harriet. Much appreciated.”
“Okay. Work well.”
“You too.”
EJ ended the call, then flicked open her photo library to the picture she’d surreptitiously taken on Friday night. Stared at the handsome man. Eric Churchill. Scion of a globally known billionaire.
And Jordan had been worried the mystery man would prove part of the mob? She laughed. Jordan was so far off the mark he might as well be on a different planet.
“Unbelievable.”
A smile kept flitting about as she went through the rest of her day answering emails, working on code, problem-solving, and drinking way too much tea.
Normally she’d be a coffee fiend, but the coffee machine here was a bit too slow.
Aunty Marion’s kettle was fast, suiting its original owner who was partial to a good cup of Earl Grey over anything else.
EJ tended to be more of an English Breakfast kind of girl.