Chapter 2
Isobel Ashworth stood by the window on the thirty-second floor of Ashworth Tower, looking east, where the rising sun shimmered across Sydney Harbour like sequins on a dress.
She gasped at the sheer beauty of it and reached for her phone, already conceptualising her Instagram story.
Sydney sunrise! Perks of getting to the office early!
she typed, then added a filter to make the colours even more spectacular.
She uploaded it quickly, then turned her back to the window.
It was time to get organised. The journalist would be here any minute.
She glanced around the expansive office and reached for a photo of Spencer, Helen and the girls, which sat beside the monitor on the terrazzo desk.
She stashed it in a drawer, then went to reception and retrieved a large vase of lilies, which she placed on the coffee table by the window where the interview would take place.
Perfect. She rummaged through her Birkin until she found the card that had been attached to a bouquet Hugh had sent her last week and placed it beside the vase, then she took out her MacBook, Moleskine and a Montblanc pen, arranging them casually on the desk.
She checked her makeup in her phone camera then flicked to her notes app to run through her key messages one last time.
‘Hello, Geoff,’ she said, extending her hand and beaming her warmest smile.
‘Issy? My God, look at you!’ He pulled her towards him, kissing her cheek, then stood back and studied her.
She smiled, feeling mildly uncomfortable.
‘You’ve certainly grown up! Lesley and I were trying to think when we last saw you.
Was it at that lunch in the Hunter Valley?
What was the occasion? We couldn’t remember. ’
‘Mum and Dad’s thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. Gosh, that must be fourteen years ago, at least. I was still at school.’
‘This is Marco,’ Geoff said, gesturing to the photographer.
‘Pleasure to meet you, Isobel,’ Marco said, his accent thick. Spanish, she guessed.
‘You too.’ Issy shook his hand. ‘Come through to my office.
‘Thanks for coming, we really appreciate it,’ she said, as Marco started unpacking camera equipment.
She’d been working on Geoff for six months, pitching various story ideas designed to credentialise her as a serious player in the family business.
Journalists were so lazy these days, you almost had to write the article for them!
It was ‘the next generation of Australia’s wealthiest families’ which got him over the line.
She’d made the story irresistible by arranging for him to meet with Avery Hart, the daughter of a Western Australian mining magnate, and Fraser Fox, whose father had made his fortune in packaging.
Who knew there was so much money in cardboard boxes?
She gestured to an armchair. ‘Have a seat.’
Instead, Geoff walked to the window and let out a low whistle. ‘Look at this view.’
‘Stunning,’ she agreed, joining him.
Geoff’s gaze travelled from the horizon over the opulent waterfronts in the exclusive Eastern Suburbs to the high rise of the city centre. ‘You lot must feel like you own this town. How many Ashworth Hotels can you see from here?’
Issy laughed. ‘Four, if you look carefully enough. And six housing developments. In fact, I can even see my apartment.’ She pointed to their most recent project in Point Piper, an architecturally designed, luxury development inspired by the sandstone cliffs of the coastline.
‘Maybe I should get a pair of binoculars to check if Hugh’s out of bed! ’
Marco cleared his throat. ‘Okay, I am ready to shoot.’
‘Oh, I thought we would do the interview first?’ Issy said.
‘Either way,’ Geoff said, with a toss of his hand.
‘This light is just incredible,’ Marco said. ‘Too good to waste!’
By the time they sat down for the interview, it was seven thirty. Geoff opened an app on his phone, hit record and put it on the table by the flowers.
‘Let me move these out of the way! We can barely see past them!’ Issy said, relocating the vase to the desk. ‘Hugh spoils me!’
‘I heard about you and John Thorburn’s boy. Going well?’
‘Boy? Geoff, he’s forty-eight.’
‘Is he?’ Geoff scratched his head as though he was doing the maths. ‘He must be a fair bit older than you then?’
‘Eighteen years,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I’m used to that, being so much younger than my brothers.’
Geoff nodded, thoughtful. ‘What’s it like growing up as the youngest—and the only girl—in a family like yours?’
‘Honestly, it’s wonderful,’ she said, pleased to have the chance to share her first key message. ‘I feel so grateful for the opportunities I’ve had in my life and continue to have. The thing about money is that it’s an enabler. It means we can make a difference.’
‘What sort of difference do you want to make?’
‘Great question.’ She squinted slightly, as though contemplating it, keeping her tone casual as she recalled her next point.
‘Our vision for the next phase of the Ashworth Group is to invest in the vibrant fabric of our cities and communities by creating innovative, sustainable spaces where people can connect and thrive. I know I speak for Spencer and Felix when I say we want to build on the extraordinary achievements of our father to leave a lasting legacy for the Australian people. In fact, we believe we have a responsibility to do that.’
A smile played on Geoff’s lips. He was probably surprised to hear her talking like this.
She was still in high school last time he saw her!
He was used to thinking of her as the baby sister, not as a competent—let’s be honest: impressive—executive.
What was it with Boomers? They seemed incapable of recalibrating their perceptions of the younger generation. Her father was the same.
‘And how do you and your brothers plan to manage the company into the future? Sibling relationships can be tricky when it comes to succession planning.’
‘So we hear, Geoff—’ she leaned forward in her chair, ‘—but we have strong relationships built on mutual respect. We each bring something different to the table and we have enormous admiration for each other’s strengths.
Spencer’s very committed to the property business, Felix prefers to manage investments, and my skillset is well suited to Operations.
We make a great team. Having said that, Dad has no plans to step back at this sta—’
There was a ding from the lift then footsteps in the foyer.
Crap. Issy looked out the door to see Spencer approaching, immaculately dressed in an Armani suit as always, his red silk tie Windsor-knotted to perfection. His black leather shoes were shinier than his bald patch, which was visible because he was looking down at his phone.
‘Spencer!’ Geoff said. ‘My good man.’
Spencer’s head snapped up. ‘Geoff!’ They shook hands, Geoff adding a back slap for good measure.
Spencer glanced over at Marco’s equipment, frowning slightly as his eyes flicked to the camera bag, then to Issy’s belongings strewn across his desk.
‘Issy,’ he said, meeting her eyes, a question rather than a greeting.
‘Geoff and I are just finishing,’ she said, standing.
‘Finishing what?’ Spencer held her gaze for slightly longer than usual.
‘An interview,’ Geoff said. ‘For the weekend’s magazine supplement.’
‘Excellent, excellent,’ Spencer said.
Issy nodded and cleared her throat. ‘Don’t let us hold you up, Geoff.’ She gestured towards the door.
‘We should play a round of golf soon,’ Spencer said. ‘You, me, Dad, Hugh.’
‘That’d be great, mate.’ They shook hands again.
Issy led the way to the lift. Once Geoff and Marco were gone, she went back to Spencer’s office.
‘What was that about?’ he said.
She rolled her eyes. ‘He’s been hassling me for an interview. I’ve put him off for months, but I figured I had to say yes eventually. Keep him onside.’ She gathered her belongings from his desk. ‘Let me get these out of your way. I hope you don’t mind me using your office.’
There was a long pause. ‘We have a media strategy and a PR firm to manage it. We don’t go organising interviews outside of that.’
‘Relax, Spencer, it’s Geoff. He’s a family friend!’
He shook his head. ‘Your naivety is breathtaking.’
‘Keep your knickers on. It’s just a puff piece. It’ll be good PR for the Ashworth Group.’
He held her gaze.
‘What?’ she asked, putting her MacBook in her bag.
He smirked. ‘Good PR for Isobel Ashworth.’
‘Oh my God, you must be joking.’
He shrugged.
She hauled her bag onto her shoulder. ‘See you tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
Was he serious? ‘My birthday party.’
‘Oh, right.’ He frowned. ‘I thought it was meant to be a surprise.’
‘It is. But I planned it.’
Spencer scoffed.
She turned towards the door.
‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Before you go, would you mind returning the photo that was on my desk?’ He pointed to the empty space where the frame usually sat.
She sighed heavily, then retrieved the photo from the drawer, put it back beside the monitor and left before she said something she regretted.
Instead of getting an Uber, Issy walked up Castlereagh Street towards the mall. The sun was still low in the sky, obscured behind office blocks. The shops weren’t open yet, but even window shopping would improve her mood.
The interaction with Spencer had left her feeling bewildered.
She played it over in her mind. ‘Good PR for Isobel Ashworth,’ he’d said.
What did he mean? That the interview was driven by …
what? Vanity? Self-promotion? Her chest felt tight.
All she ever did was the right thing by the family.
Hadn’t she just been saying how much they all respected each other?
She stopped outside Prada, admiring a crimson silk dress in the window. Fit and flare with a plunging neckline. Not a colour she would wear, but stunning all the same. Feminine, but powerful.
She sighed, thinking of Spencer again. Maybe the interview was a stupid idea.
He was probably on the phone to their father already, saying that she ‘stormed out’.
She couldn’t look sideways without it getting back to her father, who would inevitably use it as evidence that she was still young and irresponsible.
Her partying phase still loomed large in her parents’ minds.
It didn’t seem to matter what she did, no one ever took her seriously. Why couldn’t they see she’d changed?
She looked back at the dress in the window, thinking of her party that night.
She’d bought a whimsical Oscar de la Renta strapless dress in a pink floral print, but Hugh had been far from effusive when she’d modelled it for him.
‘It’s just a little … matronly,’ he’d said.
She was hurt at the time—matronly!—but maybe he was right.
Maybe it made her look like a pushover. Pretty, but pointless, like the tinsel in the shop window.
This dress—the Prada one— demanded attention.
She reached for her phone to call her stylist. She would have it by lunchtime.