Chapter 6
The morning after the party, Issy woke late, her head pounding with a Veuve-induced hangover.
She opened her eyes, baulking at the sunshine that assaulted her through the open curtains, then rolled over, putting her back to the window.
Beside her, Hugh stirred and reached out a hand, feeling for her under the covers.
He stroked her thigh and gave her a sleepy smile, then closed his eyes again.
Her mouth felt like sandpaper. She put her hands to her temples, trying to ease her thumping headache.
How much did she drink? She closed her eyes again, trying to recall the night before.
It was all a bit hazy. Very hazy, in fact.
She remembered snatches of the night. Arriving with Hugh.
The ‘surprise’ part. Spencer giving her the cold shoulder.
Helen, boring as usual. Nadia telling her about doing ayahuasca in Palm Springs.
Someone talking about Taormina. She had a vague memory of agreeing to go there in July with whoever she was talking to.
Who was that? Then Hugh was dinging a glass—
Oh God.
He didn’t.
Did he?
The nauseous churning in her stomach intensified as she lifted her left hand. She braced herself and opened her eyes.
Golden light hit the princess-cut diamond and bile rose in her throat, bitter and burning.
She scrambled to the ensuite, flung up the toilet lid and heaved over the bowl.
Her skin prickled, eyes watering, as she slumped down in front of the toilet.
The Prada dress lay discarded on the floor beside her.
Shuddering, she pulled it towards her and wiped her mouth on the hem.
‘You okay?’ Hugh called from the bedroom.
‘Yep.’ Her voice was shaky.
How had this happened? They’d only been dating since September, when they both found themselves staying at the Ashworth Southbank in Melbourne for work, and one drink became three, then dinner at Nobu.
He’d told her he loved her a week later and the three months since had been a whirlwind of romantic dinners, lazy Sunday mornings and oversized bouquets of flowers.
Issy had been unable to believe that she was actually with Hugh Thorburn, who she’d first developed a crush on at the age of ten, when Spencer had invited him to tag along on their family ski holiday.
Hugh was twenty-eight then—gosh, it did make the age gap seem a lot, when she thought about it like that—but he was flirtatious and funny, not to mention dazzlingly handsome, and ten-year-old Issy had been besotted.
She lay down on the cold tiles. What was she going to do? What could she do? Two hundred people had witnessed the proposal. Someone had probably already told that Party Talk columnist. She was probably writing a snappy summary of the whole debacle right now, for tomorrow’s paper. Freaking parasite.
‘Issy?’
She took a steadying breath, pushed herself up and brushed her teeth, relishing the minty freshness of the toothpaste.
She splashed her face, then patted it dry, looking at her reflection.
At least she looked better than she felt.
She glanced at the ring again, lifting her hand to her face to admire it in the mirror.
She sighed and dropped her hand. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry Hugh, it was just so much sooner than she’d imagined. But it was done. And it couldn’t be undone.
‘Everything okay, babe?’ Hugh said, as she slipped back into their super king bed.
‘Everything’s perfect,’ she said.
He curled into her, closing his eyes again as she reached for her phone to post to her socials.
She positioned her left hand on the crisp white linen, moving it slightly until the brilliant sunshine hit the solitaire, creating a rainbow of light. It was magnificent. Intoxicating.
The caption was simple: YES!
She might as well beat the papers to it.
The next twenty-four hours were an anxiety-riddled frenzy. Her Instagram post had over sixty thousand likes. Her DMs were out of control. She’d had calls from three different women’s magazines, offering money for exclusive coverage of the engagement and wedding. She let them go to voicemail.
She was right about Party Talk. The proposal was covered in the column the following day.
Someone at the party must have spoken to the columnist and given them the inside story.
She suspected Nadia, who had sold her own wedding coverage to Hello magazine, although, to be honest, there were plenty of others who constantly leaked to the press. It could have been anyone.
Hugh read the column out loud as they lay in bed.
‘The stunning heiress was left speechless upon sighting the extraordinary five-carat solitaire selected by her dashing prince. That’s me, your dashing prince.
’ Hugh gave her a playful smile, the dimple making an appearance.
He put a strong hand behind her neck and pulled her in, kissing her deeply.
So far the article wasn’t too bad, she thought, as she kissed him back. ‘Stunning’ was good. ‘Speechless’ was neutral.
‘What else does it say?’ she asked.
Hugh sighed and rolled back, lifting the newspaper again.
‘The match seals the long-time bond between the Ashworth and Thorburn families, forged by their fathers, who attended Dalton Grammar together before working closely at the Ashworth Group. Guests at the surprise engagement party included a literal who’s who of Sydney’s elite, politicians rubbing shoulders with morning TV hosts and the offspring of Australia’s uber rich.
Blah blah blah, names in bold type. Well-lubricated with French Champagne, the loved-up couple danced the night away before disappearing into the night and their happily ever after. ’
‘Is that it?’
He nodded.
She sighed, relieved at the favourable interpretation of her shocked reaction.
It felt like minutes that she’d stood on that stage with Hugh on his knee waiting for her response.
She was imagining something like Heiress ambushed by unwelcome proposal, but whoever spoke to the journalist clearly thought she’d merely been overwhelmed by the moment. Which she had been. That’s all it was.
‘Are there photos?’
Hugh passed her the paper. They’d used a photo taken at Derby Day a month before.
Her face was half-obscured by an asymmetrical hat her stylist had described as avant-garde.
Hugh wore a grey suit, black shirt unbuttoned at the neck, and had one arm around her waist, a smile playing on his face.
There was also a smaller picture of her parents, dredged from the archives.
She put the paper aside. Why did she still feel sick?
She thought her trepidation about the gossip column was the source of her anxiety, but she couldn’t seem to shake the nausea.
She lay back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling, and took a deep breath like her therapist had taught her: in through the nose, out through the mouth. Hugh glanced sideways but said nothing.
She ran her fingers through her hair, then held up her hand, studying the ring. Her stomach lurched. That was natural, though, wasn’t it? It had all happened so fast. One minute, she was enjoying a new romance—and, let’s be honest, mind-blowing sex—the next minute, she had a fiancé.
It had all just got too serious, too quickly. Everyone was rushing them. Her father had barely been able to conceal his delight when she’d told him she was seeing Hugh, and just last week, her mother had interrogated her about ‘their plans’ over lunch.
‘He was a little … loose … in his younger years,’ Heather had said, waving a manicured hand, ‘but he seems to have got that out of his system now. He’s clearly besotted with you, Isobel, and he’s excellent marriage material.’
Issy had laughed. ‘Marriage? Who said anything about marriage? We’ve only been together for a few months, Mum.’
‘Yes, but you’ve known him your whole life, Isobel!’
Issy sighed. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’
‘There’s little chance of that, darling,’ Heather said, looking up from her burrata salad. ‘The boys were eight and four when I was your age. Your fertility won’t last forever.’
‘For God’s sake, Mum, I’m twenty-nine.’
Heather had pursed her lips. ‘Exactly, Isobel. Female fertility falls off a cliff after thirty. Everyone knows that.’
‘Yours didn’t,’ Issy muttered, but she gave up. She’d never won an argument with her mother.
Anyway, Heather hadn’t even asked her if she wanted marriage and kids, although that was probably a good thing.
What would her answer be? Issy thought her maternal instincts would have kicked in by now, but so far babies were still just snotty, demanding inconveniences that meant she rarely saw her best friend anymore.
The last time she’d met Lara was for a highly unfulfilling conversation over bad coffee at a dreadful ‘pram-friendly’ café, which had ended prematurely when it was nap time.
Lara had sent her a text explaining she was unable to make it to the party, citing teething as the reason, which seemed utterly ridiculous to Issy, but it was no great loss. Lara was no fun these days, anyway.
Without warning, a memory flashed in Issy’s mind, powerful, visceral. She was riding a bolting horse. How old was she, she wondered? Eight? Nine? She could almost feel its wide back under her legs, her terror, heart racing, as she clung to the reins, the saddle, to stop herself being thrown off.
How bizarre! She shook her head, shaking off the sensation of the memory, and looked back at the photo.
‘We do make an exceptionally good-looking couple,’ she said.
Hugh murmured agreement, reaching a sleepy hand under the covers again to find her. A pleasant tingling sensation rippled through her as he stroked her bare thigh.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry him.
It was just so … unexpected. It had taken her by surprise, that was all.
It was totally normal to feel overwhelmed.
Once she got used to the idea, everything would be fine.
She tossed the paper onto the floor and straddled him, determined to ignore the queasiness in her stomach.
‘Good morning, my dashing prince,’ she said, looking into his dark brown eyes. She felt him harden beneath her as he pushed up her pink silk camisole and tossed it aside, his eyes travelling over her bare breasts. She leaned down and kissed him deeply.