Chapter 16
A skinny body, slumped and still. An ear-splitting siren piercing the dark night as blue light flashed on the slick wet road. Her own voice then, thin and reedy.
‘Stella? Stella!’
Issy stirred. Stella? She was half-awake now, aware she was stuck in a dream but still under its dark spell.
Stella. She hadn’t thought of her for years. Her old school friend had moved away after the accident and their paths had never crossed since. Where even was she these days? Last Issy heard, Stella was living in Port Macquarie with her parents, but that was ages ago.
It didn’t matter.
She took a deep breath, trying to shake off the sense of panic which lingered, tightening her chest, leaving a heavy feeling in her stomach. Her neck hurt. She put a hand up to the sore spot, pressing it, enjoying the pain, as the last fragments of the dream fell away.
She opened her eyes a little, giving up on sleep.
A large, over-exposed print hung on the wall by the bed where there was meant to be a window; a generic beach track.
Suddenly, she was wide awake. She sat up, looking around the foreign bedroom.
Of course! She was in Hartwell, in the ridiculous display apartment where nothing worked.
She yawned and rubbed her face. It was after one o’clock when she’d finally gone to bed.
She’d spent hours reading project documents, studying the timeline, poring over site plans, trying to work out how they could meet the launch deadline.
There was a loud growl from her stomach and she realised she was ravenous.
Dinner last night was a protein bar she’d found in her bag and the rest of the wine.
She needed to find some breakfast. Where though?
She couldn’t go back to the Apple Tree, for obvious reasons. She shuddered. All those eyes on her!
She reached for her phone, self-hatred rippling through her at the sight of the cracked screen, and typed a message.
Morning Warwick, just wondering if there’s somewhere you could suggest for a quick breakfast, not too far?
The reply came quickly. Apple Tree, best café in town.
Issy sighed. Yes, I went there for lunch yesterday. I’m keen to try somewhere new.
Maybe she should go up to the Ashworth Park. They would have a buffet. Yes, that’s what she’d do. Best not to complicate things further. Interactions with the locals were fraught, clearly, and she couldn’t face another confrontation before she’d even had an oat milk latte.
All good, she typed. I’ll go to the Ashworth.
She showered in ten seconds flat and flicked through her limited selection of clothes for her most low-key outfit.
Why had she packed so many dresses? She was working on a construction site, for Christ’s sake.
What was she thinking? She made a mental note to ask Hugh to bring some more casual separates when he came down, and selected a pair of black linen shorts and a Camilla and Marc T-shirt. White. Not ideal.
Her phone beeped again as she was pulling on her platform trainers.
Spencer: Everything okay down there?
She frowned. Spencer was not the type for welfare checks.
Yes, fine. Why?
I heard you got off to a bad start.
She stared at the phone. Who the hell had he been talking to?
Three dots, then: Warwick is a mate, we went to primary school together.
Issy shook her head with disbelief, although it was typical of Spencer to stack the deck with old mates.
Allies. He was the one who had hired Hugh!
They’d been best friends at Dalton. She just didn’t think his network would extend to the acting project manager in Hartwell.
She thought carefully, crafting the perfect response.
Really! she wrote eventually. What a coincidence. He seems like an absolute sweetheart. No one knew I was coming (weird!) which made my first day slightly tricky, but all good.
Spencer took his time replying. Any hope of meeting the deadline? Warwick reckons it’s impossible.
It’s looking unlik— She stopped abruptly, then started again, imagining every word getting back to their father. I’m confident we can get there.
Three dots. So you’re saying Warwick is wrong?
Issy scoffed. ‘Bloody Spencer.’
I’m saying I’m confident we can work together to meet the deadline. The launch is going ahead as planned. She hit send and watched the screen, but there was nothing else.
Right. She sent Warwick a message: Can you meet me on site in half an hour?
Breakfast would have to be a yogurt from the convenience store.
She was looking around for her bag when her phone rang. Dad. Crap. Spencer couldn’t have already spoken to him, could he?
‘Hi, Dad—’
‘Isobel! Cathy told me things aren’t going very well down there.’
Jesus Christ! ‘What? Everything’s fine, although it would have been nice if Warwick knew I was coming. Have you spoken to Spencer?’
‘Spencer? No.’
‘You said they knew I was coming down?’
‘Yes, they should have. But according to Cathy—’
‘Well, it put me in a difficult position. What’s Cathy even doing here?’
‘She’s had her nose out of joint since I suggested she retire. I thought she might enjoy being down there, give her something to do.’
‘I don’t need someone here checking up on me.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Isobel, I thought you could use some support. From the sound of it you should be saying thank you, rather than complaining—’
Her phone beeped. She moved it away from her ear to read Warwick’s message: Sure, see you then.
‘Issy? Are you even listening?’ Malcolm said, as she put the phone back to her ear. ‘You’re not going to let me down, are you?’
‘Of course not. It’ll be fine.’
‘Will the launch—’
‘Yes! The launch is going ahead as planned!’ She was almost shouting, she realised suddenly, stopping to take a breath. Her father detested shouting, unless he was the one doing it. ‘Sorry, Dad, it’s just … don’t you trust me?’
The question rang in her ears while she waited for him to answer.
Malcolm cleared his throat. ‘Of course I trust you.’
‘Okay,’ she said slowly, not sure she believed him. She sighed. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got a site meeting.’
‘Keep me updated.’
‘I will.’ A pause. ‘Dad?’ But he’d hung up.
She sat, motionless, reflecting on the conversation. Something niggled at her. It felt as though they were ganging up on her. As though they wanted her to admit defeat, to accept that she was in over her head, that she couldn’t pull off the launch.
She swallowed. No. She was being ridiculous. Catastrophising, her therapist would say. Imagining subtext that wasn’t there.
They’d never been an especially close family, despite what people might think, but who was?
Spencer in particular had always felt more like an irritating uncle than a brother, a natural consequence of the age gap, perhaps.
Eighteen years was a long time. He had just finished his senior year at Dalton Grammar when she was born.
Growing up, it was mostly just her and Heather in the big empty house.
And Rosa, of course. Issy would mark the days off on a calendar until Felix came home to visit.
He would spin her around until she was giddy, then she’d walk and fall over and they would collapse, weak with laughter.
‘Now aeroplanes, Feelie!’ she would beg him.
He would lie on his back, feet in the air, and she would clasp his hands, her tummy balancing on his feet, soaring over him until she tumbled to the ground, where he would tickle her until she begged him to stop.
She tried to conjure a memory of Spencer.
She was a flower girl at his wedding to Helen when she was eleven, but she suspected she was just piecing a recollection together from photos.
A lilac dress. Little ballet shoes. A flower garland and a basket of rose petals.
Helen in a white dress with an enormous skirt.
Men in tails. Spencer was among them, presumably, along with Felix and Malcolm, but they were a blur.
An amalgamation. She tried to find another memory, an earlier one, but came up blank.
He mustn’t have come home very often, she supposed.
He’d lived at St Paul’s College at Sydney Uni while he was studying commerce and business, where three generations of Ashworths had been before him, then he moved into a flat in Elizabeth Bay, a twenty-first present from their parents.
Spencer apparently charged rent, pocketing his roommates’ money to fund lavish holidays.
Heather had told Issy that once, her tone admonishing, implying that it was evidence of something but expecting Issy to join the dots herself.
At the time, Issy hadn’t been able to draw whatever conclusion her mother intended, but the story had stayed with her.
When Issy was in primary school, he sent them photos from a trip to Europe: Spencer and his mates posed with artful nonchalance in front of rented Aston Martins on a twisty alpine pass, snow-capped mountains in the distance.
Her mother had pursed her lips and clicked her tongue—her own upbringing had been famously frugal—but Malcolm had waved away the extravagance. ‘You’re only young once,’ he’d said.
Issy reread the text messages, the niggling feeling now stronger. More unsettling. A sense of doubt. Of what, though? Was he encouraging her to push out the deadline? Why would he do that? Unless he wanted her to fail—
There was a beep from her phone. Warwick: Ready when you are.
Damn. She’d lost track of time. She stood too quickly, feeling light-headed, and steadied herself with one hand on the arm of the sofa. It was as though something had shifted beneath her feet, leaving her footing precarious. As though nothing was quite as solid, as certain, as she thought.