Chapter 25
‘Isobel Ashworth invited you to the gala?’ Georgie asked.
‘You don’t have to say it like that!’ Meg said, pretending to be offended. She watched as Georgie filled a schooner with amber liquid and flicked off the tap with a thud. She walked down the far end of the bar and placed the glass in front of a local in a grease-covered work shirt.
‘You just don’t look like their type,’ Georgie said when she returned. ‘You gonna go?’
‘I guess so, why not?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Georgie said. ‘Because she’s an arsehole?’ She went to serve an old guy standing at the bar.
Meg picked up her phone and scrolled Instagram, clicking on Isobel’s most recent post. A sunset shot over Hartwell, which must have been taken from the new apartments above the jail. She’d cleverly cropped out the construction site below.
‘She seemed quite nice, actually,’ Meg said, when Georgie came back.
‘Nah, they’re all arseholes.’
‘Why, though?’ Meg suspected it was because they were rich. Maybe the controversy over the redevelopment was mostly sour grapes. Tall poppy syndrome.
Georgie shrugged. ‘They act like they own the place.’
‘They kind of do own the place,’ Meg pointed out. ‘They’ve got the Ashworth Park Hotel and now the Hartwell Gaol Entertainment Precinct and Apartments. Didn’t they also fund the cricket ground upgrade?’
Georgie snorted. ‘You’ve been here for, what, like five minutes?’ There was a sharper edge in her voice now. ‘I’ve seen them rule this town my whole life. Trust me, they’re arseholes.’
‘Tell me why, then! And you’re going to have to do better than, “they think they own the place”.’
‘How long have you got?’ Georgie’s face hardened. ‘My dad did maintenance at the hotel for twenty years. A couple of years ago, he fell off a ladder at work and injured his back. He hasn’t worked since. Guess how much workers’ comp he got?’
‘How much?’
‘Two weeks’ pay.’ Georgie paused for a long time. ‘You know why?’
‘Why?’
‘Because the doctor who assessed him said he wasn’t in pain. How the hell would they know if he’s in pain?’ Georgie’s eyes flashed.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring all that up,’ Meg said. ‘I’m sorry about your dad.’
A regular raised his hand to catch Georgie’s eye.
She sighed and went to get them another round.
Instead of coming straight back, she picked up a cloth.
Meg watched her, hoping she hadn’t upset her.
As she wiped down the bar, Georgie looked up at someone entering.
Something about her expression made Meg turn to follow her gaze.
The man was handsome in a predictable kind of way.
Square jaw. Dark eyes. Designer stubble.
His white linen shirt was open at the neck—a few too many buttons undone in Meg’s opinion; it made him look sleazy—exposing his tanned chest. His eyes were on Georgie as he swaggered towards the bar.
Meg looked away, pretending to scroll on her phone.
‘It’s my favourite barmaid!’ he said.
Meg glanced up to see Georgie roll her eyes playfully. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’
‘Only the pretty ones,’ he said. Meg shuddered. This guy had to be mid-forties at least.
Georgie leaned forward, resting her elbows on the bar, which had the effect of accentuating her cleavage. Definitely intentional.
‘Can I get you something? Or did you just come in here to flirt with me?’
‘I’ll have a Peroni.’
She got a beer from the fridge, then reached for a glass.
‘I’ll have it from the bottle,’ he said, passing the glass back to her. He held on to it a moment too long, so that their hands touched. When he let go, he took a long swig from the bottle.
‘Nine bucks,’ she said.
He handed her a note. ‘Keep the change.’ Meg thought she saw the flash of a yellow fifty. Some tip. He turned his back to Georgie and leaned against the bar, assessing the room.
Georgie walked back to Meg. ‘You want another beer?’
‘Thanks.’ Meg nodded. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked, as Georgie put a glass in front of her and took the empty.
‘Who?’
Meg nodded in his direction. ‘Casanova over there.’
‘Oh, that’s Hugh Thorburn.’
Meg nearly choked on her sip of beer. Of course. She thought of the photo in the Sunday paper, when she’d seen him standing beside Isobel Ashworth.
‘How do you know him?’ she asked.
‘He used to live around here.’ Georgie shrugged. ‘He follows me on Instagram.’ Not the only platform he followed her on, Meg suspected. ‘And I know Daisy.’
‘Daisy?’
‘Daisy Ashworth, Spencer’s daughter. He’s Isobel’s oldest brother.’
‘How do you know her?’
‘We used to ride horses together. I’d muck out the stables in return for rides.’
Meg frowned. ‘I thought you hated the Ashworths.’
‘I do.’ Georgie’s eyes flicked to the door. ‘Holy shit.’
Meg turned to see a horde of men with sweat-stained faces and dirty boots streaming into the bar. In the midst of them was Isobel Ashworth.