Chapter 29
‘Name?’ asked the tuxedoed host as Meg arrived at the entrance of the Grand Ballroom.
The room beyond the door was already humming with conversation.
She inhaled sharply, taking in the sheer opulence of the space.
It was like stepping back in time. Gilded wallpaper covered the walls, and overhead, a soaring ceiling rose to a spectacular glass dome.
She’d driven through the imposing gates of the Ashworth Park Hotel half an hour earlier, catching her breath at the sight of the old sandstone mansion, nestled into rolling lawns between towering oaks and pine trees.
Instead of going inside, she’d sat in her car, debating whether she should have come.
When she’d accepted the invitation a couple of days before, she wasn’t sure she would actually go, but then she found the pen in Anna’s box and discovered she’d worked for the Ashworths, and it just seemed like fate that she’d been invited. Not that she believed in fate.
Stalling, she’d opened Instagram and searched for Isobel’s profile.
Her eyes had landed on a photo of her, radiant in gold, posing in the empty ballroom.
Let’s raise some money and have some fun!
the caption read. #AshworthGala @theashworthparkhotel.
Meg swallowed, looking down at her old Zimmermann dress, then out the window at the guests arriving.
Self-assured men in tuxedos and shiny shoes, leading wives teetering on bejewelled stilettos.
Eventually, she’d stepped out of the car. There was a refined stillness in the air, broken only by the rhythmic pop of a tennis ball on racquets somewhere nearby but out of sight and the crunch of pebbles under her op-shop Valentinos.
‘Megan Hunter-Bainbridge,’ she said, half-expecting (hoping?) for the host to say she wasn’t on the guest list and turn her away.
‘Lovely.’ He passed her a name tag.
She pinned it to her dress, then entered the room.
It twinkled with thousands of tiny fairy lights and gold balloons.
A large banner emblazoned with CRDF WORKING TOGETHER FOR A brIGHTER FUTURE!
hung above a podium. The air hummed with the giddy voices and laughter of guests standing in tight clusters.
The women sparkled like Christmas baubles.
The men wore bowties, tight around fat necks.
Meg found herself wishing she had a plus one. Someone like Pete. He moved through rooms like this like he belonged there, which was probably because he’d been to a posh private school, where she suspected they must hold lessons in how to handle such situations.
She took a deep breath, relieved at the sight of a waiter with a tray of drinks. She took a glass of Champagne, even though she actually wanted a beer, and stood against a wall where she had a good view of the room.
Her eye was drawn to Isobel, who stood with a circle of blonde women.
They all looked somehow similar; the cumulative impact of their expensive haircuts, botoxed foreheads and flawless skin.
None shared the magical, ethereal quality of Isobel though, who shimmered like a goddess, radiant in gold silk wide-leg pants with a matching blazer.
Meg felt a sudden surge of self-consciousness and reached for her phone, pretending to be attending to something important that couldn’t wait. What was she doing here? She didn’t fit in with these people. Maybe she should go, before someone worked out she wasn’t who she said she was.
At that moment there was a hand on her shoulder and she looked up to find herself face to face with Isobel.
‘Megan! I’m so glad you could make it.’
Too late. ‘Oh, yes … please, call me Meg. Thanks for the invitation,’ Meg said, impressed that Issy remembered her. ‘What a great cause,’ she added, although she still had no idea what the cause actually was.
‘It’s my mother’s pet project,’ Isobel said.
‘She asked me to step in to host at the last minute because she wasn’t feeling well.
’ She lowered her voice, as though she was sharing her darkest secret.
‘She’s over there—’ Issy glanced pointedly at a glamorous woman with an impeccable blow dry, ‘—currently on her third glass of Bollinger, so it seems she’s made a speedy recovery. ’ She raised a provocative eyebrow.
Meg felt herself smile, warming to Isobel’s charismatic cocktail of sophistication and irreverence.
‘I’ll introduce you.’ Issy waved to Heather, who excused herself from her conversation and joined them. ‘Mum, this is Megan Hunter-Bainbridge. She’s doing a PhD on historical buildings. She really likes what we’re doing with the Hartwell Gaol development.’
Another guest stepped up to greet Issy and she turned away, leaving Meg with Heather.
‘Bainbridge?’ Heather said, over-enunciating her words as though she was an actor in a play. ‘I think I know your father. Does he sail?’
Meg started to mumble a response, but Heather interjected.
‘Don’t you have extraordinary eyes? So pretty.’
‘Thank you,’ Meg said, pleased to be on firmer ground. ‘It’s called heterochromia. I inherited it from my mum.’
‘It’s quite striking,’ Heather said.
‘Some people see it as a flaw, but I’m quite fond of it myself.’
‘Good for you!’ Heather nodded. ‘Ah, here’s Cathy. Cathy, this is—’
‘Megan, yes, we met yesterday.’
‘Hello again,’ Meg said.
Cathy gave her a tight-lipped smile in response. ‘How lovely you could come. Do you have connections to Hartwell, Megan, or is it just your research that brings you here?’
‘Just my research.’ Meg swallowed, feeling like this woman could see right through her.
‘And where’s your family based?’
‘I don’t have much family. It was just me and Mum growing up. She’s in a home now,’ Meg added, immediately wishing she hadn’t.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ Heather winced and shook her head. ‘Is she sick?’
‘Okay, Mum, that’s enough,’ said Issy, as she joined them again. ‘Sorry, Meg.’
‘It’s okay, really,’ Meg said. ‘She has dementia.’
‘Terrible disease,’ Heather said. ‘My father died from it.’ She reached out and took Meg’s hands. ‘If there’s anything we can do to help, you let us know.’
Meg smiled. ‘Thank you.’
‘I mean it. Anything at all.’ Heather’s eyes flashed as she gave Meg’s hands a squeeze.
The conversation was interrupted by an imposing man with a bushy moustache hovering nearby. He looked familiar.
‘Excuse me, girls,’ Heather said, turning to greet him.
‘That’s the mayor,’ Issy said, dropping her voice.
Of course. Meg recognised him from the council website.
‘He’s a big supporter of the development too.
You should have a chat to him while you’re here.
’ Issy hesitated. ‘This might seem a little out of left field, and please say no if you’re not interested, but I wondered if you might like to write some articles about the Entertainment Precinct?
There’s been some negative press around the development and I don’t want that to overshadow the opening.
Our PR team will be able to use their contacts to get them published.
I’m not sure if that’s something you do, but I don’t really trust journalists, to be honest, so I thought of you. What do you think?’
‘Oh, ah … I have a lot on my plate, with my doctorate …’
‘Why don’t you have a think about it and let me know.’ Issy took out her phone. ‘What’s your number? I’ll text you so you have mine.’
Meg recited her number and felt her phone vibrate in her bag with Issy’s message. A waiter approached, asking people to sit down for dinner.
‘I’ll show you to your table.’ Issy lowered her voice. ‘You were sitting next to my niece Daisy originally, but I swapped your name with someone else to save you from a truly excruciating conversational experience. All she can talk about is TikTok.’
‘Thanks,’ Meg said, still considering doing a runner.
‘Pen, this is Meg,’ Issy said when they reached the table. A curvy brunette looked up from the seat next to Meg’s. ‘Penny and I went to Beecham together.’ Issy looked at her tiny gold watch. ‘Oh, it’s time for my speech.’
Meg sat down as Issy floated through the crowd to a lectern on the podium.
Entrée plates of kingfish carpaccio were placed on the tables as she made a speech about children with rare diseases, which explained what CRDF meant.
As they ate, a slide show of intubated babies and pale toddlers rotated on an enormous screen.
‘Poor kids,’ Penny whispered. ‘Such a good cause.’
Meg nodded earnestly and looked around. Did no one else think it was strange to eat raw fish while viewing photos of dying babies?
Once the entrées were finished, she looked for the mayor and found him seated on a table near the ladies’ toilets. Perfect. She excused herself and walked in that direction.
‘Excuse me, Tony,’ she said when she reached the table.
She’d checked his name on the Lindsay Shire Council website to make sure she got it right.
‘Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to commend you on your persistence with the Hartwell Gaol redevelopment in the face of some very vocal objections. Lindsay’s lucky to have such a visionary leader. ’
He smiled and turned to face her. ‘Thank you. It’s been a long road.’ Meg pretended not to notice as his eyes travelled down her body then back up to her face. ‘Are you a resident of Lindsay?’
‘I wish I was, but I live in Sydney at the moment.’ She told him the PhD story. ‘The Ashworths are amazing, aren’t they? Their investment in this town is extraordinary.’
‘Outstanding people. I’ve known Malcolm my whole life. We started at Hartwell Public on the same day in 1950.’
‘Is that right?’
The mayor nodded and took a large sip of red wine. ‘A very community-minded man. With all that he’s gone on to achieve, he’s never forgotten where he came from.’
Meg nodded, noticing a woman sitting a few seats away who seemed to be listening to their conversation, a frown on her face. She was one of the two female councillors Meg had seen on the webpage. When Meg’s eye met hers, the woman got up abruptly and went into the bathroom.
‘Well, lovely to talk to you,’ Meg said to Tony, then followed her.
The bathroom was empty, except for one stall with a closed door. Meg took her lip gloss out of her bag and reapplied, waiting for the woman to come out. When she did, she looked at Meg in the mirror. Meg gave her a quick smile.
She seemed to hesitate, then spoke quietly. ‘You don’t actually believe that, do you? What you were saying about the Ashworths.’
‘I’m not quite sure what I think.’ Meg spoke slowly, trying to walk a fine line. ‘What do you think?’
‘I got elected to council last year and some of what I’m seeing is—’ she paused, choosing her words carefully, ‘—concerning, to say the least.’
‘Like what?’ Meg asked, as the door swung open and an elderly woman entered.
Once she was in the far cubicle, the councillor lowered her voice to a whisper.
‘I just couldn’t stand the sight of Tony Skelton singing the praises of Malcolm Ashworth.
Community-minded, my arse. The reason he likes the Ashworths is because they paid for his twenty-five acres on the Old Lindsay Road. ’
‘They did?’
The woman scoffed. ‘Look, I don’t know that for sure, but the maths doesn’t add up to me. You know how much a regional mayor makes a year?’ She reached for a piece of paper towel. ‘Personally, I think there’s a lot of truth in that Harry Truman quote, about getting rich in politics.’
Meg nodded, although she didn’t know what she was referring to. She would google it later.
The toilet flushed.
‘Can I talk to you more about this, tomorrow maybe?’ Meg asked. The woman clicked her tongue and shook her head. ‘I’ve probably said too much already,’ she replied, as the elderly woman came out of the stall. ‘Too much Champagne! Have a good night.’
She disappeared out the door.
Sue was calling last drinks when Meg got back to the Red Lion. Meg gave her a quick nod as she moved between the tables to the stairs, impatient to get to her room and transcribe the conversations she’d had with Tony Skelton and the councillor while they were still fresh in her mind.
But as she rounded the top of the staircase, she stopped dead in her tracks.
The door of her room was wide open. A shaft of white light fell across the hall from the streetlight outside her window. She stood motionless, holding her breath, trying to recall if she’d locked it. She would have, wouldn’t she? She must have.
Heart racing, she walked slowly towards the room. A floorboard creaked underfoot, making her heart pound harder. She stopped at the doorway and looked inside. Empty. A gust of warm wind blew in through the open window, rustling the curtain.
That was strange. The door unlocked and a window open. One or the other, and she could believe she’d made the error, but both? No way. She was careful. Her mother’s paranoia had seeped into her.
She flicked on the light and went to the window. A corrugated-iron roof ran along the wall below. Someone tall enough could get in or out that way. She pushed the window shut, locking it carefully, and turned back to the room.
Her suitcase, which she’d never bothered to unpack, was still on the floor, open.
The denim shorts and T-shirt she’d worn that day were still draped over the chair.
Her white trainers sat beneath them, side by side.
Her laptop was on the desk, right where she left it, beside her tote bag. She exhaled a shaky breath.
Everything was exactly where she’d left it.