The Wedding-Night Affair

‘Actually...he was very nice.’

‘Goodness, Fiona, your past seems peppered with very nice men. How is it, then, that down deep you’re a man-hater?’

Fiona was startled for a moment, then defensive. ‘That’s a bit harsh, Owen, and not true at all. I love you, and you’re a man.’

‘I’m not talking about me, Fiona. I’m talking about the men you’ve dated, then discarded without so much as a backward glance. They thought you really cared for them but the truth is you just used them. That’s not very nice, you know.’

Fiona stiffened for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Sorry you think that, Owen, but they all knew the score. As for really caring for me, I doubt that very much. After an initial burst of pique at having their egos dented, they moved on to the next female swirftly enough. Now, let’s get back to the subject at hand, which is that Kathryn Forsythe won’t recognise me. Philip will be the only one who might. Though I stress the word might. Still, it’s the mother who matters, isn’t it? She’s the one I’m meeting. Believe me when I assure you she won’t know me from Adam.’

Owen stared at his partner and his friend and felt terribly sorry for her, because she was nice. Underneath all that delusionary and self-destructive bitterness, she was a genuine person, decent and kind, hard-working and generous. She cared about her clients and their worries. She always remembered everyone’s birthday in the office, and was the softest touch when it came to charities. She never walked past one of those people selling useless badges and biros in the street, always stopping with a smile and a donation.

Goodness knows what had happened in those marriages of hers to make her hard where men were concerned, because she wasn’t hard in any other department of her life. Determined, yes. And ambitious. But that was different. That was business.

Which reminded him. He had a business to protect here. He could not allow Fiona to carelessly endanger what they’d taken years to build together.

‘We can’t rely on Mrs Forsythe not recognising you, Fiona,’ Owen said firmly. ‘If you don’t reveal who you are up front and it comes out later, then she’s going to be furious and your name will be mud. Which means our name will be mud. I see no other solution than for you to keep the appointment I made for you, confess your identity with tact and diplomacy, then offer her my services once again. At least that way, even if she decides against using Five-Star Weddings, she won’t be inclined to blacken our name.’

Fiona leant back even further in her chair and mulled over Owen’s suggestion. It made sound business sense, she supposed. And she would still have the satisfaction of seeing Kathryn Forsythe’s face when she revealed her true identity.

In a way, it would be better than tricking her, showing the hateful woman in person that the one-time object of her snobbish scorn was no longer as ignorant as sin and as common as muck. Philip’s derided and despised first wife could pass muster in the best of circles these days!

Fiona now knew how to dress, how to talk and how to act on whatever occasion was thrown at her. She owned a half-share in a blossoming business, a beautiful flat overlooking Lavender Bay, and a wardrobe full of designer clothes. She had a vast knowledge of food and wine. She had an appreciation of art and music of all kinds. She could even ski!

But, best of all, she could have just about any man she wanted, if and when she wanted them, for as little or as long as she wanted them.

For a moment Fiona wondered ruefully what would happen if she ran into Philip again. Would he recognise her? If he did, what would he think of Fiona as compared to Noni? Would he want Fiona as he’d once wanted Noni?

It was an intriguing speculation.

As much as she was over her love for Philip at long last, she still felt an understandable curiosity about the man. What did he look like now? And what was the woman like he’d finally decided to marry?

‘Very well, Owen,’ she agreed, and snapped forward in her chair. ‘I’ll go and throw myself on Mrs Forsythe’s mercy. But first, do tell. Why is it Kathryn’s job to organise her son’s wedding? Doesn’t the lucky bnde have a mother?’

Owen shrugged. ‘Apparently not.’

‘So who is this undoubtedly beautiful and well-brought-up creature who’s to be welcomed into the bosom of the Forsythe family?’

‘I have no idea. We didn’t get that far.’

‘So when’s the appointment for?’

‘Tomorrow morning at ten.’

‘On a Saturday? You know I never see anyone on a Saturday! For pity’s sake, Owen, I have a wedding on tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Rebecca can handle it.’

‘No,’ Fiona said sharply. ‘She’s not ready.’

‘Yes, she is. You’ve trained her very well, Fiona. You just don’t like delegating. Much as I admire your dedication and perfectionism, the time has come to give Rebecca some added responsibility.’

‘Maybe,’ Fiona said, ‘but not this time. The bride’s mother is expecting me. I refuse to let her down on such an important day.’

‘Maybe you could do both,’ Owen suggested hopefully. ‘The appointment and the wedding.’

‘I doubt it, not if Mrs Forsythe still lives way out at Kenthurst, which by the look on your face she does. That’s a good hour’s drive through traffic from my place, and far too far from tomorrow’s wedding down at Cronulla. You’ll have to ring back and change the appointment to Sunday, Owen. Make it for eleven. I’m not getting up early on a Sunday morning for the likes of her.’

‘But...but...’

‘Just do it, Owen. Tell the woman the truth: that Fiona has a wedding to organise tomorrow and can’t make it. She’ll probably admire my...what was it you said?...my dedication and perfectionism?’

Owen groaned. ‘You’re a hard woman.’

‘Don’t be silly. I’m as soft as butter.’

‘Yeah, straight out of the freezer.’

‘Trust me, Owen, I know what I’m doing. The Forsythes of this world have more respect for people who don’t chase or grovel. Be polite, but firm. I’ll bet it works a charm.’

It did, to Owen’s surprise. ‘She was only too accommodating about it all,’ he relayed ten minutes later, still startled. ‘And she wants you to stay for Sunday lunch. Fortunately for us, her son and his bride-to-be can’t make it that day. Thank heavens for that, I say. And thank heavens the groom doesn’t live at home.’

Fiona already knew Philip didn’t live at home. The phone book had been very informative of his whereabouts over the years. There weren’t too many P. Z. Forsythes in this world, and only one in Sydney. Fifteen months after they’d broken up—around the time he would have finished his law degree—he’d bobbed up at an address in Paddington, only a hop, step and a jump from the city.

The following year he’d moved further out to Bondi. More recently he’d moved again, to an even more salubrious address at Balmoral Beach, which, though over the bridge on the north side, still wasn’t far from town.

Back in his Paddington days, Fiona had used to regularly ring him, just so she could hear his voice, hanging up after he answered. Once, not long after his move to Bondi, she’d rung him on a Saturday night and pretended to be wanting someone called Niger, just so she could extend the conversation for a few seconds, then had got the shock of her life when Philip called out to some Nigel person.

‘He’ll be with you in a sec, honey,’ Philip had said, before putting the phone down. The sounds of a party in the background had been crushingly clear. Laughter. Music. Gaiety.

Fiona had hurriedly hung up and vowed never to do that again.

And she hadn’t. She had, however, never got out of the habit of checking Philip’s address every time a new phone directory arrived, which was how she knew about his move to Balmoral.

Fiona glanced up from her thoughts to find her partner frowning down at her. She smiled up at him. A rather sardonic smile, but a smile all the same. ‘Stop looking so worried, Owen.’

‘I want to know how you’re going to handle telling Mrs Forsythe the truth about yourself.’

‘With kid gloves, I assure you. I can be tactful and diplomatic, you know. I can even be sweet and charming when I want to be. Don’t I always have the mother of the bride eating out of my hand?’

‘Yeah. But Mrs Forsythe isn’t the mother of the bride. She’s the mother of the groom, and you’re the groom’s first wife!’

CHAPTER TWO

FIONA pulled over to the kerb and consulted the street directory one more time to make sure she knew the way to Kenthurst She’d gone there only twice, after all, ten years before.

Kenthurst was not a suburb one passed through by accident, or on the way to somewhere. It was more of an ‘invitation only’ address.

A semi-rural and increasingly exclusive area on the northern outskirts of Sydney, Kenthurst boasted PICTURESQUE countryside with lots of trees, undulating hills and fresh air. The perfect setting for secluded properties owned by privileged people who liked peace and privacy.