The Wedding-night Affair
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Miranda Lee
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Chapter 1
THE door of Fiona’s office burst open and Owen strode in, his round face pink with excitement. ‘You’ve no idea who just rang and booked you for her son’s wedding!’ he exclaimed.
Fiona rolled her eyes, torn between exasperation and affection for her business partner. He was a dear man and a dear friend, hard-working and honest as the day was long. Mid-thirties, still a bachelor, and not at all gay as some people supposed, despite his penchant for pastel-coloured shirts and brightly coloured bow ties. Fiona thought the world of him.
He had this irritating habit, however, of accepting work on her behalf. Then he would race in to give her the details afterwards, and expect her to be thrilled to pieces.
She never was. She liked to vet all potential clients personally before accepting a job.
‘You’re right, Owen,’ Fiona returned drily. ‘I have no idea. How could I, since I didn’t have the privilege of talking to this new client myself?’
As usual, Owen didn’t look at all shame-faced. ‘Couldn’t, dear heart,’ he countered breezily. ‘You were on the phone when she rang, so Janey put the lady through to me.’
‘Janey could have put the lady on hold for a while till I was free,’ Fiona pointed out with mock sweetness.
Owen clamped a hand over his heart in horror at
such a suggestion. ‘Put Mrs Kathryn Forsythe on hold? Good God, Fiona, she might have hung up!’
Fiona’s own hand fluttered up to cover her own heart. ‘Kathryn Forsythe?’ she repeated weakly.
Owen beamed. ‘I can see you’re impressed. And so you should be! Do you have any idea what handling a Forsythe wedding will do for our business? Five-Star Weddings will be the toast of Sydney’s social set! After everything goes off with your usual smooth and spectacular brilliance, Kathryn Forsythe will sing your praises to everyone who matters and there’ll be a rush of society matrons banging on our doors to do their own daughter’s wedding. Or son’s, as is the case this time.’
Fiona’s heart skipped another beat, before gradually returning to normal functions. What a fool she was to feel a thing after all this time—even shock!
‘Well, well, well,’ she mused aloud as she leant back in her black swivel chair and tapped her expertly manicured fingernails on the stainless steel armrests. ‘So Philip’s getting married at long last, is he?’
It was about time, she supposed. He would have been thirty last birthday. The perfect age for him to be finding a suitable bride and siring a suitable heir for his branch of the Forsythe fortune.
Owen looked slightly taken aback. ‘You know Philip Forsythe?’
Fiona laughed a dry little laugh. ‘Know him! I was married to him once.’ Briefly...
Owen dropped his rotund frame into one of the chairs she kept handy for clients. ‘Good grief!’ he gasped, then sagged, all his earlier enthusiasm swiftly abating. ‘There goes our first high society gig.’ Even his pink-spotted bow tie seemed to droop.
‘Don’t be silly. You can do it, can’t you? Just say I’m all booked up.’
‘That won’t work,’ Owen groaned. ‘Mrs Forsythe wants the same co-ordinator who organised Craig Bateman’s wedding.’
‘Really? But that was hardly a society do. Just a cricketer and his childhood sweetheart. Very western suburbs, actually.’
‘I know. But it was featured in one of the glossies, remember? It seems Mrs Forsythe was flipping through that particular issue at her hairdresser’s and was most impressed by the photographs. The studio’s name and number was printed underneath. Bill Babstock, if you recall. Anyway, when she rang to book Bill for her son’s wedding, dear Bill very sensibly suggested she hire a professional wedding co-ordinator, then gave you the most glowing recommendation. When Mrs Forsythe rang just now, I did explain that you were very busy, but she promptly said that she’d heard you were the best and she wanted only the best for her son’s wedding. So naturally I promised her you.’
‘Naturally,’ Fiona repeated in rueful tones.
Owen threw his hands up in the air. ‘How was I to know you’d once been married to her infernal son? I mean...when I gave the woman your full name to jot down, she didn’t react adversely. It was as though she didn’t recognise it at all!’
Fiona thought about that for a moment ‘No, she wouldn’t. Everyone called me Noni back then. And my surname was Stillman. Fiona Kirby wouldn’t have meant a thing to her.’
Owen frowned ‘Kirby’s not your maiden name?’
‘No, it’s my second husband’s name.’
Owen gaped at her. ‘Second husband! Good grief, girl, I’ve known you six years, and whilst you’ve had more admirers than I’ve had bow ties you’ve never even got close to the altar. On top of that, you’re only twenty-eight! Now I find you’ve got two husbands hidden in your past and the first belongs to one of Australia’s richest families! Who was the other one? A famous brain surgeon? An international pop star?’
‘No, a truck driver.’
‘A truck driver!’ he repeated disbelievingly.
‘First name Kevin. Lived out at Leppington. Nice man, actually. I did him a favour when I divorced him, believe me.’
‘And Philip Forsythe? Was he a nice man too?’
‘Actually, yes, he was. Very.’ She’d never held any real bitterness towards Philip. Or even Philip’s father, who’d been surprisingly kind and gentle. It was his mother Fiona despised, his mother who’d looked down her nose at Noni and never given her brief marriage to Philip a chance.
‘I suppose you did Philip Forsythe a favour when you divorced him too?’ came her partner’s caustic comment.
‘How very perceptive of you, Owen. That’s exactly what I did.’ But it wasn’t a divorce, she almost added. It was an annulment...
Fiona bit her tongue just in time. Such an announcement would lead to some sticky questions which she had no intention of answering.
‘Let’s face it, Owen,’ she went on, ‘I’m not good wife material. I like my own way far too much. I also hate to think we might lose this lucrative commission. Are you absolutely sure you can’t convince Mrs
Forsythe to let you do it? Maybe we could say I’m ill.’
Owen sighed. ‘I won’t lie, Fiona. Lies always come back and bite you on the bum. Besides, I could hear the determination in her voice. She wants you for her son’s wedding, and you alone.’
‘That’s a change,’ Fiona muttered under her breath.
‘What was that?’
Fiona looked up. ‘I said that’s a shame. As you said, this wedding would be worth a lot to us, both money-wise and reputation-wise.’ She frowned and gnawed at her bottom lip. ‘I wonder...’
Owen tried not to panic as he watched his partner’s large brown eyes narrow into darkly determined slits. He knew that stubborn, focused look. When Fiona got the bit between the teeth, woe betide anyone who got in her way. Most times, Fiona’s driven and obsessive personality didn’t worry him. It was a plus, business-wise. She got things done.
This time, however, he feared getting things done might get things seriously undone.
‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ he said, leaping out of the chair and jabbing a pudgy finger her way. ‘Don’t even think about it!’
‘Think about what?’
‘Trying to trick Kathryn Forsythe. I can see you now, putting on glasses and a blonde wig then waltzing in there with some funny accent, hoping your ex-mother-in-law won’t recognise you.’
‘But she won’t recognise me, Owen,’ Fiona said with blithe confidence. ‘And I won’t need to change a thing about my appearance. When Philip’s mother knew me ten years ago I was a blonde. A ghastly straw colour done in a big mass of waves and curls. I also
wore more make-up than a clown, carried twenty pounds too many and dressed like I was auditioning for a massage parlour. No top could be too tight; no skirt too short.’
Owen could only stare, first at the shoulder-length black hair which swung in a sleek, smooth, glossy curtain around his partner’s striking but subtly made up face, then at the very slender body which was always displayed within a stylish but subtle outfit.
In appearance and dress, Fiona was the epitome of elegance and class, had been ever since he’d known her. The image she’d just painted of herself at the time of her marriage to Philip Forsythe certainly didn’t match the woman she was today. Owen could not visualise her as some brassy voluptuous blonde bombshell.
Even if it was so—and he supposed it was—why would the likes of Philip Forsythe marry such a creature? He didn’t know the man personally, but the bachelor sons of that particular family only ever married glamorous model-types, or the daughters of other equally rich families.
Unless, of course, it was for the sex.
Owen had to admit Fiona exuded a strong sexual allure which even he felt at times. Yet she wasn’t his type at all. He fancied cuddly older women who laughed a lot, played a top game of Scrabble and cooked him casseroles. He never looked at a woman under forty, or a size fourteen.
Still, most men were madly attracted to Fiona. Once they slept with her, they became seriously smitten. She had dreadful trouble getting rid of her lovers after she tired of them.
And she always tired of them in the end.
Owen had often thought her a little cruel towards his sex, despite her always claiming that she never made a man any promises of permanency and had no idea why they presumed a deeper involvement than what was on offer. Perhaps the secret of that cruelty lay in those two marriages to those two supposedly ‘nice’ men.
‘As for a funny accent,’ Fiona was saying with a dismissive wave of her hand, ‘I won’t need to adopt one of those, either. The way I talk now is a lot different to the way I used to talk, believe me. I made Crocodile Dundee sound cultured back in those days. No, Owen, Mrs Forsythe won’t recognise me. And Mr Forsythe senior won’t have the chance. He passed away a couple of years back.’
‘Did he? I didn’t know that.’
‘Cancer,’ Fiona informed him. ‘It didn’t get all that much coverage in the papers. The funeral was private and closed to the public.’
There’d only been the one photo, Fiona recalled. That had been of Kathryn climbing into a big black car after the funeral was over. None of Philip.
Philip was not like his mother, or the rest of the Forsythes. He shunned publicity, and the media. Not once in the past ten years had Fiona ever caught a glimpse of him, either on television, or in the papers or magazines.
‘And what was he like?’ Owen asked.
‘What?’ Fiona looked up blankly. ‘Who?’
‘The groom’s father,’ Owen repeated drily.
‘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!’
