No Marigold-related tasks meant Finn’s weekend was suddenly looking strangely empty.
“What are you doing this weekend?” Peter asked. “You should come. There’s a couple of people who I’d like you to meet. Good connections, Finn, if you’re looking to expand your consultancy.”
“Come to the event?” Finn clarified.
“Yes, it’s a party. Odette calls it a Gala. I’m unsure of the difference, to be honest. It’s fancy. You know, black tie and milling about, but some good networking.”
Finn knew the Gala was one of many well-known events as part of the Doyle social calendar. He was no socialite – heck, he wasn’t even sociable – but it often featured in the social pages of the newspaper. Not that he read them, but his mother took pride in noting them. She was impressed with him working with the family, given their money and profile. The sort of industrious people she admired.
“I can have all the details sent to you. Most people stay somewhere local, but you won’t find anywhere this late.”
Finn didn’t have any other plans, and maybe it was time to start looking for some new contacts. Financially things were quite comfortable, but if he took his business to the next level, he could hire some support to do the legwork and give himself more time to focus on the higher-end accounts.
A little curiosity also edged at him to see the Doyle homestead in full swing. It was the natural curiosity that drove him to check things out and understand how things work. This could be a fascinating glimpse into the Doyle empire.
“I’d be fine to drive home,” he said, tentatively. Was he really going to go to this event?
“We have plenty of room. Stay at the house. I wouldn’t mind showing you some work we are doing to our stables at the back of the property. I think we’ll need new security gates off the road. Perhaps you could advise?”
“Stay?” he repeated.
“Only if you want. Whatever suits you.”
Further work for the Doyles and a new range of potential business contacts were excellent reasons to attend, yet Finn couldn’t help wondering, ahead of his natural curiosity or growing his business, whether the fact Marigold would be there was the main reason he found himself thanking Peter for the invitation and agreeing to attend.
***
On Saturday afternoon, Finn pulled up at the house. He gazed up at Mulberry Estate as he climbed out of his car. It seemed somewhat insulting to call it a house – a mansion, perhaps? Whatever he called it, though, it was imposing. Large, stained-glassed windows, wide sweeping verandas, landscaped gardens, and beyond those a swimming pool, tennis courts and stables. It was a work of art. The sort of architecture and design he’d really ever only seen in public buildings like Town Halls and Parliament House; most certainly not in private residences.
But this wasn’t just any private residence.
He swung his overnight bag and the garment bag containing his tuxedo (apparently a Gala made it Black Tie, according to Peter’s assistant who had very carefully run through all the details with him the day before) over his shoulders and walked up the front steps.
“Finn.” Peter appeared at the front door and shook his hand. “Good to see you. I’m glad you could make it.”
“Thanks for having me. I appreciate the invitation.”
“I’m not sure how thankful you’ll be. It’s always chaos here on the day of this thing.”
That was an understatement. He could see people running around with large vases of flowers and someone stringing up lighting. He could hear the clatter of dishes in another part of the house, and through a window, a group of people moving chairs into the marquee.
“It’s Odette’s favourite event of the year. I stay out of the way. Leave your bags there, someone will take them upstairs. Drink?” He beckoned him through to his study.
“Thank you.”
Peter nodded towards a leather sofa. “How’s your business?”
Finn sat as Peter poured out two tumblers of Scotch. Finn discreetly checked his watch. Half past two seemed a little early for it, but he wasn’t going to refuse, especially not on those grounds. “Business is good, thanks.”
“We don’t tie up all your time, do we?” Peter handed him the heavy tumbler.
Pretty much. “Some of it, but I do have time for other clients.”
“Smart move. I have some people coming tonight who I want to introduce you to who may have some decent consulting work for you.”
“I appreciate that.” Finn took a sip of the Scotch. He wasn’t a big drinker, and no expert on the quality of liquor, but it was certainly better than the stuff he’d sometimes ordered in a bar when he and Simon used to catch up after work. He’d prefer a beer if he were going to have a drink at all, but it was rude not to go along with his host.
Peter sat down opposite him. “I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for this family. I know you’re trying to move away from the PI part of your job, but I’ve appreciated the fact you’ve always helped us out.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Finn took another sip. He felt his eyes move towards the door, wondering if Marigold would come by at some point, and perhaps join in the conversation too, before refocusing on what Peter was saying.
He told himself to forget about that. He was here for business. Or at least that’s what he’d convinced himself.
After some further discussion about his business, and some rather useful advice, Peter dismissed him to make a phone call.
With a few hours before the event would begin, Finn decided to go for a walk around the gardens of the home. It really was spectacular and overwhelming. He thought he may have got past being so impressed at the Doyles, but perhaps it was a feeling that wouldn’t pass. It was so removed from his own life.
Eventually, he retreated to the guest room, showered and changed into his tuxedo.
He moved downstairs to the party as other guests were arriving. Beautiful women were dressed in gowns, and men in the same kind of monkey suit he was stuck in, were taking glasses of champagne from waiters, laughing and chatting.
He couldn’t see Marigold though. She probably would be too busy to talk to him with all these glamorous and important people here, but he continued to scan the crowd. There were people he recognised – the State’s Opposition Leader, the Federal Treasurer, several Australian Rules Football players and coaches, a handful of media identities and high-profile business leaders.
He could see why Odette called it a Gala. The word ‘party’ did seem too casual and relaxed for this. He grabbed a glass of sparkling water from a passing waiter and tried not to gulp it down in one mouthful. His throat felt dry. Was it the Scotch this afternoon, which had turned into a second drink, or was it this stupid bowtie strangling him? He slipped a couple of fingers between his neck and his collar to get some air.
It didn’t usually bother him if he didn’t know many people at events. He was quite content with his own company. But tonight, he felt out of place. What was he really doing here? As he looked around, a piece of art near the staircase caught his eye. He took a step towards it.
It was basically a bunch of squiggly lines. He tilted his head to look at it from another angle. How much did the Doyles pay for this? It really wasn’t much different from what his nieces and nephews produced for him and he’d stuck on the door of his fridge at home.
He was keeping one eye on the piece of art, but he found himself turning to look for Marigold. Was she even here? He was beginning to doubt it as he hadn’t seen her, but then, a group of people parted from a conversation and she appeared.
He swallowed and exhaled, still struggling with the tightness of his collar.
He’d always known Marigold was beautiful, but tonight, she looked as if she didn’t even belong here at this incredibly fancy event in this home – she looked almost from another world.
He glanced back at the artwork and took a sip of his water, but immediately felt his eyes drawn back towards her as if he had no control over h
is own eyeballs. She was wearing a dark green dress. Emerald maybe? He wasn’t sure of the colour, but it looked as though she had been poured into it. Every stitch sat against her figure, highlighting each delicious curve of her body. Large, chunky diamond earrings sat on her ears and her hair was pulled back, showing off her face and her full lips as she nodded along to a conversation with someone.
He wondered what she’d be like to kiss. Her lips looked so soft, so kissable. But his mind didn’t stop there. What would she be like in bed?
She’d had sex, but had she ever had good sex? Julian in all his insipidness probably hadn’t been much chop in the bedroom. Finn glanced along the fabric that sat over her breasts. He’d love to show her what really good sex was like, but it was hardly likely he’d have the chance.
She was his boss.
Her father was his mentor.
She’d just lost her husband.
He didn’t want a relationship.
Bang. There were four excellent reasons. Yet still, all he could think of was that green dress falling to the floor of his apartment.
Stop it. He shook his head and tried to focus back on the painting. He’d been looking at it off and on for ten minutes now. And he still didn’t really understand it. A lot of colour and a lot of squiggles. He was sure it was important and valuable. The Doyles wouldn’t have hung some piece of worthless trash on their walls, yet what did it mean? Did they know what it meant? Did it mean anything at all? Or wasn’t he intelligent enough to understand what all these lines were about?
He glanced back towards Marigold, who was surrounded by people, kissing them on the cheek and laughing politely. She probably knew everyone here. She probably worked with their companies, went to school with them, skied with them, saw them at other high-priced, pretentious events such as these.
He returned his glass to the tray of a passing waiter and grabbed another. He took a sip but as he watched, he saw her take a deep breath in. She had an uncertain look on her face – not dissimilar to the one he’d seen at times over the past few weeks.
She nodded a few times, but he could see her chest rising and falling. Her breath was becoming shallower. He saw her put her hands on her hips as she nodded at what someone was saying to her.
It was all fake. She wasn’t comfortable. She wasn’t in control. She was freaking out.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Marigold
Was she going to faint? She hadn’t ever thought of this dress as being tight – she certainly hadn’t when she had slipped it on earlier, but now it felt like a corset that was being pulled in at a rapid rate. There were so many people around her, crowding her. She wanted to escape, but they kept firing questions at her. She struggled to take a breath. Why couldn’t she just excuse herself?
“May I have this dance?”
Marigold turned to face a man in a tuxedo. She looked up and realised it was Finn.
“May I?” he repeated.
This was her escape. She nodded and allowed him to lead her. Her breath began to return to normal and her heart slowed down as she clutched his arm for support as he led her into the marquee and to a table at the side of the dance floor that was mercifully uncrowded.
“We don’t have to dance. I thought you may have wanted to get out of there. You looked uncomfortable.”
Marigold felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. She sat down at the table. “You noticed?” She hid those things well, didn’t she? How could he see that?
“It wasn’t noticeable,” he said, pulling up a chair next to her.
She scoffed. “You noticed it.”
“I was trained to notice things.”
She looked back to where they had come from. “They’re my friends. Well, people I know, and I couldn’t deal with the discussion. I’ve always been fine at these sorts of things, but I can’t—”
“Your husband died. Your life has been turned upside down. There’s no way to deal with these things correctly or incorrectly.”
“Turning up at work and creating a scene is perhaps incorrect.”
“Perhaps.”
“Kissing my Pilates instructor.”
“You what?”
She exhaled. “I accidentally kissed my Pilates instructor. Or he kissed me. I don’t know what happened, to be honest. He’s, like, 22, and he said he’d accuse me of sexual harassment unless I got him an invitation to this party.”
“What?” Finn’s voice rose.
“He has an incurable crush on Rose and was desperate to be here.”
Finn gritted his teeth. “So he blackmailed you?”
“I didn’t know what to do. He said he’d make trouble. I was worried I’d be hung out to dry like some sleazy film producer running a casting couch. But it was an accident.” She felt tears stinging at her eyes and hurriedly placed her index finger at the corner of her eye to prevent her mascara from running. “Everything I touch at the moment is such a disaster. I used to be able to handle anything, and now I can’t even think straight.”
“Where is he?”
Marigold jabbed her finger towards a group. “Over there. Blond. Wavy hair. His name’s Will.”
Finn looked around and nodded. “No more talking to him, ok? If he calls again, tell him to make an official complaint to his employer. No more giving into his private demands.” Finn stood up, held out his hand and smiled. “Maybe we should dance. Perhaps it will be a good distraction.”
She hesitated, but then slipped her hand into his and let him lead her onto the dance floor. He placed a hand on her waist. She glanced at it. It was the most intimate gesture she’d felt since Julian had died. He placed his other hand in hers and she rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Tell me. What was it like growing up here?” he asked, as he led her around the dance floor, expertly navigating other couples. He was trying to change the subject, but she didn’t mind.
“It felt normal at the time, but as I’ve got older, I’ve realised it’s not normal. Most people don’t live like this.”
“No. Very few.”
“To be honest, I actually quite liked being at boarding school in Melbourne.” She had in many ways. The order and structure and routine. Not that Mulberry Estate was unstructured, but there she felt she could be herself and focus on the things she liked. “Particularly after Mum had Rose.”
“You don’t get along?” he asked. He was leading her around the dance floor quite neatly. He was a good dancer, despite his views on the corporate dancing project.
“Oh, no, well, she’s a lot younger. As you’ve probably noticed.” She waved a hand towards the other side of the room where Rose was, as usual, looking amazing in a white dress with her dark hair in tendrils around her face. She had seemingly every man in the room looking at her, including Will, who shot Marigold a triumphant look despite the fact that Rose seemed much more interested in some handsome dark-haired man.
Marigold looked back to Finn, who didn’t appear to have followed her gesture towards her sister. His eyes were firmly on her.
“It felt like Mum and Dad were starting again with her or something. Frederick and I were off at school in Melbourne after that. Anyway, it was nice to be on my own at school.” She pulled her arms back from his as she glanced back at Will. “Do you mind if we go outside for a minute? I can’t take that guy’s smarmy look.”
She led him through a series of exits until they came out into the lavender garden. It was impossible to get to from the house. Guests never found it, so it was quiet. She breathed in the night air.
Finn shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around. “This is a good spot.”
“Quiet.” She looked back at him. She’d never seen him in a tuxedo before, but it suited him, fitting neatly over his broad shoulders. “You look good in that.”
He put a couple of his fingers between his collar and his neck. “Not really me, but when at Mulberry...”
“When at Mulberry,” Marigold repeated. “I wasn’t expectin
g you here tonight, but thank you. You really saved me back there.”
Finn shrugged. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You did. You really helped me out.”
“It’s what I do. Can I get you a drink?”
She shook her head and sat down on a bench. “So, what do you think of this place?”
He paused before sitting next to her. “What do I think of this place?” he repeated and crossed his arms. “I don’t understand your art.”
She smiled. That wasn’t what she was expecting him to say. Most people commented on the house or the gardens or the pool.
“What do you mean ‘understand’ it? What piece in particular?”
“There was one in there with squiggly lines by the staircase. What does it mean?”
Ahhh. She knew the piece. “What did it mean to you?”
“Nothing.” He gave her a twisted smile.
“But how did you feel when you looked at it?” she pressed.
“Confused, as I was trying to figure out the meaning. Stupid, for not ‘getting it’.”
She shook her head. He wasn’t stupid by any stretch of the imagination.
“Art isn’t about ‘getting it’. It’s not a maths formula with the ‘right’ answer at the end. It’s a painting. You’ll form your own connection with it and interpret your own meaning. That’s the beauty of it. No-one ever sees the same painting – we all bring our own interpretation to it.”
Finn squinted, as if he was processing this. “So the artist didn’t mean to paint something with a purpose. Just something for people to interpret. If that’s the case, why can’t I draw a few squiggles and charge a fortune for it?”
“No. Of course the artist has something they are saying, and that is part of art appreciation. Understanding where the artist may have been in their lives at that point – perhaps their influences, their age, their country of birth. That will all feed into what they are communicating, but for you, you should analyse what’s in front of you and what impact it has on you.”
The Problem with Perfect Page 16