The Importance of Ernestine
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The Importance of Ernestine
Elizabeth Dunk
www.escapepublishing.com.au
The Importance of Ernestine
Elizabeth Dunk
Love isn’t easy in the cutthroat world of Australian politics...
Cecily Carter and Gwen Fairford have both started a fantastic new life in Canberra – jobs they love, a fabulous friend (each other) and even, it seems, the perfect men. Or at least, they could be perfect, if they changed political allegiances.
Alec Moncrieff and John Worthing are leading perfect lives: great jobs, a great friend (each other) and even great new relationships. But when they are caught out in a lie, everything begins to fall apart. Alec, so used to manipulating everything to his own satisfaction, finds he can’t manipulate his way out of his feelings. And Cecily’s past is about to roar into the public domain. Will Gwen and Cecily give their men a second chance, or is love just another empty campaign promise?
About the author
ELIZABETH DUNK is the contemporary romance writing alter-ego of Nicole Murphy, who cut her teeth writing science fiction and fantasy. A long-time romance fan, Nicole couldn’t resist attempting to sit fair and square in the modern world and bring two fabulous characters together and thus Elizabeth was born. As Nicole, she has dozens of short stories in print and has published an urban fantasy trilogy. As Elizabeth, she’s published six books—four full length novels, one novella and a collection of novellas—with Escape Publishing, as well as having some short stories published. She lives outside Canberra with her husband and their two budgies, Pinky and Freddy.
Acknowledgements
I fell in love with the Importance of Being Earnest while playing Lady Bracknell in a college production. Thank you, Oscar Wilde, for this brilliant, funny, cutting play. I have shamelessly piggy-backed on your genius and hope I haven’t done you too wrong. The byline of Wilde’s play is ‘A trivial comedy for serious people’. One of the main themes of the play is looking at how what should be taken seriously is treated so trivially, while great importance is placed on the trivial. With that in mind, there was only one place I could set a modern re-write of it—Parliament House, the home of overinflating the importance of trivial things while treating serious things as nothing. I was grateful to know someone who works at Parliament House who could take me on a tour of the places you don’t normally see. Any mistakes are my own. Thank you to my beta readers, Donna Maree Hanson and Lily Mullholland, who interrogated the book so sincerely and helped me make it so much better. Thank you to the Escape Team and everyone at Harlequin, especially Kate Cuthbert, for their continued support. Thank you to all the readers—every time you purchase a book by an author, you make our day. I hope you realise that. Finally, all thanks to my husband, who continues to support and encourage me, and pull me up when I am down. I love you.
To everyone struggling with a mental illness. You can get through. It’s hard, but you can do it. The people around you really want you to. Don’t let that black dog tell you otherwise.
Contents
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Act One: Alec
Cecily
John
Gwendolen
Alec
Cecily
Gwendolen
John
Gwendolen
Alec
John
Alec
John
Gwendolen
Act Two: Alec
Cecily
John
Gwendolen
Alec
Cecily
John
Gwendolen
Alec
Cecily
John
Gwendolen
Alec
Cecily
John
Gwen
Alec
Act Three: Cecily
John
Gwendolen
Alec
John
Gwendolen
Alec
Cecily
Gwendolen
John
Alec
Cecily
Gwendolen
John
Alec
Ernestine
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing...
Act One
Alec
‘PM’s wife—I hated my baby.’
Alec Moncrieff took a deep breath to stop the hammering of his heart. He’d played this cool up until now, he couldn’t lose it when the big fish was finally in sight.
The headline on the list of articles he’d subscribed to was from one of the daily newspapers in Sydney. He clicked open the article itself and saw it was a rehash of the original interview published in a woman’s magazine. The full article itself wasn’t online. Dammit. He was going to have to go to the newsagency to get it.
Alec checked his coffee maker—still percolating. He turned it off. Then he collected his portfolio and headed downstairs.
The car started with a purr and he drove the back streets to Manuka, avoiding the traffic that would be building on Canberra Avenue and Yarra Glen. He found a park right outside the newsagent and, after purchasing the magazine and sliding it into the portfolio, he got himself a coffee and croissant.
Then into work. It was only seven-thirty in the morning, but the halls of Parliament House were already abuzz with people walking, talking, scheming, dreaming. Alec smiled and nodded at acquaintances but didn’t speak to anyone. He made it a point to have no conversation until he had decided his priorities for the day. But he did vigorously swing the portfolio so people could see and assume he had taken work home, although he never did. It could prove valuable to have people believe what wasn’t true. At the very least, you had a secret, and in this place, that was treasure.
‘Moncrieff.’
Damn. Alec turned and gave the most blazing smile he could to the most loathsome person he knew. ‘Leon. Good morning. Long live the party.’
Leon de Belle, chief of staff to the leader of the party, oozed forward, today dressed in a dark pin-stripe suit that made him look more snake-like than normal. ‘Did you see the news this morning?’
‘I did.’
Silence. Leon’s expression darkened. ‘Well?’
‘Well, I thought Virginia and Michael’s banter a little off this morning, to be honest. I guess she’s coming down with a cold.’
‘I could care less about Virginia Trioli getting a cold.’
‘Couldn’t.’ Leon blinked. ‘You couldn’t care less. Could care less means that you could, in fact, care less than you currently do, which isn’t what you mean, I think.’
‘Fuck you, Moncrieff. Yet again, you prove yourself not worthy of a position with the leadership.’ Leon spun on his heel and stormed off.
Right, Alec thought. De Belle was terrible at trying to get information out of a person. Undoubtedly he hadn’t seen anything worth paying attention to on the news but wanted to make sure he hadn’t missed anything and thought Alec would just volunteer the information. Well, that wasn’t the way Alec worked. He only offered assistance to people who deserved it. De Belle deserved nothing.
Alec used his swipe card to open the door of the office suite of the Honourable Barry Fisher MP, Member for Hereford and opposition spokesman for industrial relations, but didn’t unlock it for the other staff. An unlocked door could be opened by anyone, and he didn’t want to be disturbed.
In the front part of the office were three desks—one for the temporary secretary that came in when they were busy, one for Barry’s executive assistant and one for the policy adviser. A couch for visitors took up the remaining space. Two doors led from this room—the right door took you to the kitc
henette, which connected to Barry’s office. It enabled the member to hastily leave the office through the kitchenette, if someone arrived that they didn’t want to see. The door on the left led to Alec’s office.
Alec went in and closed the door. Then he sat at his desk, pulled out the magazine and began reading.
It told a story Alec was familiar with. A young mother, excited about the change in her life, built up with the expectations of all the stories. Then her baby is laid in her arms, and nothing. She looks down at it, waiting for the overwhelming rush of love she’s been told about, and feels nothing. Not happy. Not sad. Just … nothing.
She asks a few people. They tell her she’s just tired, to have a rest and once she’s recovered from the birth it will happen. So she rests, and she waits. She’s feeling fine, rested, recovered, yet every time she holds her baby—nothing.
In the story he was reading, the young mother lucks out. As she’s getting ready to leave, a nurse she’s never seen before comes in. The nurse explains that she’s heard that the young mother feels she isn’t connecting to her baby the way she should. She asks some questions, then tells the mother that she is going to stay a few hours longer, so a doctor can look at her.
A psychiatric intern arrives. More questions, and then the diagnosis—postnatal depression. The young mother is relieved. She’d been coping with a growing fear that she wasn’t cut out to be a mother, that she’d never be any good at it, that the baby was going to suffer and grow up to be a horrible human being. Now, she is reassured that with some medication and counselling, she will overcome the depression and be able to love her baby.
Sure enough, some weeks later, she finds herself standing over her sleeping baby and overwhelmed with such a rush of love that it almost brings her to her knees. She picks up the baby, hugs it to her chest and cries because she now knows she can be a great mother.
The PM’s wife wanted to share her story in the hope it would let other women see that this could happen to anyone. It wasn’t about being stupid, or poor, or a bad mother. It was an illness that affected a number of women and, when recognised, could be treated.
The recognising was the issue. Alec’s beloved sister Madeleine had gone through something similar, except in her case none of the hospital staff were prepared to admit there was anything wrong. She had been sent home, and suffered two weeks of torture trying to be a mother to little Peter before a friend of hers had visited and realised what was going on. It had taken another month for Madeleine to start to feel better, and more time yet before she finally felt the love and care she’d wanted for Peter. Two years later, she still felt guilt over the weeks Peter had had an uncaring mother, and she was scared to have another baby in case it happened again.
Alec had decided it was time to use his position and privilege. What was the point of being one of the brightest political strategists in Canberra if you didn’t use it to help people? Even before the election and losing government, he’d known his plan needed to be bipartisan. He had things lined up on his side, but he needed to find a person to approach to champion it on the other side of politics.
This was it. The article included the PM himself, talking about his sorrow over his wife’s suffering and his pride in her willingness to share what had happened to her. If there was anyone who could champion it within the other party, it was the party leader.
Except—how to get access to the PM? Alec couldn’t just call the office and make the appointment—they’d never let him in. No, he was going to have to be a bit sneaky. And Alec knew exactly how to do it.
He dialled and moments later a female voice was in his ears. ‘Alec Moncrieff. To what do I owe this honour?’
‘Lobelia. I hope you’re coming to Canberra for the Doctors Association of Australia dinner.’
‘You know I am. And for some meetings.’
‘Fit me into the schedule.’
A pause. ‘I can see you Wednesday morning.’
‘And dinner with Barry.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Of course not. I’d imagine your boss will be fine with you turning down the opportunity to lobby one of the party powerbrokers.’
‘There are times I think I hate you, Alec. Can he sit with me at the dinner?’
‘Perfect. Will all that be before or after you see the PM’s wife?’
Another pause. ‘Before.’
‘You are a miracle worker, Lobelia.’
A sigh. ‘What do I have to do?’
‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’ Alec hung up and grinned. It was going to happen. He was going to put into place a sensational bipartisan program that would see all prospective mothers screened for the possibility of PND and ensure they had the treatment they needed before anything happened. No other woman would go through the terrible time Madeleine had. None.
Satisfied that matter was dealt with for now, Alec went onto making notes for Barry for the day. In those notes, he included information about the news story he had noticed—a government contract for NextGen Networks, who had been one of the companies involved in the Census debacle. Not as well-known as IBM, the name may not have registered with a lot of people. Alec directed Barry to ask questions about the diligence done to ensure there wouldn’t be another issue.
Would Leon de Belle be telling the opposition leader the same thing? If he didn’t, it wasn’t Alec’s fault. And it would be delicious. Very, very delicious.
Speaking of which—Alec looked at the crumbs of his croissant. The in-house cafes would be open now. Time to hunt down a proper breakfast before the day began.
Cecily
Cecily Carter closed her front door, leant against it and let her breath out slowly, slumping against the wood. Day done. Home. In her sanctuary.
Another deep breath, wishing the stresses of the day away. She loved her job, she really did, but she loved this moment of peace just as much.
Opening her eyes, Cecily marched across the living room to her computer and turned it on. If she was going to get any sleep tonight, she needed to get cracking. She waited a moment to ensure the screen was firing up, then into the kitchen.
There, she watered her herbs and poured herself a glass of wine. She put some rice crackers and a portion of her favourite cheese on the plate, then carried her snack and drink out to the computer.
As she sipped, she entered her passwords and opened the game. Within moments, her avatar—a female warrior with muscles that Cecily could only dream of—had appeared on screen and was joining the group.
Cecily put on her headset. ‘Hello, everyone. Sorry I’m late.’
‘Greetings, Carterix.’ The head of their group nodded to her. ‘Now we are gathered, let us consider the strategy for this attack.’
This level involved storming a castle to find the treasure and rescue the princess. Always a princess, Cecily thought and made a mental note to search out a game with a male needing rescuing.
As the strategy was developed, a window popped open on the side of the screen. A private chat from someone with the screenname MiklePerfect.
‘Hey, Cec. How ya doing?’
Cecily typed back. ‘Fine, Mike. Work is stressful, blah blah blah. How are you?’
‘Work is stressful, blah blah blah. Except we’ve got a new receptionist and she’s kinda hot.’
‘Don’t poop where you eat.’
‘Hah. You sound just like Mum.’
‘I learnt all my best stuff from her. How is she?’
‘Great. Had a check-up yesterday. Still in remission.’
Cecily let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d held. ‘That’s terrific news. Give her and Bob my love.’
Being fostered by Denise and Bob Perth at the age of twelve had been the saving grace of Cecily’s life. It had been the first time in forever that she had felt safe, and loved, and free to actually believe and be herself. The whole thing had come crashing down when Denise was diagnosed with breast cancer when Cecily was sixteen, and the family needed to re
locate to Brisbane to be near support networks to deal with it all. As a ward of the state of NSW, Cecily couldn’t go with them. Thankfully, she’d been old enough for the state to decide to spend the money supporting her living alone, rather than try another placement or a group home. So Cecily had been taking care of herself, but she’d been able to continue with school, go to university and was now following her dream career into politics.
She had kept in touch with all the Perth’s but Mike was the one she spent the most time with, part of this gaming group. He was the closest thing she had to a brother.
The group took their positions in front of the gate. Mike’s character, the group’s magic user and elf, blew the gates. Goblins streamed out and the slaughter began.
Cecily swung her sword, dispatching monster after monster. The mindlessness of the activity and the community built around it pushed all her fears and doubts away and she could relax.
After several minutes of hacking and slashing, the goblins were dealt with. Cecily hadn’t lost any of her life reserves but some of the rest of the team had, so they waited for the group healer to fix them before they moved forward.
One of the things Cecily loved about this game was the graphics, so detailed and accurate. It really did seem like she was stepping into the bailey of a medieval castle. It was quiet, which signalled all the rest of the monsters were inside the stone tower before them.
‘Treasure search,’ the head of the group said. ‘Find what you can before we go inside.’
Cecily started hunting around the barrels piled to one side to see what was there. A small bag of copper coins—could be handy. She claimed it. And what was that over there?
‘So what line should I pull on her? I love how you handle our phones, want to handle me? Or I see you like ordering things. Want to order me?’
‘Oh dear god,’ Cecily typed to Mike while considering then dismissing the small dagger next to one of the barrels. The dagger she already carried was better and she could only have one at a time. ‘No line. Just ask her out.’