by Carla Caruso
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Books by Carla Caruso
Copyright
1.
Celeste Pretty didn’t like messy beginnings. Especially when meeting her first potential client as a professional organiser. Okay, her first and only possible client thus far.
It had started with getting a pen mark on her favourite powder-blue shirt right before she was about to head out the door, which meant turning back for a speedy, sweaty change. Then her fourteen-year-old navy Holden Astra had been moody. Notoriously moody. Its engine refused to fire until after much cursing and waiting on Celeste’s behalf, putting her approximately nine minutes behind schedule.
Then her purported assistant-to-be, Filippa — or Flip as she liked to be called (the grandkid of her dad’s long-distant cousin) — had texted to say she needed a ‘mental health’ day and wouldn’t be joining her after all. Hipster code for ‘couldn’t be arsed’, more like it. And Celeste had only promised Flip work — yet as it was to materialise — to appease her dad.
Somehow Celeste had still managed to arrive at her appointment on time … and now nobody was answering the door. The indent between her eyebrows felt etched into place. She pressed on the doorbell once more, but instead of footsteps could only hear ongoing banging and hammering beyond: the sound of Astonvale.
Renovations were as rife in the well-heeled South Australian suburb as infinity-edge pools and Wimbledon-worthy tennis courts. At least Celeste knew her way around the latter, playing the sport socially; the rest she was still learning about. She’d only recently secured her own tiny abode in the inner-southern suburbs, landing the hefty mortgage while she was still in full-time, permanent work. Updating her car, meanwhile, would have to wait.
Stepping off the tessellated tiled verandah and onto the stripe-patterned lawn, Celeste peered up at the 1880s, Victorian-style sandstone mansion for any sign of life — beyond tradie noise. The place was big even by Astonvale standards. Celeste had been surprised by how cinchy it was to crunch up the circular gravel driveway, past the two-tiered water fountain, and ring the doorbell.
The security gates had been wide open, likely due to the dirty ute parked out the front, its side emblazoned with the words ‘Muscat Building Group’. Not that the easy front access had made it any simpler for Celeste to get inside the mansion. She’d already tried calling the PA of her potential client — fitness guru Natalia Samphire — to no avail.
Yes, the Natalia Samphire. The one whose Ballet-Tastic barre workout classes were bigger than Zumba. Who had spawned an empire, her name now on everything from gym-wear to clean-eating cookbooks. Who’d just moved into the area, crossing the border from Melbourne, and was about to set up a fitness studio, which had the yummy-mummy brigade in a spin. Landing her as a first client would be quite the coup for Celeste. If she ever did get to meet the curvaceous blonde in the flesh.
Right, there was nothing for it. She’d have to go looking for a back entrance and pray that Natalia didn’t have one of those horse-like dogs, trained to attack, that rich people always owned. Celeste marched across the lawn, swinging past a bay window, taped up with black plastic. Her reflection stared back at her. At least her chin-length, honey-brown bob — which her best friend, Betty-Lou, meanly described as ‘scary Anna Wintour-style’ — and her white blazer still looked immaculate. Unfortunately, her slightly angular nose couldn’t be helped.
She rounded the corner, the manicured gardens continuing and an obligatory pool beckoning … and gagged on a mouthful of dirt. Powdery particles filled her nostrils, contaminating the fragrant spring air.
Amid rapid blinks, Celeste spied a fat, orange, flexible pipe perched inside a side window. One that had just belched out a cloud of dust. Likely attached to some sort of industrial extraction fan. Silent scream. The morning had gone from bad to worse. She could just imagine her former interior design boss, Imogen Karmel, laughing in her face right then. If only Celeste had had the backing of affluent parents to fund her business start-up. Then maybe she could have met Natalia in a pristine office, instead of her business being mobile. Home-based.
Dusting off her mouth and lapels, Celeste pivoted on a suede loafer and headed back in the direction from which she had come. As she strode, she savagely rifled around in her tote for her phone. She’d try Natalia’s personal assistant one last time before deciding on her next plan of attack. Natalia was exactly the kind of premium client Celeste was aiming to attract — and she’d emailed Celeste! She couldn’t let the opportunity slip through her fingers.
‘Power-walking anywhere in particular?’ a deep voice cut through the air. Through the banging and hammering.
Celeste looked up and into the coal-black eyes of an Adonis. An Adonis in a dirt-stained grey tee, cargo shorts and steel-capped boots. The coal-black eyes — which matched the healthy head of mid-length, wavy hair and faint stubble — were shielded by clear safety glasses. He was pushing a wheelbarrow of bricks, flaunting biceps like Rafael Nadal and sturdy, muscular legs like, well, Serena Williams — in an entirely good way. The mouthful of dust lodged in Celeste’s throat. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to scrub the guy or jump him, even though clean-cut men were her usual type. Like Mitchell, her sometimes date from the lawn tennis club.
‘Oh … um … I’m looking for Natalia Samphire,’ Celeste stammered, twitching her fringe as was a habit. ‘I have an appointment.’
The rugged stranger adjusted the bright orange earmuffs at his neck, amusement for some reason dancing in his dark eyes. ‘Good luck. And you are?’
‘Oh … Celeste Pretty.’ She searched in her tote for a business card, her professional façade cloaking her once more. Never knew when a card might fall into the right hands. She proudly extended a glossy pink-and-white piece of cardboard towards the builder. Her business had begun to feel real. ‘I run a business called POPink, Professional Organising on Pink.’ The ‘ink’ was a play on ‘incorporated’ and the ‘pink’ because she lived on Pink Avenue. Kind of clever, even if she did say so herself.
She braced for the usual response, asking if she organised weddings or did cleaning. The concept of de-cluttering people’s homes and workplaces for a living stumped many. There definitely needed to be more education and awareness surrounding the industry.
The builder turned the business card over and over in his hand, his palm making the card look tiny. Then he looked up, his eyes gleaming. ‘An organiser, huh? So when you tell someone you’re rearranging your sock drawer, you really are.’ He squinted at the card again. ‘Although, shouldn’t it be P-double-O-P, not POP? As in, Professional Organising on Pink.’
‘P-double-O …?’ Immediately, her cheeks grew hot. She hadn’t even noticed what the full acronym actually spelled out. A term for … waste matter. Cripes. The business cards — and website — had already cost her an arm and a leg, courtesy of Flip’s uni designer friend, despite Celeste assuming that the work would be at student rates. She couldn’t afford to change everything now. Her voice
came out as clipped as the mansion’s topiary plants. ‘The “of” is a connector word — a preposition — so, technically, it doesn’t count.’
The Adonis glanced at the card again before pocketing it. ‘Well, thanks for your number. Although … Pretty?’ He winked. ‘I think you underestimate yourself.’
Now her whole face was aflame. Good grief. She hadn’t given him her digits for any reason other than professional. Obviously he was used to women falling at his feet. And she’d heard all the jokes about her surname before when young — Not-So-Pretty never being a favourite. State schoolkids could be a mean lot. At least she’d gotten rid of the braces and learned how to hide the bad cowlick.
Unfortunately, the Adonis hadn’t finished. ‘Much work doing this sort of caper?’
‘I’ve only just started out in the business.’ Celeste stood tall. ‘Natalia’s my first client — well, hopefully she will be.’ There went her loose lips. ‘Anyway, I’m running late. Can you point me in the direction of where I might be able to find her?’
‘Well, I should introduce myself first, seeing as you’ve given me your card.’ The arrogance. Darn, he had a not-so-shabby cleft in his chin, too. ‘The name’s Lenny Muscat.’
Muscat. The same name as on the ute.
‘The only Lenny I know sings and has the last name, Kravitz,’ Celeste murmured before she could stop herself.
‘It’s short for Leonardu, which is Maltese. Some say I’m as sweet and irresistible as a Malteser.’ Another irritatingly disarming grin, while Celeste stifled a groan. The Adonis continued, ‘I specialise in heritage-style building and renovations. Natalia’s doing up her place before the big launch party to celebrate her studio opening. Today she’s got me knocking out an interior wall, turning two rooms into a ballroom. So I’d shake your hand but mine’s dirty.’
‘I gather you’re the one responsible then for the extraction fan, which just showered me in dirt!’
His dark eyebrow curved upwards. ‘It is a worksite, you know. You have to dress appropriately and keep your wits about you. And I’d try the French doors around the back for Natalia. I can show you the way, if you like.’
‘It’s fine. I’m sure I can find my own way.’
Now that she knew to keep a good distance from the stupid fan. She continued forwards, but the noisy clearing of his throat made her turn back. He nodded in the direction of her waist. ‘Er, might want to remove your jacket first.’
‘What?’ she yelped, tugging at the front hem of her blazer. Dusty patches glared back. Patches she’d somehow failed to notice earlier. Groan. She threw her tote on the grass and whipped off the offending garment. A few hip-twists laid her mind to rest that her stripey mint-green shirt underneath and straight-leg jeans were still clean, thankfully — smart casual being how she did business.
Lenny put his hands up in the air in mock-defence. ‘Hey, knocking out walls is dirty work.’
‘You don’t say,’ she muttered, stuffing the blazer in her tote with effort and stamping towards the rear of the expansive property. She could hear the creak of the wheelbarrow as Lenny continued in the other direction — thank heavens.
It felt as though she’d walked a kilometre before climbing up on the back porch’s timber decking. The French doors were wide open. For a national celebrity, Natalia definitely seemed to have a laissez-faire attitude to security. Thankfully, no horse-like dogs had made an appearance either — yet.
Celeste stepped tentatively through the doorway into what she discovered was a pretty, light-dappled breakfast room. Half Natalia’s luck. Leading on from this was an open-plan lounge/dining space, unscathed by tradies, with gleaming white walls, aubergine-coloured couches, an almost wall-filling TV — currently switched off — and polished wood floors. Panpipe music was being piped from unseen speakers.
It all looked pristine. Expensive. Magazine spread-worthy. Not like the services of a professional organiser were urgently required. Celeste suspected a cleaner and hated to think what would actually happen when she opened the doors and drawers.
‘Hello? Anyone there?’ she called out into the emptiness, edging forwards.
‘You must be Celeste!’
She jumped, nearly knocking over an antique-looking Chinese vase. Turning, Celeste found herself face-to-face with a dour-looking young woman with cropped, mousy-brown hair, in a weird grey drapey sort of dress. No hint of the gelato pastels Natalia was renowned for. Perhaps the girl had sprung up from the depths of one of the couches? She’d snuck up as quietly as the Tesla electric car in the drive might have. The lass was the exact opposite of laidback beach-babe Natalia, or what Celeste knew of the guru from the pictures anyway.
She found her voice. ‘Yes … yes, I’m Celeste.’
The girl extended her hand, her eye colour as nondescript as her hair. ‘I’m Minka, Natalia’s assistant.’
‘Oh, hello. Sorry to just wander in, but no one answered the door. I did try calling you, too …’
Several times.
Minka barely arched an eyebrow. ‘Did you? I must have missed it.’ She assessed short, unpolished nails. ‘I’ve been busy sorting out a few things for Natalia. Anyway, nice to meet you. You’ll find Natalia upstairs. Third door on the right. Please feel free to take the stairs or the lift.’
The lift?
‘Oh, uh, sure.’
With that, Minka leaned to swipe an iPad from the granite kitchen bench-top and spun on her heel. Prada heels — brogue-style in cream and black with a chunky heel. Celeste had spied the style before in the latest Elle. At least the girl had fabulous taste in shoes. And she was obviously on a good wicket with Natalia with such designer footwear, which boded well for Celeste.
For getting upstairs, Celeste opted for the sweeping staircase in dark wood to her right. She counted the doors as she wandered along the gilt-wallpapered hallway, passing several slightly self-indulgent portraits of Natalia in dance poses. One, two, thr—
‘Oh my gosh … I’m so sorry!’
Celeste flung herself against the wall, out of view of the open doorway she’d just passed, blood pounding in her ears. Still, the image was seared into her brain. Natalia Samphire in the buff, bar one shoulder-dusting feather earring. All bronzed curves and perky bosoms, bending floor-wards in a triangular-type shape, wielding some sort of wooden instrument. Not even one of her famous Pointe of No Return slogan tees covering her assets. Seeing the guru for the first time in the flesh had just got literal.
‘That you, Ms Pretty?’ The familiar breathy voice Celeste had heard in countless TV interviews before could be heard. ‘Don’t mind me. I’m just doing a spot of dry body-brushing. I do it twice a day. It’s fab for opening up the pores and releasing toxins. I even do conference calls like this. Gotta be comfortable in your own skin, you know?’
‘Oh, uh, you’re sure?’ Celeste squeaked, hoping the fitness guru might muster up some modesty at the eleventh hour.
‘Positive.’
Darn.
Wincing, Celeste tiptoed back towards the door, still not knowing quite where to look. So, sucking in a breath, she looked beyond the … the nakedness, to discover that the room she’d been sent to was actually an airy, all-white bathroom, about as big as Celeste’s semi-detached home. Behind Natalia was a ginormous tub, double shower, floor-to-ceiling window view of the garden, and lashings of marble. And Minka hadn’t seemed to mind pointing Celeste in that direction. Or Natalia, for that matter. Welcome to the bizarre world of celebrities.
Still, Celeste was desperate for the work. Her only hope was that Natalia didn’t conduct interviews with Lenny like that, then wondered why she cared.
Out of the corner of her eye, Celeste could see Natalia resting her body brush on the wall-hung double vanity and reaching for a baby-pink fluffy robe. Finally. Turning in the guru’s direction, Celeste wasn’t quick enough to avoid copping another eyeful before Natalia’s robe was fully done up.
Celeste tried to keep her face straight, professional, as Natal
ia fluffed her blonde curls in the enormous mirror. ‘So, um, I guess we should discuss the professional organising work and what you’re hoping I can do for you.’
‘Sure thing.’ Natalia turned back, a dimple flashing in her left cheek as she smiled. Could facial yoga really be responsible for all that glowing skin? Celeste had suspected that the bright lights and heavy makeup of TV-land might have hidden the odd flaw. But cosmetic enhancement was a well-known no-no in Natalia’s books, and she barely looked a day older than twenty-one.
Celeste cleared her throat. ‘So what rooms exactly were you wanting help with?’
Natalia widened sapphire-blue eyes. ‘A tonne! There’s the home office, the bedroom, oh, and a bunch of other rooms. There are so many here, it can be hard to remember them all,’ she said in a rushed, girlish manner, which Celeste couldn’t help but find endearing — despite the earlier show of nudity.
‘Plus, the office and staff room at the new fitness studio I’m opening up in town,’ Natalia continued. ‘It’s been absolutely manic since I arrived in Astonvale. I still haven’t had half my boxes unpacked. I’m desperate for some organisation first, but I don’t have the skills to direct anyone in how I’d like things, so that things like stock samples can be found at the click of a finger.’
Celeste smoothed the front of her — thankfully unblemished — shirt. ‘Well, organising systems and processes are my forte. How hands-on would you like to be with the work? I mean, if we did some of it side-by-side, I could teach you a few tricks and ensure things are just the way you want them. We could tackle a room a week, if that worked. Keep it simple.’
Natalia’s eyes widened again. ‘Oh no, I’d prefer to be quite hands-off actually. Keeping up with the Ballet-Tastic brand can be quite hectic, sorry. I just don’t have the headspace for anything more. Could I maybe walk you through each room before you attacked them and just offer a few ideas? And I’d prefer it all done sooner rather than later, if there’s any chance.’
Celeste hid her disappointment. It wasn’t the way she’d envisaged working. She preferred the idea of being more of a guide, giving people organisational skills for life, than a glorified cleaner. Nonetheless, the go-ahead to let loose and put her own stamp on each space did appeal.
