Part of her had, contrarily, expected Nick to invite her out on the yacht again. He hadn’t. She tipped her head back and her blonde hair fell back from her neck. So what! He wasn’t under any obligation to, she tried to rationalise the disappointment. Her ex had only invited her in the first place because of Fern. Then why did she feel piqued, left out? Fingers thundered down on the keyboard in an uncharacteristic expression of anger, quite at odds with the melancholy climax to the piece. Because she’d wanted him to … The answer came despite the fact that she found it unpalatable.
Her fingers stilled seconds before she played the last note. What was happening to her? Puzzling, irritating and disquieting sensations began to run through her mind and body. What did she want? Nick? The phone ringing saved her from having to admit, if only to herself, that maybe, yes, she might want Nick back in her life.
She got up and reached for the receiver. ‘Hello.’
‘Caroline?’
‘Warren. Hello.’
They talked about work for a couple of minutes, then Warren Tremayne cleared his throat before asking, ‘Are you busy next Thursday evening?’
‘Not particularly.’ Caroline’s answer was without subterfuge.
‘I’ve been given tickets to a concert at the Opera House. I hoped,’ pause, ‘that if you were free, you might care to come with me. The Australian Philharmonic Orchestra is featuring Chopin’s works and I believe that, I mean, Jo Levy told me you specialised in that composer’s music when you were a concert pianist.’
‘I did. It’s nice of you to ask, Warren. I’d love to come.’
‘Great. I’ll pick you up at seven. Bye.’
A thoughtful smile on her face, Caroline replaced the phone’s receiver. She had a date with Warren. So … what did she know about Warren Tremayne? Not a lot. He was fiftyish, widowed with an adult son who worked at their Melbourne store. He played golf well, which pleased her mother because, when she returned, she could invite him to play mixed doubles with her at the Royal. He was intelligent and, as far as the company went, tough, as the MD of a national company should be. That was the extent of her knowledge of Warren but, since his arrival in Sydney, she had intercepted several speculative glances at company meetings and knew, as only a woman could, that some interest was there.
Curiously, she dismissed Warren and their upcoming date from her thoughts and returned to her contemplation of her ex-husband. Was Nick deliberately trying to keep her off balance by seeming to be interested in her one minute and then not interested the next? She shook her head, confused, unable to come up with a definitive answer. A sigh left her lips. One thing she did know, she was thinking too much about Nick Beaumont!
Automatically she flexed her fingers, balling them into a fist, then straightening them out until the stiffness receded. Her chin tilted upwards pridefully. Another man, Warren, was showing interest in her and she should be wondering where that might lead, instead of thinking about the possibilities of a reunion with Nick.
Warren looked suave in his dinner suit and was very attentive to Caroline at the concert. Initially there had been an awkwardness when he had called — they were used to interacting on a business level, not a personal one — but by the time they’d reached the Opera House, parked and found their seats, Caroline felt quite relaxed with him.
She opened the program he had bought for her and leafed through the advertising and sponsors’ acknowledgements until she came to the program page. A name caught her eye. ‘Oh, how lovely,’ she murmured half to herself.
‘What? Something interesting?’ Warren asked.
‘The orchestra’s conductor, I know him. Teddy, known now as Theodore Rivkin. We were both students at the College of Music in London, back in 1966. I lost track of him after we finished our studies in Vienna. I heard that he went to the USA.’
‘You’ve played here, at the Opera House, haven’t you?’
‘Twice. In 1979 and 1982.’
‘I see.’ Warren’s tone was considering. ‘I hope that being here tonight won’t be too nostalgic or traumatic. I’ve just realised that this may bring back unhappy memories for you.’
Caroline smiled, touched by his thoughtfulness. ‘Bittersweet, more than unhappy. It would be less than truthful of me to say that I don’t miss the music. I do, but one has to face reality.’ Briefly, she looked at her hands, the long and tapered fingers. No physical sign of the effects of rheumatoid arthritis yet. They were, even if she thought so herself, beautiful hands. ‘That part of my life, that career, is over.’ And, as the disease progressed, she knew the knuckles would bulge, the fingers bend and stiffen, and she would eventually need surgery. But not for many years, she hoped.
‘I admire you for being so well adjusted. Many wouldn’t be, I think, not so readily.’
‘I have moments when I’m not content,’ she admitted, ‘but they’re becoming fewer and fewer.’
As the musicians came on stage with their instruments and went through the usual tuning-up process, the lights began to dim …
Caroline applauded the orchestra’s efforts heartily. Teddy Rivkin’s conducting had been brilliant, if slightly flamboyant, like the man himself. His understanding of the many nuances of Chopin’s works — the emotion of the Polonaise, the lightness of the Nocturne in F Sharp, the melodic flow of the Waltz in C Sharp — all had been executed with individuality and flair. She must remember to send him a note of congratulations tomorrow. And, maybe, she decided, if Teddy weren’t too busy, they could meet for coffee. It would be fun to reminisce about old times with him, and swap notes on their respective careers.
At interval they went out to the foyer. Warren left her to go to the bar to get glasses of wine for them. As she waited she reflected on the evening. She decided that she was enjoying Warren’s company, even though she wasn’t a whit attracted to him … not in that way. Idly, she watched the crowd of people, trying to spot celebrities, anyone she knew, until she was tapped on the shoulder.
‘Caro, it is you. I wasn’t sure …’
Caroline turned. Her eyebrows lifted with genuine surprise. ‘Nick.’ At a classical concert! She could hardly believe it. He looked marvellously handsome too in his dinner suit; the errant thought imbedded itself in her mind before she could stop it. Recovering from her shock, she asked rather bluntly, ‘What are you doing here?’
His grin was almost guilty. ‘I know, this sort of thing isn’t usually my scene. I’m escorting a London music critic, Geraldine Baxter. Maybe you’ve heard of her?’ He watched her shake her head, then he explained, ‘Lou’s wife, Madeline, knows her. They met when she was overseas. Geraldine’s in Sydney on a combined business/holiday trip. Says she’s interested in the conductor, Rivkin, in his career accomplishments, and is doing an interview with him for her paper tomorrow.’
‘So Madeline’s making you suffer an evening of classical music. How mean of her!’ Caroline tried to keep the laughter out of her voice. She knew what a penance it would be for him to have to sit through several hours of this type of entertainment. Nick was, strictly speaking, the rock’n’roll type.
‘It’s not too bad,’ he denied with a masculine shrug. ‘I’m more used to the classics now than I was when we …’ He left the sentence unfinished, obviously not wanting to rake up embers from their unhappy past.
One reason he’d come with the plummy-voiced Geraldine was because he hoped to see Caro here. She was and she looked bloody wonderful. Her blonde hair had been swept up onto the top of her head and showed off her slender neck, and the pale pink gown, made of some kind of soft, clinging material, accentuated her curvaceous figure. Over the years Caro had lost the coltishness she’d had during their marriage, her body maturing in all the right places. Oh, he remembered … Damn! Don’t take your thoughts down that road, not right now.
He cleared the huskiness from his voice before he asked, casually, ‘You’re here alone?’ He didn’t think she would be, he was just fishing …
‘No, with Warren from Ashwo
rths. Here he comes.’ Caroline indicated the tall thickset man elbowing his way through the crowd with two full wine glasses.
‘Didn’t spill a drop.’ Warren’s grin was triumphant as he handed her a glass.
‘Well done.’ Caroline made the introductions though she thought they’d probably met at their Easter Sunday party. ‘Warren Tremayne, Nick Beaumont.’
‘Beaumont?’ Warren frowned, and there was interest in his tone.
‘Nick is Jack Beaumont’s eldest son,’ Caroline informed. ‘We, Nick and I, were once married.’
‘A long time ago,’ Nick muttered as his mouth curved in a forced smile. Glancing at Tremayne, he decided that he didn’t care for the proprietorial way he’d placed his arm around Caro’s waist. Didn’t care for it at all. Damned familiar, as if there were something, a kind of understanding between them. Tremayne. The name, he’d heard it before. Aahh, yes. Ashworths’ new MD. He remembered Fern telling him of his arrival. Evidently Tremayne had more than eyes for the company job. Was he interested in other fringe benefits — the boss’ daughter? Maybe.
Tremayne’s motives were understandable, Nick had to admit, if grudgingly. Caro was unattached, beautiful, intelligent and financially secure. Why wouldn’t Tremayne be interested? The man would be a fool if he weren’t. And, damn it, why hadn’t he factored into his ‘get Caro back’ campaign the possibility that she could become romantically interested in someone else? Fool! A perfectly manicured hand with red-lacquered nails appeared on the sleeve of Nick’s dinner jacket and alerted him to a woman’s presence before she spoke.
‘Nick, dear, you are a naughty boy.’ The tone was upper-class British and humorously reproachful. ‘I’ve been searching all over for you.’
Caroline blinked as the young, gorgeous-looking woman, a platinum blonde with very pale, almost transparent skin in a satin, flaming red full-length, two-piece evening suit, laced her arm through Nick’s. This was Madeline’s music critic? She didn’t look old enough to be a worthy critic of anything, came the acid thought as Nick introduced Geraldine Baxter to her and Warren.
‘Caroline Ashworth? The Caroline Ashworth. How fabulous!’ Geraldine gushed. ‘My, what a night! Theodore Rivkin and you. Readers at The Times will be agog. What’s happened to your career, Ms Ashworth?’
‘I think you know about Caroline, Geraldine,’ Nick said sauvely. ‘Caroline’s retirement was well documented in the European papers, as well as in the UK.’
‘Of course. So sad about your medical problem. A genuine loss to the music world.’ Geraldine’s deep blue eyes drilled into Caroline’s without a glimmer of compassion. ‘Perhaps you’d allow me an interview? I’m sure that devoted Times fans who followed your career would be interested to learn what Caroline Ashworth is doing with herself these days.’
Like hell they would. ‘I don’t give interviews any more, Miss Baxter.’ Caroline listened to the sound of her own voice; it was guarded but firm. ‘I’ve found that I like my privacy.’ Which wasn’t strictly true, but she couldn’t see any point in being interviewed by this person and she was having trouble controlling the previously dormant green-eyed monster that had reared up inside her on seeing Geraldine and Nick together. The woman had to be twenty years plus younger than him, but anyone with reasonable vision could see that the Englishwoman was impressed with Nick.
So … Why should she care? Nick was as free an agent as she was and her ex didn’t appear to mind that she was here with Warren Tremayne. It was just that she knew from Fern that he wasn’t seeing anyone at present. And Geraldine, clinging to him with her blood-red fingernails as if she already had her hooks into him, somehow and quite illogically made her liverish.
‘Oh!’ Geraldine’s eyebrow lifted. She was clearly put out by Caroline’s polite snub. She shrugged her shoulders indifferently. ‘As you wish.’ Almost cold-shouldering Caroline and Warren, she turned to Nick. ‘Shouldn’t we be getting back to our seats? The buzzer’s gone.’
‘Yes, Nick, you should.’ Caroline’s tone was arch, she couldn’t help it, as she confirmed Geraldine’s suggestion. Her glance caught Nick’s features tightening with annoyance — he didn’t like her dismissive tone. Who cares! Her blonde head tossed defiantly at him. Not her. Though she thought the words, she wasn’t convinced of the truth of them. After a clipped goodbye she watched Geraldine and Nick walk back up the stairs and couldn’t help but admit that they looked good together. Damn. She drained the remainder of her wine glass too quickly and began to cough.
Warren patted her on the back. ‘You okay?’
Caroline got her breath back and gave him an apologetic smile. ‘I don’t usually embarrass myself like this.’ She was mortified. She had made the error of letting her feelings show, not to Nick, but to her date. What would Warren think of her? Oh, hell, what did that matter? It was Nick she wanted to think well of her … Yes. Her heartbeat lifted of its own accord. Admitting that cost her … a lot.
Warren frowned. He glanced at her empty wine glass, and then his gaze moved to where Nick and Geraldine were disappearing into the concert hall. ‘I see.’ His voice was tinged with regret.
Caroline studied him for a moment. She smiled; it was a little wobbly around the edges. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s okay. It’s important to know which way the wind blows. To do so can save a good deal of heartache.’
She took a deep breath, then let it out, slowly. She knew about that — heartache — intimately. Had experienced it ten years ago and … she just knew, it was starting all over again.
Laura Ashworth-Beaumont stared out at the deep blue sea of the Pacific Ocean. Miles of it, oceans of it. It felt as if she and Kitty had been on board the Queen Elizabeth II much longer than the three and a half months it had been. They were on their way back to Sydney and would be home in five days’ time. Everything had been superb, the places they’d been to, the wonderful sights, the people. She and Kitty had souvenirs and trinkets salted away all over their suite, so many that they’d have to buy extra luggage at their last port of call to accommodate what they’d bought.
She was ready to go home. There was no place like it, number fifty-two Waratah Avenue, despite all the wonders she had been exposed to. Home was home and she was missing her family, especially young Fern. Still, the holiday had been good for her, healthwise. She hadn’t felt this well and relaxed for several years, as she’d owned up to her longtime friend during the voyage. What her doctor, Rupert MacIntosh, had ordered — rest, together with a change of pace, of scene, and a modification in diet and mild medication — had been very necessary, possibly life-saving.
She saw Kitty coming along the deck, flanked on both sides by male admirers. Laura smiled. Kitty, a widow who admitted to being seventy, though she was several years older than what she owned up to, could still attract members of the opposite sex. She’d had a ball these last few months, winning and discarding suitors with blithe detachment. Her friend needed the attention of males; it flattered her, boosted her ego. Laura had no such needs, even though, several times, she had had to make her lack of interest abundantly clear to be rid of a few hopefuls. The trouble was, none could compare with her Jack. None ever would. She sighed sadly. That was a fact she accepted, even if Kitty found her devotion to a man gone from this world for so long slightly strange.
Her thoughts returned to pondering over what was happening at home. What was the situation between Michaela and Leith? Had a relationship developed, and on whose terms? She chuckled as she wondered. The young lawyer would have to handle her feisty younger daughter with expertise and no small amount of understanding to forge a meaningful relationship. And there was the issue of Nick and Caroline. She had high hopes that because Nick and Fern had become close, Caroline would be drawn back to him again. Nick had matured, got over his slightly dysfunctional upbringing and the possessiveness and petty jealousies that had soured their marriage. Those two were meant for each other. She believed that, despite the circumstances that had torn them apart. And her
son, dear Joel …
She couldn’t help but ponder what might be happening in his life. Was he still hitting the booze when he got disappointed over something? She chuckled once more, glad that she was alone on the row of deck chairs and could do so without receiving odd, sidelong glances. Hers was a wise chuckle born of years of experience. At home everyone thought her ignorant of Joel’s problem. How silly of them! Did they think she had forgotten Eddie, her first husband, and the symptoms an alcoholic eventually exhibited? For years she had suspected that Joel was developing a drinking problem, and now she could only pray that he hadn’t sunk to the depth of total dependency. His problem would be the first one she tackled on her return.
‘Laura, good morning. How are you?’ one of Kitty’s admirers, Ernest, asked as they came up to her deck chair. ‘We’re looking for a fourth for bridge. Perhaps you could help us out?’
Personally, she would have preferred to remain in her chair, watching the dark blue ocean pass by, but an appealing glance from Kitty forced her to answer otherwise. ‘Of course, Ernest, I’d love to.’
She allowed him to help her out of the chair and joined them as they walked along the deck to the salon.
‘Are you nervous?’ Jo whispered to Michaela as she helped her set up the whiteboard and easel for the 18 to 28 presentation to the board.
‘I wasn’t until you mentioned the “n” word,’ Michaela hissed back. The six board members had begun to file into the room and sit down. Caroline, an interested onlooker but not a participant, was there as well. She smiled encouragingly at the two as she took a seat at the end of the conference table.
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