‘We’ve got strategies in play,’ Rhona said. ‘Mo’s going public about his charity work, finally, and he’ll be taking a proper date to the Christmas Eve Gala.’ She flashed Mo a pointed look.
‘It’s a start,’ said the head executive. ‘But it’s not enough. No more bullshit in the media, Mo. No more outbursts with the paps, perceived or otherwise, and no more drunken photos with twenty-year-old models. It’s getting old.’
Humiliation burned in Mo’s belly. ‘Got it.’
As they left, he stopped in the lobby, weighed down by the knowledge that it wasn’t just his career on the line, but Rhona’s too. Hit hard by the realisation that once again, just like that day at the police station, he really didn’t have much of a choice about what he had to do next. ‘Rhona?’
‘Yeah?’ she said. She looked exhausted.
‘I’m going to ask Netta to come to the gala with me.’
Rhona rewarded him with a pat on the chest. ‘Good move,’ she said. ‘Lucky I’ve already invited her to dinner tonight, hey? You can ask her then.’
Chapter Nineteen
NETTA
Rhona’s double-storey terrace was distinguished from the identical homes on either side by its turquoise front door, upon which a woodpecker-shaped knocker sat at Netta’s eye level, inviting her to announce her arrival. The brass bird and the bright, summery hue of the door made her smile despite the nerves crimping her belly. She’d kept herself busy all day—a long walk, a poke around the market and a jetlag-induced afternoon nap—but nothing had been able to keep the thought of seeing Morrison again from her mind.
Within moments of Netta’s hesitant rat-a-tat-tat, Rhona swung the door open with a flourish and ushered her in, welcoming her with a hug and a haze of citrusy perfume. Netta looked over Rhona’s shoulder as she released her from the squeeze. The house had already knocked her socks off and she’d barely taken two steps inside. The hallway was laid with beautiful timber floorboards the colour of honey and the walls were lined with bold modern art: canvases textured with brushstrokes. No printed reproductions here. High ceilings. A tall archway. A timber staircase. Quirky pendant lights casting a warm ambience over it all. It was beautiful.
‘You didn’t have to bring anything, but this will be lovely, thank you.’ Rhona took the bottle of pinot noir from Netta’s chilled hands and set it on the hall table. ‘Let me take your coat.’
Netta slipped out of her jacket and self-consciously tugged her hem a little further down her thighs. Rhona was decked out in a sparkling, ankle-length kaftan. Netta felt decidedly undercooked in her knitted dress and leather knee-high boots.
‘You look great,’ said Rhona. She hung Netta’s coat on the hat rack near the front door and collected the wine. ‘Come on in. I hope you didn’t get too wet on your way over. I really should’ve just come to pick you up.’
Netta followed Rhona down the hallway, past a beautiful formal lounge lit by an enormous Christmas tree to a big open-plan space, where exposed brick walls rose through a double-height void to the soaring roofline and floor-to-ceiling windows looked out to a fairy-lit garden. Netta swept her gaze around the cavernous space, taking in the long dining table and huge kitchen with deep forest green cabinetry, thick timber benchtops and tiles in various shades of pearl. ‘Oh my God, Rhona, this place is incredible.’
Rhona smiled. ‘We love it here.’
‘Who wouldn’t? It’s an eight-page spread inHome Beautiful.’
‘Don!’ Rhona shouted up to the mezzanine level above. ‘Netta’s here!’
A balding head popped over the railing. ‘Hello there! Welcome!’ Don’s face creased into an easy smile. Netta liked him instantly.
‘Netta, Don. Don, Netta,’ said Rhona. ‘The kids are both face first in their iPads somewhere, I’d say. They’ll surface once they smell the food.’
‘How many do you have?’ asked Netta.
‘Two. Miles and Carly.’ A smile twitched at her lips. ‘They’re teenagers now but they were beautiful once,’ she said drily.
‘Ladies!’ boomed Don, suddenly appearing in the kitchen. ‘Let me get you both a drink!’ He was long-limbed, lean and bespectacled—and dressed head-to-toe in denim.
‘We’re going to need one to get past that outfit, darling,’ Rhona said. ‘Double denim on a fifty-six-year-old man is …’ She trailed off and shook her head.
‘Well, Iwasgoing to wear the sparkly kaftan, but you got to it first. What’s a man to do, love?’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Okay, are we feeling a red or a white tonight?’
‘Netta brought a pinot,’ said Rhona, swiping it from the bench.
‘Wonderful!’ Don took three luxuriously large wine glasses from the cupboard, expertly removed the cork from the bottle and poured them all a rubber-wristed measure.
‘Thanks so much for having me over, Rhona—and you too, Don,’ said Netta as she accepted a glass.
Don opened the fridge door and started taking out an army of covered plates. ‘Is this your first time in London?’ he asked over his shoulder.
‘No,’ answered Netta, watching as plates of sliced mushrooms, slivers of capsicum, fresh prawns, grated cheese, olives and herbs started to crowd the kitchen bench. ‘I used to live here, a long time ago. It feels quite … strange, to be back, to be honest.’
