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‘Well, I…’ Rosie’s gaze landed on a snaking tangle of coils, bisecting the deep grass around the rear of the marquee and connected to a throbbing generator.
‘Rosie, are you listening? On disclosure of the discovery of the gas deposits their share price has rocketed. The investment you purchased for the trust fund is now estimated to be worth in excess of eight hundred million dollars. They are ecstatic! The clients are demanding to speak to you personally. They’ve nicknamed you Miss Midas!’
Rosie knees buckled and she sunk down onto to the damp grass, her jaw hung loose.
‘It’s all thanks to you. Of course, the board’s appreciation of this turn of events means that they want to reinstate you at Harlow Fenton as VP! The firm’s commission on the deal is one of the largest ever collected. George Harlow is praising your foresight, shrewd financial acumen, and gut instinct as qualities Harlow Fenton nurtures in all their employees. His wife is already shopping for a new yacht and a villa in the south of France!’
‘Lauren, I don’t think I want to pick up where I left off…’ Rosie muttered.
‘But that’s not the best bit of news in my book, Rosie.’
Rosie didn’t think she could take any more shocks that day. Her head hurt, her knees were soaked through as she knelt on the grassy slope, and all intelligent thought had seeped from her brain to her boots. She knew she should be whooping for joy that everyone was rich now and therefore prepared to overlook the reasons she had resigned.
‘What else, Lauren?’
‘George’s daughter found out about Edward dating you whilst she was away in Paris. She’s ditched him. Turns outshe’sseeing her golf instructor and was waiting for the opportunity to dump the sleazeball. He’s moved in with his brother and sister-in-law in Hoboken, sleeping on his couch and storing all his worldlypossessions in their garage. So, Rosie, when are you coming home? Your position is restored with immediate effect until your promotion can be ratified by the board.’
Rosie paused before she spoke. ‘Lauren, if you had told me all this a few weeks ago I would have leapt on the next plane back, donned my best business suit, and stormed back to the office with my head held high. But so much has happened since yesterday. I can’t begin to explain it all over the phone, but I’ve got this meeting to attend and I’m already late.’
‘Before you go, Rosie.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m pregnant.’
Rosie’s spirits soared. ‘Oh, Lauren, I’m absolutely thrilled for you.’
Chapter Thirty
Rosie slotted her phone back into her pocket and inhaled several deep breaths as she tried to corral her scattered thoughts and emotions.
Did she want to return to her old life in Manhattan where some people’s principles were firmly held until casually brushed to one side when the spectre of immense wealth materialised? Could she return to embrace the same manic hours, the same paucity of human contact unless it was a high-speed superficial acknowledgement, each day donning her battle dress of designer business suit and killer heels to prop up her sagging confidence?
Or would she choose to embrace the slower, more humble pace of life she had experienced over the past few months when she’d had the time, the opportunity, and the inclination to form lasting relationships with people she cared about as well as become a valued part of the local community? Even if Charlie didn’t forgive her, she could perhaps stay on in Somersby, steer through the publication of her aunt’s journal and have a detailed discussion with Susan as to the whereabouts of Gordon.
It wouldn’t be a wealthy life, but it would be a rich one.
She imagined Charlie’s dark eyes gazing at her from beneath those spidery lashes, his soft lips curled into his familiar mischievous smile, and she recognised the beginnings of the fiery desire that Charlie’s presence had always instilled in her heart.
The answer to her dilemma was clear. She was in love with him! She loved his quirky sense of humour, his self-deprecating manner, his scruffy appearance and his absolute lack of concern for other people’s opinions of him. She realised he was one of the good guys and she was ashamed at having shunted him to the side-lines in preference of the designer-suited traitor that was Angus Meadows.
She had delayed for too long; it was time to talk to Charlie.
The moment Rosie lifted the marquee’s entrance flap, the shock hit her square in the face. To her astonishment, and disbelief, the cavernous inside of the over-blown tent milled with people: slender, important-looking, glamorous women with clipboards and huddles of bearded, middle-aged men gesticulating wildly towards the back of the marquee. Her confused gaze followed the route of the coils of cable that were connected to three television cameras trained on a mock-up kitchen built on a raised wooden dais.
A burble of conversation rotated around the room as Rosie skirted the tent’s left-hand-side wall, taking up position next to one of the TV monitors, and she almost jumped out of her skin when a loud, authoritative voice pierced the air.
‘Quiet, please! Cameras one and three rolling! Take five – mark!’
Immediately the marquee plunged into well-practiced silence. Rosie crouched down, her heart flaying her chest as she feared she had inadvertently blundered onto a live TV set and was desperate to remain as unobtrusive as possible. She glanced at the viewfinder on the monitor at her elbow which had remained focused on the mocked-up kitchen podium and as she watched the image switched to another camera angle. Suddenly, in the centre of the screen appeared Charlie, decked out in hischef’s whites smiling that devastating smile of his straight onto the screen.
Wow, thought Rosie, as she saw him laughing with a woman wearing headphones around her neck and pointing to the sheet on her clipboard. However, before she could look any closer, she was unceremoniously shoved into the side of the marquee.
‘Oh, sorry, am I in your way?’
The guy ignored her and settled his large backside into the seat in front of the camera monitor screen. ‘Why don’t you take your seat, we’ll be filming in a few minutes. You shouldn’t be hanging around here. You do know how lucky you are to be invited to the recording, don’t you? Thousands of people would lynch you for your ticket to this gig!’
‘Ticket?’
