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It wasn’t that Sharon had a nondescript appearance. She had friendly hazel eyes, a mass of curly brown hair, and an attractive, expressive face. Natalie instinctively liked her.
‘Have I been difficult to deal with?’ she asked bluntly.
‘Not at all,’ Sharon replied reassuringly. ‘You’ve been as eager about the project as I have. I love your work. It’s creative. I truly don’t thi
nk you have anything to worry about. Once you sit in front of the computer again...well, it’s like reading. You haven’t forgotten how to do that.’
Natalie hoped it was a valid point. ‘Have we met often?’ she asked, fiercely wishing she could remember.
‘No. Only three times.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t recall you. The doctors do say it’s only a matter of time.’
‘Please...don’t distress yourself. I’m sure it will all come back to you.’
‘There was a woman getting into the elevator. She wore a yellow suit. Very smart...’
‘My boss. Project manager.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Anne Smith.’
Natalie sighed. It didn’t mean anything to her. ‘It’s hardly possible to get a more prosaic name than that,’ she remarked ruefully.
‘Believe you me, Anne Smith is not a prosaic person,’ Sharon said, rolling her eyes at the comment. ‘She’s a human dynamo. She’s not only on the ball all the time herself, she expects everyone else to be. In fact, it was Anne who spotted the work you submitted. Instant decision. “Get this person under contract,”’ she mimicked, then smiled. ‘She has a great eye for spotting talent in every form.’
‘She wore black when I met her,’ Natalie said with gathering certainty.
Sharon frowned. ‘But you’ve never met.’
‘We’ve never met?’
‘My orders were to handle this project myself. Completely. Anne’s kept right out of it. You’ve never met.’
‘That’s extraordinary! I was so certain...’ Natalie dismissed the idea for the time being. Perhaps her memory was playing tricks on her.
Sharon, she thought, might become a friend in time. She felt the liking was mutual. Apart from that, she did have something to do, and something she did well. What Sharon had shown her of her work had convinced her of that. It gave her a pleasant sense of satisfaction and autonomy.
She caught another taxi to her home address at Narrabeen. It was a beach suburb on the north side of Sydney Harbour, which probably explained her tan, but Natalie felt cold inside when she saw the house she lived in. A double garage faced on to the street. A high brick wall hid the rest, giving the place a shuttered, unwelcoming appearance.
She found the key to the locked gate in the brick wall on her key-ring. She walked slowly down a side-path that led to a covered porch protecting what was obviously the entrance to the house. Natalie automatically chose the right key for the door.
She stepped into a large open-space living area, very modern, and furnished in a style she knew instinctively was not her taste. She eyed with a sense of disbelief the glass and chrome tables, the leather sofas and chairs, the lack of any colourful character.
She dropped her suitcase and shoulder-bag in the entrance foyer and walked over to the glass doors at the far end of the living-room. Beyond them was an extensive patio and a swimming-pool. No lawn. No garden. A few landscape-designed areas with palm trees and ferns for shade.
An expensive house in an expensive location, she thought, and wondered about her finances. Was there a heavy mortgage on this property or was it paid for? Had her husband been a high-income earner? Had they led a very social life throughout their marriage?
She trailed slowly through the house, room by room. The furnishings were basically neutral, smartly fashionable, ultra-modern, without any striking individuality. Show-rooms, she thought, finding it difficult to accept she had lived here without wanting to change anything, or at the very minimum add some personal touches. Hadn’t she cared about her surroundings? Had Brett insisted on this sophisticated but soulless lifestyle image?
Why had she continued with it after his death? Why hadn’t she sold the house and made a different home for herself somewhere else? Had she simply stopped caring about anything? Even the study where she obviously worked on the computer was functional rather than personal.
What must have been Ryan’s room had been stripped of any evidence of childish occupation. No nursery things. No toys. No remembrances at all. Maybe they were shut away in the cupboards. Or had she been unable to bear reminders of what was forever lost and given it all away to a charity?
Natalie found her tour of the house unutterably depressing. If this represented her past, she felt no kinship with it. Perhaps, if she opened the cupboards, went through the drawers, some sense of familiarity might return. There had to be mementoes of her life here somewhere. But she didn’t feel capable of continuing her search. The purpose that had fired the day’s activities drained into a flood of exhaustion.
Her legs finally carried her back to the master bedroom where she flopped weakly on to the king-size bed. She managed to work off her shoes and drag some pillows out from under the quilted cover. She was trying to settle herself comfortably on her side when she saw the photograph.
