Александр Суворов. Сергей Тимофеевич Григорьев

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      “Good afternoon, Rhoda.” Genevieve gave the dragon lady a brilliant smile.

      Rhoda did not respond. No surprise there. But she did condescend to point a finger at a seat. Here was a woman who wouldn’t win any votes for Receptionist of the Year.

      With a smile and a nod to the other two hopefuls, Genevieve found a seat on the other side of the room, so she could take out Secrets of the Past and appreciate it all over again. She liked the cover. It depicted a beautiful young woman’s downbent face above her pen-name: Michelle Laurent. It was the maiden name of her French-born paternal grandmother. “Michelle Laurent” was set in large letters above the title. So much better to have it above than beneath. Such an attractive-looking book would draw attention. She had seen it prominently displayed in a bookshop inside a major shopping mall she had cut through on her way over to Maggie’s.

      Secrets of the Past had been written at night, when she’d still been teaching English and French at her old Alma Mater—a prestigious college for girls. She had enjoyed her years of teaching since university, but as soon as her writing career had taken off she’d found herself in the enviable position of being able to write full-time. Her beloved Michelle’s handsome legacy had made that possible.

      Grandmère Michelle had started to teach her French at toddler stage. She had always given love, support and endless encouragement. To Genevieve’s grief Michelle had died very suddenly of complications following a severe bout of influenza. That had been a short time before the manuscript for Secrets of the Past had been completed. It was balm to know Michelle had pored over its drafts and offered valuable insights, which Genevieve had wisely acted upon. Maggie often said Michelle was a better editor than she was—and Maggie was the best.

      Genevieve had fully intended using her own name, but that all had changed when Michelle died. To her readership she was Michelle Laurent. A tribute to her beloved grandmother. Her father had entrusted her to Michelle after her mother Celine had been killed in a catastrophic five-car pile-up on the freeway. Genevieve had been ten at the time. Her devastated father had taken a few years before remarrying the divorced socialite Sable Carville. Sable had brought her glamorous, much-photographed self to the marriage, along with her little girl, the adorable Shirley Temple look-alike Carrie-Anne, who soon took her stepfather’s surname Grenville.

      So there they had been—the two little Grenville girls, Genevieve and Carrie-Anne. One tall for her age and gawky to boot, with an unmanageable mane of red hair and freckles, the other the adorable Carrie-Anne, always exquisitely turned out by her fashion-plate mother. Genevieve hadn’t received the same attention. Not much point spending time on a stepdaughter who didn’t fit the description of “pretty”. Only her father, a blue chip lawyer, had foreseen the day when the awkward cygnet would turn into a swan like her mother.

      Her maternal grandparents were seldom in the country. After the death of their beloved only child they had become world-travellers, never staying anywhere for long. In their own way they were on the run from the tragedy, and from other family tragedies that reached back decades.

      A very intense young man with a mop of bushy hair was being ushered out through Maggie’s door, shaking his head in disbelief. From the expression of confusion and outrage on his face, he had discovered his prized manuscript hadn’t been short-listed for the Booker Prize.

      Maggie saw him off with an encouraging, “Keep at it, Colin.” It was like a benign pat on the head. One of the other hopefuls spluttered into laughter. That was a bit unkind. Maggie jiggled her fingers at the two waiting hopefuls, and then gave Genevieve a big smile. “Come on in, Gena.”

      Genevieve gathered up her tote bag.

      Maggie’s office was very spacious, attesting to her success.The floor was carpeted wall to wall in neutral beige, with a luxurious oriental rug. Her desk was substantial—mahogany with curved legs. Two cream leather armchairs were placed in front of it, and there was a separate seating area with a sofa and armchairs grouped around a glass-topped coffee table. Three of the walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with a lot of leather-bound books with gold lettering on their spines. A large portrait of a very handsome man took pride of place directly behind Maggie—looking over her shoulder, as it were. Most people were allowed to believe it was a family portrait, but Maggie had confessed after a drink or two that she’d bought it because it looked like Sir Richard Hadlee, the famous New Zealand cricket player, in his prime. Maggie had made Genevieve promise not to tell anyone.

      Waving a hand towards some point on the ceiling, Maggie moved behind her desk. It was littered with so many manuscripts Genevieve always wondered how Maggie could work in such a shambles. Genevieve took a seat, depositing her tote bag on the floor.

      Maggie reached for the glasses she was too vain to wear in public. “We’ve got a cracker here, Gena.” She slapped a satisfied hand on top of the thick manuscript. “I thoroughly enjoyed it. Your readers will too. A stirring tale—great romance, extremely touching in places, all those amazing insights, and your usual clever twists.”

      Genevieve’s heart lifted. “I’m glad you like it, Maggie. I owe a lot to you.”

      “Maybe a bit,” Maggie conceded. “But you’re a born writer.”

      “I’ve always had a compulsion to write going back to my childhood.”

      “Of course, dear—a prerequisite.” Maggie looked up tosmile. Maggie smiled often—unlike Rhoda. “So what next?” Maggie asked.

      Genevieve shifted back in her chair “I think I’ll take a break, Maggie. A complete change of scene—maybe six months or so. I’ve been going at it pretty intensively, as you know. Losing my grandmother hit me very hard, and then there was the debacle of my engagement.”

      “You’re well rid of him,” Maggie huffed. Maggie never kept her strong opinions to herself. “So he was a good-looking charmer? He turned out to be a traitor. As for that treacherous creature Carrie-Anne!” Maggie threw up her hands in disgust.

      “I’m over it, Maggie,” Genevieve said. Well, not completely. A double betrayal was hard to take.

      “As I’ve told you before, dear, you’ve had a lucky break. Think—it could have happened after you were married. He could have betrayed you zillions of times over a lifetime. Honest to God, it brings tears to my eyes. Success puts men off, you know, love,” she confided for the umpteenth time.“I should know.”

      Maggie had been twice married, twice divorced. Now she was eyeing Genevieve speculatively across the table, her pearly white teeth—the result of expensive cosmetic work—sinking into her bottom lip.

      “You wouldn’t consider a break in our fabled Outback, would you?” She asked on the off-chance, with no real expectation of Gena’s saying yes. “You’d be staying on a famous cattle station in the Channel Country. It’s owned and run by one of our most prominent landed families. I can line someone else up, but I thought you could handle it. Have a well-earned holiday as well—recharge the batteries, maybe get inspiration?

      Out of nowhere Genevieve experienced one of those moments of searing awareness that came like a thunderclap. She didn’t understand what prompted these moments, but she had come to think of them as a window opening up in her mind.

      “What are we talking about here, Maggie? A working holiday?” Her voice sounded calm, but there was a betraying tension in her face.

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