The Marriage Campaign. HELEN BIANCHIN

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      ‘Yes.’ Francesca stood to her feet, collected her bag and slid the strap over one shoulder. She had a particular sympathy for terminally ill children. ‘Fax me the details.’

      ‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’

      ‘A secluded beach,’ she enlightened. ‘A good book, and the mobile phone.’

      ‘Don’t forget the block-out sunscreen.’

      Francesca’s smile held a teasing quality. ‘Got it.’

      An hour later she sat munching an apple beneath a sun umbrella on a northern beach gazing over the shoreline to the distant horizon.

      There was a faint breeze wafting in from the ocean, cooling the sun’s heat. She could smell the salt-spray, and there was the occasional cry from a lonely seagull as it explored the damp sand at the edge of an outgoing tide.

      The solitude soothed and relaxed her, smoothing the edges of mind and soul.

      Reflections were often painful, and with a determined effort Francesca extracted her book and read for an hour, then she retrieved a banana and a peach from her bag and washed both down with a generous amount of bottled water.

      Phone calls. The first of which was to a dear friend with whom she’d shared boarding school during emotionally turbulent years when each had battled a stepmother and the effects of a dysfunctional family relationship.

      She punched in the number, got past Reception, then a secretary, and chuckled at Gabbi’s enthusiastic greeting and a demand as to when they would get together.

      ‘Tonight, if you and Benedict are attending Leon’s exhibition.’

      The flamboyant gallery owner was known for his soirées, invitations to which featured high on the social calendar among the city’s fashionable élite.

      ‘You are? That’s great,’ Francesca responded with enthusiasm. ‘I’m meeting Mother for dinner first, so I could be late.’

      ‘Have fun.’ Gabbi issued lightly, and Francesca laughed outright at the unspoken nuance in those two words.

      It was fun listening to Sophy’s breathy gossip over chicken consommé, salad and fruit. Sophy’s permanent diet involved minuscule portions of fat-free calorie-depleted food.

      A gifted raconteur, she had a wicked way with words that was endearingly humorous, and it was little wonder her mother gathered men as some women collected jewellery. All of whom remained friends long after the relationship had ended. With the exception of Rick, her first husband and Francesca’s father. He was the one who had remained impervious to Sophy’s machinations.

      It was after nine when the waiter brought the bill, which Francesca paid, and she saw Sophy into a cab before crossing to her car.

      Twenty minutes later she searched for an elusive parking space within walking distance of Leon’s fashionable Double Bay gallery, located one, and made her way towards the brightly lit main entrance.

      There were people everywhere, milling, drinking, and it was difficult to distinguish the muted baroque music beneath audible snatches of conversation.

      ‘Francesca, darling!’

      Leon—who else? She acknowledged his effusive greeting and allowed him to clasp her shoulders as he regarded her features with thoughtful contemplation.

      ‘You must have a drink before you circulate.’

      Her eyes assumed a humorous gleam. ‘That bad, huh?’

      ‘Non. But a glass in the hand—’ He paused to effect a Gallic shrug. ‘You can pretend, oui, that it is something other than mineral water.’ He lifted a hand in imperious summons, and a waiter appeared out of nowhere, tray in hand.

      Dutifully, she extracted a tall glass. ‘Anything in particular you can recommend to add to my collection?’

      ‘A sculpture,’ Leon announced at once. ‘It is a little raw, you understand, but the talent—’ He touched fingers to his lips and blew a kiss into the air. ‘Très magnifique. In a few years it will be worth ten, twenty times what is being asked for it now.’ He smiled, and brushed gentle knuckles to her cheek. ‘Go, cherie, and examine. Exhibit Fourteen. It may not capture you immediately, but it grows, fascinates.’

      An accurate description, Francesca accorded several minutes later, unsure of the sculpture’s appeal. Yet there was something that drew her attention again and again.

      Leon was an expert in the art world, she trusted his judgement, and owned, thanks to his advice, several items which had increased dramatically in value since their date of purchase. Therefore, she would browse among the other exhibits, then return and perhaps view it from a fresh angle. It was certainly different from anything she owned.

      There were a few fellow guests whose features were familiar, and she smiled, greeted several by name, paused to exchange polite conversation, then moved on, only to divert from her intended path as she glimpsed the endearingly familiar features of an attractive blonde threading a path towards her.

      ‘Francesca!’

      ‘Gabbi.’

      They embraced, and tumbled into speech. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

      ‘And you. Where’s Benedict?’ It was unlike Gabbi’s husband to be far from his wife’s side.

      ‘Eyes right, about ten feet distant.’

      Francesca caught the dry tone and conducted a casual sweeping glance in the indicated direction. Benedict’s tall, dark-haired frame came into view, together with that of a familiar female form. Annaliese Schubert, a model with whom she’d shared a few catwalks both home and abroad.

      ‘Your dear stepsister is in town, and bent on creating her usual mayhem?’ An attempt to seduce Benedict Nicols appeared Annaliese’s prime motivation. That she had been unsuccessful both before and after Benedict’s marriage didn’t appear to bother her in the slightest.

      ‘Perceptive of you,’ Gabbi replied wryly. ‘How was Rome?’

      Francesca hesitated fractionally, unaware of the fleeting darkness that momentarily clouded her eyes. ‘The catwalks were exhausting.’ Her shoulders lifted slightly, then fell. ‘And Mario’s mother lost a long battle with cancer.’

      Empathetic understanding didn’t require words, and Francesca was grateful Gabbi refrained from uttering more than the customary few.

      ‘Let’s do lunch,’ Gabbi suggested gently. ‘Is tomorrow too soon?’

      ‘Done.’

      ‘Good,’ Gabbi said with satisfaction. She tucked a hand through Francesca’s arm. ‘Shall we examine the art exhibits for any hidden talent?’

      They wandered companionably, slowly circling the room, and when Gabbi paused to speak to a friend Francesca moved forward to give closer scrutiny to a canvas that displayed a visual cacophony of bold colour.

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