The Final Proposal. Robyn Donald

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      Gerry surveyed her with affectionate resignation. ‘Under that glossily smart, sophisticated, hip exterior you’re the most motherly creature I’ve ever come across. Why don’t you get married and have kids of your own instead of spending most of your spare time worrying about, raising money for and counselling your wayward girls?’

      ‘They are not my girls, and they are not all wayward!’ ‘Oh, semantics! In need of care and attention, then—and don’t you dare frown!’

      Jan froze. It had taken so long for her make-up to be applied that she didn’t dare risk cracking it. More for form’s sake than from conviction, she said, ‘I warn you, I’ll have strong hysterics if anyone so much as smirks.’

      The hairdresser, a nervy young man with a shaven head set off by a diamond stud in his ear, said fretfully, ‘I still think she should be wearing a wig. With ringlets.’

      ‘No,’ Jan said, as forcefully as she could through stiff lips.

      Gerry sighed. ‘She’s right. We don’t want to slide over the edge into farce. She has to look as though some poor woman could make the same mistakes.’

      ‘A madwoman.’ Jan leaned forward to peer at the coating of blue mascara on her black lashes. Flinching, she closed her eyes and backed away from the mirror. ‘I must be crazy! I’m an image consultant—I show people what their most flattering colours and styles are, I teach them how to wear clothes so they look great and I’m moderately famous for my seminars and workshops on self-esteem—I don’t prance through magazine pages as a glaring example of what not to do.’ Ignoring Gerry’s outcry she chewed her lip, carefully and sultrily coloured a shade that clashed subtly with the suit and her ivory skin.

      ‘The “after” pages will reveal you as your true, impeccably elegant self,’ Gerry reminded her with cheerful callousness. ‘Come on, let Cindy redo your mouth and then put this bracelet on.’

      ‘Diamonds!’ Recoiling, Jan almost lost her balance as the ankle-wrecking high heels on her Italian shoes sank into the grass. ‘Oh, damn these things! They’re going to kill me before this is over. Gerry, you’ll never get away with this. Talk about a Victorian nightmare!’

      ‘We don’t want to get away with anything,’ Gerry said, casting her eyes heavenward. ‘The bracelet is absolutely perfect.’

      ‘I might lose it. Though I’d be doing the world a favour if I did. Or it might be stolen,’ Jan muttered through set lips while the make-up woman reapplied lipstick.

      ‘You’re too conscientious and sensible to lose anything, and although I know New Zealand seems to be trying to catch up with the rest of the world as far as crime rates go, there’s not likely to be a master jewel thief at a polo match. Anyway, we’ve got a security man. And that bracelet is just the right overdone touch. So shut up and hold your arm out. Think of what you can do with the money at your half-a-shoestring centre.’

      It was the only redeeming feature of this whole episode. Closing her eyes again, Jan schooled her features into long-suffering patience and submitted to being fettered by the heavy, ostentatious snake of diamonds and gold.

      ‘Great,’ Gerry said, gloating. ‘You look awful. Actually, damn you, you don’t—in spite of our best efforts you just about manage to get away with it. Shows what little chicken bones and huge, dark blue eyes set on an exotic slant will do for a woman. To say nothing of that sensual pout. Just think, snooks, if you’d been ten inches taller you’d be a millionaire model.’

      Jan snorted. ‘I haven’t the stamina for it. Anyway, I’d be be over the hill by now.’

      ‘But rich, love, filthy rich—because the camera adores you. And nowadays quite a few models last beyond their thirty-first birthday. You’d be one—there isn’t a wrinkle on that fabulous skin.’

      ‘Everyone’s got wrinkles,’ Jan said morosely. ‘And I’m not thirty-one until tomorrow.’

      ‘Ha—more semantics! I’m really looking forward to tonight—you and Aunt Cynthia know how to make a birthday party hum. But first we have to get this over with. OK, let’s go out there—and don’t forget to simper for the camera.’

      Jan batted her lashes dramatically. ‘You’ll never see a more perfect simper. Damn, I can barely move in these shoes. I need crutches. Or a large, oiled Nubian slave to carry me around.’

      Unimpressed, Gerry grinned. ‘Sorry, slaves are off today. Anyway, an oiled one would mark the suit. You’ll cope. You’ve got that inborn aplomb that makes the rest of us feel inferior. And remember, it’s for a good cause. There are hundreds of thousands of women in New Zealand and Australia who are dying to discover that they can go anywhere, any time, with a good, basic wardrobe that isn’t going to cost them a fortune.’

      ‘I still think just showing the right gear would have been enough.’

      ‘It lacks drama. Trust me. Besides, this is good publicity for you.’

      ‘Good publicity?’ Jan almost choked. ‘I’ll probably never see another client.’

      ‘Rubbish! Everyone will look at the “after” shots and understand what we’ve done.’

      ‘And if you believe that,’ Jan said sweetly, picking her way out of the tent and into the blinding sunlight of a late New Zealand summer, ‘I have the latitude and longitude of a shipwreck off Fiji and I know for a fact that all the gold is still on board. I’ll sell you the treasure map for a million dollars.’

      Outside, champagne glass in hand, she posed for the camera, keeping her gaze fixed and slightly unfocused, because most of the spectators at the celebrity tournament found the sight of an overdressed woman being photographed every bit as fascinating as the game. People she knew grinned, waved and settled back to stare quite unashamedly, but even complete strangers seemed to feel that the camera gave them licence to watch.

      Jan was accustomed to being looked at; it was, to some extent, part of her job. At seminars and workshops she frequently stood in front of large audiences and, without anything more than a few minor bubbles in her stomach, kept them interested.

      This, however, was different. She felt as though she’d been dumped into the modern equivalent of medieval stocks.

      It didn’t help when the photographer, damn him, entered wholeheartedly into the theatrical ambience of the occasion and began giving a running commentary.

      ‘Everyone’s an actor,’ Jan hissed after he’d told her to shake her sexy little hips. ‘Shut up!’

      ‘But this is how photographers are supposed to behave,’ he said, narrowing his eyes lustfully at her. ‘You’ve seen the films and read the books. Come on, darling, give me a slow, come-hither grin—make like a volcano...’

      Resisting the impulse to stick out her tongue, she tossed her head, catching as she did so the eyes of a man a few feet away. Until then he’d been intent upon the game, but apparently Sid’s babble had intruded on his concentration. Dark brows compressed, he scrutinised them.

      Growing up with a tall, big-framed stepfather and a half-sister who took after him should have taught Jan not to be intimidated by mere stature, but Anet and Stephen Carruthers were gentle people. Once she’d discovered that some men used their height and build to intimidate, Jan had rapidly developed a small woman’s wariness.

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