At the granite breakfast bar, Miranda pulled up a wrought iron barstool for Stevie to perch on. She turned to a coffee machine, whose milk frother sounded like an old-fashioned steam train. Stevie wondered if the sound effects were a ploy on Miranda’s part to delay what was sure to be an uncomfortable conversation for both of them.

In her white linen skirt suit, Miranda looked as cool as ice cream, although Stevie did detect a slight tremor in her hand and an almost imperceptible quivering of froth on the cappuccino placed before her.

They made small talk. Stevie could tell that the woman couldn’t wait to get rid of her, but courtesy demanded a show of gratitude to the scruffily dressed woman who’d brought her daughter safely home.

It was patently obvious that Miranda wasn’t interested in Stevie’s polite answers to her polite questions, and was even less interested when Stevie tried to reintroduce the topic of Emma’s deceit. The restless eyes indicated a mind far away on more important things—lunch? Hair removal? Surely the woman couldn’t be as shallow as her daughter had made out.

Stevie knew she’d failed the etiquette test the moment she’d gripped Miranda’s hand too tightly. She shook hands the way her father had taught her. She tried to make up for it now by mimicking her perch upon the barstool, but failed in this too. The stool wasn’t built for comfort, and in jeans the natural tendency was to flop the legs, not keep them taut and together like Miranda’s, constricted as they were in the tight skirt.

Coffee from the overfilled cup slopped onto Stevie’s jeans at her first sip. Damn, another fail, but it could have been worse. Once when she’d been out at a restaurant with Monty, a gulp of coffee had gone down the wrong way and she sputtered it all over the white tablecloth. They’d laughed so much they’d had to leave. Under different circumstances it would have been quite fun to take the piss out of this woman, give her a bit of a shock. No wonder Emma was such a reactionary.

She wondered what Monty would have thought of Miranda. She was very beautiful, no doubt about it, but that wouldn’t have fazed him. He wouldn’t have felt as uncomfortable here as Stevie did, he was at home anywhere, in an outback pub or a reception at Government House. With a good education behind him and well travelled, he could be smooth as molasses when he wanted to be and probably would have charmed the be-Jesus out of her. She shook her head to stop her mind from wandering any further.

Miranda’s fingers were long and graceful and adorned with a tasteful array of rings; nothing too big or garish. Her large eyes followed Izzy as she explored, worried perhaps about sticky fingermarks on the pristine surfaces.

Izzy stopped when she came to an abstract arrangement of steel and glass rising out of the floor, gazing up at it, no doubt trying to figure out what it was. She reached to touch one of the sharp edges and Stevie called out to her to stop, worried she would damage herself on one of the steel points which rose to the vaulted ceiling like spears.

Izzy dropped her hand and turned, bestowing an angelic smile upon the two women seated at the breakfast bar.

Miranda’s smile in response was probably as genuine as she was capable of through the eggshell smooth skin. ‘What a beautiful child,’ she murmured to Stevie, ‘those Shirley Temple curls—’

‘Can I go upstairs and see Emma?’ Izzy asked her.

‘Of course you can, darl,’ Miranda said.

‘Just for a minute, it’s nearly time to leave for Georgia’s house,’ Stevie said as her daughter scuffed up the stairs to the mezzanine landing, calling for Emma.

Stevie’s coffee tasted like mud. She forced down a final swallow, resisting the urge to pull a face. Give her instant coffee any day. A breeze cooled her cheek and she became aware of the musical sound of trickling water, tracing its source to an open window at the back of the family room. Next to it French doors opened into a high walled courtyard blocking the view of the river beyond. The paving and wall were made of recycled bricks, rustic and charming and quite incongruous with the style of the rest of the house.

‘Have you ever thought of signing Izzy up with a modelling agency?’ Miranda’s violet eyes were now focused intently on Stevie’s for the first time since they’d met.

Stevie dragged her gaze from the inviting view outside. ‘Nah, not really, not my scene,’ she said, roughening up her voice just for the hell of it. ‘I suppose I might let her if she was keen when she was older, but frankly I haven’t got the time as things are.’ Now might be a good time to test out one of Emma’s possible lies. ‘I’m a police detective you see, which means a lot of after hours work. I don’t think I’d ever find the time to get her to the shoots, the make-up courses and whatnots.’

Miranda visibly paled under the layer of foundation. Her eyes widened and her hand crept to her throat. Sheesh, Stevie thought, Emma wasn’t lying, not even bending the truth on this one. The mention of police had left the woman looking like a roo in headlights.

Miranda composed herself, slid from the barstool and looked at her wristwatch. ‘My goodness, is that the time?’

Stevie followed suit. ‘I suppose we should get those girls moving,’ she said, heading towards the stone stairway. She called out for Izzy, heard footsteps thumping on the mezzanine and saw her daughter peering down at them through the decorative balustrade.

‘Thank you for telling me what Emma’s been up to. I think it’s best that Emma stops working for you. It’s the only way for her to learn.’ Miranda looked pointedly at her daughter who was coming down the staircase. Stevie agreed, adding that Emma was more than welcome to call by any time for a visit.

‘But I want Emma’s stories!’ Izzy cried.

Stevie stopped on her way to the stairs, feeling something cling to the wisp of a thought in her mind, something connected to the Bianca Webster case. But like a feather in the wind, it blew away before she could grasp it.

18

Monty stared down from his office window, watching the white figures spill onto the oval while the seagulls circled in a cloud above. He was a rugby man; cricket had never held much interest for him although the view from the window provided a handy focus for his restless gaze. He couldn’t count the times he’d had to put up with the grumbles of colleagues that his fifth floor corner office was wasted on the likes of him.

He sat at his desk looking at Stevie’s photo, gazing into her clear blue eyes. He traced the high ponytail that accentuated the curve of her neck, at the little gold kinks still visible even when her hair was pulled taut against her head. She hated the kinks, but wouldn’t be bothered doing anything about them—not a straightening-iron kind of girl, she’d say, occupied with more important things—Izzy, the job, even him he liked to think. He knew the grunge fashion and offhanded manner belied a girl with old-fashioned tastes and a passion for real family values. Her reluctance to move in with him was a mystery, even more to her than to him he suspected.

The funny thing was that once he’d felt pretty much as she did now. For years he’d punished himself for a mistake he’d made one night when he was drunk, a mistake that in the long run turned out to be no mistake at all. But he’d put himself on the wagon, desperate to take control of his life. Now he could take or leave a drink, the same as the next man.

Couldn’t she see that she was doing the same thing now, punishing herself for something that wasn’t her fault? If only I could explain it to you in a way that wouldn’t make you turn your back on me, he muttered to the photo as he put it back in his drawer. Whatever was going on with Natasha Hayward seemed to be stretching her loyalties like a spinnaker in a storm and he worried she would snap.