‘Now, hair up tonight,’ she says, and I immediately feel exposed.
‘Can’t I have it down? Cover up a bit?’
‘Not with your shoulders, no.’
She pushes me onto the stool by the vanity, which is covered in books, and goes to work, wrangling my long curls into an elegant up-do that she’s apparently learnt from some teenage hair genius on TikTok. She’s always had artistic flair, and tonight we need every bit of it.
By the time she’s done my make-up, we’re cutting it fine to get to the venue on time. She and Charlie are going to drop me off, and I feel increasingly nervous as we pick up my things, lock up and head off.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Grace says, delivering the encouragement I need. ‘There was a time when you did these kinds of charity schmoozes every second week. You can talk millions of funding dollars out of a donor with your eyes shut. Besides, you won’t be on your own, will you?’
She means Hugh, but we rarely speak of him by name ever since my matchmaking crashed and burned. She pulls into the driveway outside Old Parliament House, and I kiss Charlie goodbye and thank Grace again, for everything, then get out of the car and wave them off.
I turn to face the building. Striking First Nations artwork is projected onto the white walls as part of Canberra’s gorgeous Enlighten festival. Access to the building is off limits to the public tonight but crowds are still standing over at a temporary fence, taking photos of the lightshow.
My heart is racing at the foot of the steps. Professional nerves, I assume. That and having what feels like a throng of paparazzi snapping shots nearby. Not used to being this dressed up any more, I place a hand on my chest, close my eyes and inhale deeply to settle myself down. It’s a technique I learnt in an online parent workshop from the grief camp for kids who’ve lost a parent, but I can’t dwell on that or I’ll get upset again.
When I open my eyes, I smooth my dress down, fiddle with my hair and glance up the steps. Hugh is standing on the landing, in a dinner suit, watching me. My heart thuds again, and I pick up the long skirt and walk carefully towards him. If I can just manage myself in these heels and this dress without tripping over, at least until I reach the top of the steps, that will help.
Golden light is spilling out of King’s Hall, and I can see fairy lights glittering inside. It’s a life-affirming sight, and I’m smiling when I reach Hugh’s side.
For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. I’m utterly self-conscious in this get-up, and his lack of words is unsettling me further.
‘You, um . . .’ He glances over me and takes a breath. ‘This is different.’
I laugh. ‘You can thank my fairy godmother for that,’ I say. ‘Except she’s not speaking to you on account of your rejection of her for mysterious reasons!’
He looks wounded, and I’m forced to rescue him because he’s so genuinely sorry about it not working out with Grace. ‘Don’t worry, Hugh. I’m sure she understands.’
He pulls a regretful face. ‘I hope so. Please pass on my regards, won’t you? And send her my compliments on tonight’s work.’
I roll my eyes.
‘Come on. These funds aren’t going to raise themselves.’ He offers his arm and I thread my hand through it, instantly noticing the warmth of his body through his suit. My breath catches. Being this close to a man who isn’t my husband feels strange. Too foreign. Even if that man is only Hugh.
I slip my hand out again quickly. Tonight is not for falling to pieces, and if I stand here and compare the nuances between the feel of Hugh’s arm and Cam’s, that’s exactly what’s going to happen. As it is, a memory of our wedding has presented itself, me taking Cam’s arm to walk out of the church, him picking me up in the cloister way, spinning me around, veil flying, then kissing me, like 120 people weren’t watching.
‘S-sorry,’ I stammer, now, blotting a tear that’s threatening Grace’s eye make-up. Hugh steps aside a little, giving me space, and we come across a security guard with a scanner, which I set off as soon as he waves it over me. It’s probably the shoes. Or maybe the antique necklace.
I stand aside and the guard apologises while he runs the scanner all over my body, which only draws attention to all the parts of me that feel exposed. Neck, shoulders, imposter syndrome, never-ending sadness . . .
‘Would you mind removing your necklace, ma’am? I think it’s that.’
I will oblige, yes, just as soon as I can work out how to undo the latch. After watching me struggle with it for a few seconds, Hugh steps close. I drop my hands as he picks up the clasp and unlocks it easily, his fingers brushing my shoulder as he drops the necklace forward carefully, and allows me to duck out from under his arms.
I’m impressed, but unsurprised, with how dexterous he is with women’s jewellery. I drop the necklace into a plastic basket and am scanned again, this time without problem. The guard passes me the jewellery, and we stand to the side while we sort ourselves out.
There’s a light breeze from the open doors, and I shiver as I hand the necklace back to Hugh. He leans in, so close I can sense his breath on my skin, dangles the chain over my face and drops it lower, fastening the ends at my neck.
‘There you go,’ he says, and he clears his throat.
I say nothing, because I feel like the throat-clearing might be contagious.
We start up the main staircase, and the wooden floor is slippery, my skirt is difficult, I’m clutching an evening bag, and hundreds of VIPs I’ve never met are coming into view. I reach for Hugh’s arm, involuntarily this time, and he doesn’t skip a beat.
Once in King’s Hall, we’re almost immediately swamped by familiar faces. Familiar in that I’ve researched them thoroughly, not that we’ve met. They’ve known Hugh for years, of course.
‘General Delaney,’ I say confidently, extending my hand. ‘I’m Kate Whittaker. I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you.’
The man is in his late eighties and still carries himself like he’s currently serving. He shakes my hand, bone-crushingly.
‘I’m glad we bumped into each other at the door,’ I say. ‘I’d hoped we’d have a chance to chat. We have some shared interests!’ I’m talking, of course, of his wealth and our university’s research study into patterns of inheritance in early onset dementia. I know he lost a brother and a nephew to this insidious disease.
‘Can I get you a drink, General?’ Hugh asks, waving down a server. ‘Kate?’
‘Lancaster!’ the General says, ignoring Hugh’s question and slapping him on the back. ‘Why am I only just now meeting this gem of a woman?’
Ugh. He has no way of knowing whether or not I’m a ‘gem’。 And he hasn’t met me because normally I’m on my couch, howling into my ice cream, wishing my husband was alive. He just likes my dress.
‘Kate has initiated plans for several of the university’s most successful funding partnerships of late,’ Hugh explains. It’s true. And my success has been directly in proportion to the extent to which I’ve needed to escape my life by throwing myself at various projects.
‘There’s one project that I’m particularly invested in right now,’ I say. ‘I’m not meant to have favourites, but . . .’