The Importance Of Ernestine

By Elizabeth Dunk

Love isn't easy in the cutthroat world of Australian politics...

Cecily Carter and Gwen Fairford have both started a fantastic new life in Canberra – jobs they love, a fabulous friend (each other) and even, it seems, the perfect men. Or at least, they could be perfect, if they changed political allegiances.

Alec Moncrieff and John Worthing are leading perfect lives: great jobs, a great friend (each other) and even great new relationships. But when they are caught out in a lie, everything begins to fall apart. Alec, so used to manipulating everything to his own satisfaction finds he can't manipulate his way out of his feelings. And Cecily's past is about to roar into the public domain. Will Gwen and Cecily give their men a second chance, or is love just another empty campaign promise?  

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Apr 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781489257703

Elizabeth Dunk

Elizabeth Dunk is the contemporary romance writing alter-ego of Nicole Murphy, who cut her teeth writing science fiction and fantasy. A long-time romance fan, Nicole couldn't resist attempting to sit fair and square in the modern world and bring two fabulous characters together and thus Elizabeth was born. As Nicole, she has dozens of short stories in print and published an urban fantasy trilogy, The Dream of Asarlai. As Elizabeth, she's published a couple of short stories. This is the first novel-length work under her new name and there are plans for many more.

Book preview

Act One

Alec

‘PM’s wife—I hated my baby.’

Alec Moncrieff took a deep breath to stop the hammering of his heart. He’d played this cool up until now, he couldn’t lose it when the big fish was finally in sight.

The headline on the list of articles he’d subscribed to was from one of the daily newspapers in Sydney. He clicked open the article itself and saw it was a rehash of the original interview published in a woman’s magazine. The full article itself wasn’t online. Dammit. He was going to have to go to the newsagency to get it.

Alec checked his coffee maker—still percolating. He turned it off. Then he collected his portfolio and headed downstairs.

The car started with a purr and he drove the back streets to Manuka, avoiding the traffic that would be building on Canberra Avenue and Yarra Glen. He found a park right outside the newsagent and, after purchasing the magazine and sliding it into the portfolio, he got himself a coffee and croissant.

Then into work. It was only seven-thirty in the morning, but the halls of Parliament House were already abuzz with people walking, talking, scheming, dreaming. Alec smiled and nodded at acquaintances but didn’t speak to anyone. He made it a point to have no conversation until he had decided his priorities for the day. But he did vigorously swing the portfolio so people could see and assume he had taken work home, although he never did. It could prove valuable to have people believe what wasn’t true. At the very least, you had a secret, and in this place, that was treasure.

‘Moncrieff.’

Damn. Alec turned and gave the most blazing smile he could to the most loathsome person he knew. ‘Leon. Good morning. Long live the party.’

Leon de Belle, chief of staff to the leader of the party, oozed forward, today dressed in a dark pin-stripe suit that made him look more snake-like than normal. ‘Did you see the news this morning?’

‘I did.’

Silence. Leon’s expression darkened. ‘Well?’

‘Well, I thought Virginia and Michael’s banter a little off this morning, to be honest. I guess she’s coming down with a cold.’

‘I could care less about Virginia Trioli getting a cold.’

‘Couldn’t.’ Leon blinked. ‘You couldn’t care less. Could care less means that you could, in fact, care less than you currently do, which isn’t what you mean, I think.’

‘Fuck you, Moncrieff. Yet again, you prove yourself not worthy of a position with the leadership.’ Leon spun on his heel and stormed off.

Right, Alec thought. De Belle was terrible at trying to get information out of a person. Undoubtedly he hadn’t seen anything worth paying attention to on the news but wanted to make sure he hadn’t missed anything and thought Alec would just volunteer the information. Well, that wasn’t the way Alec worked. He only offered assistance to people who deserved it. De Belle deserved nothing.

Alec used his swipe card to open the door of the office suite of the Honourable Barry Fisher MP, Member for Hereford and opposition spokesman for industrial relations, but didn’t unlock it for the other staff. An unlocked door could be opened by anyone, and he didn’t want to be disturbed.

In the front part of the office were three desks—one for the temporary secretary that came in when they were busy, one for Barry’s executive assistant and one for the policy adviser. A couch for visitors took up the remaining space. Two doors led from this room—the right door took you to the kitchenette, which connected to Barry’s office. It enabled the member to hastily leave the office through the kitchenette, if someone arrived that they didn’t want to see. The door on the left led to Alec’s office.

Alec went in and closed the door. Then he sat at his desk, pulled out the magazine and began reading.

It told a story Alec was familiar with. A young mother, excited about the change in her life, built up with the expectations of all the stories. Then her baby is laid in her arms, and nothing. She looks down at it, waiting for the overwhelming rush of love she’s been told about, and feels nothing. Not happy. Not sad. Just … nothing.

She asks a few people. They tell her she’s just tired, to have a rest and once she’s recovered from the birth it will happen. So she rests, and she waits. She’s feeling fine, rested, recovered, yet every time she holds her baby—nothing.

In the story he was reading, the young mother lucks out. As she’s getting ready to leave, a nurse she’s never seen before comes in. The nurse explains that she’s heard that the young mother feels she isn’t connecting to her baby the way she should. She asks some questions, then tells the mother that she is going to stay a few hours longer, so a doctor can look at her.

A psychiatric intern arrives. More questions, and then the diagnosis—postnatal depression. The young mother is relieved. She’d been coping with a growing fear that she wasn’t cut out to be a mother, that she’d never be any good at it, that the baby was going to suffer and grow up to be a horrible human being. Now, she is reassured that with some medication and counselling, she will overcome the depression and be able to love her baby.

Sure enough, some weeks later, she finds herself standing over her sleeping baby and overwhelmed with such a rush of love that it almost brings her to her knees. She picks up the baby, hugs it to her chest and cries because she now knows she can be a great mother.

The PM’s wife wanted to share her story in the hope it would let other women see that this could happen to anyone. It wasn’t about being stupid, or poor, or a bad mother. It was an illness that affected a number of women and, when recognised, could be treated.

The recognising was the issue. Alec’s beloved sister Madeleine had gone through something similar, except in her case none of the hospital staff were prepared to admit there was anything wrong. She had been sent home, and suffered two weeks of torture trying to be a mother to little Peter before a friend of hers had visited and realised what was going on. It had taken another month for Madeleine to start to feel better, and more time yet before she finally felt the love and care she’d wanted for Peter. Two years later, she still felt guilt over the weeks Peter had had an uncaring mother, and she was scared to have another baby in case it happened again.

Alec had decided it was time to use his position and privilege. What was the point of being one of the brightest political strategists in Canberra if you didn’t use it to help people? Even before the election and losing government, he’d known his plan needed to be bipartisan. He had things lined up on his side, but he needed to find a person to approach to champion it on the other side of politics.

This was it. The article included the PM himself, talking about his sorrow over his wife’s suffering and his pride in her willingness to share what had happened to her. If there was anyone who could champion it within the other party, it was the party leader.

Except—how to get access to the PM? Alec couldn’t just call the office and make the appointment—they’d never let him in. No, he was going to have to be a bit sneaky. And Alec knew exactly how to do it.

He dialled and moments later a female voice was in his ears. ‘Alec Moncrieff. To what do I owe this honour?’

‘Lobelia. I hope you’re coming to Canberra for the Doctors Association of Australia dinner.’

‘You know I am. And for some meetings.’

‘Fit me into the schedule.’

A pause. ‘I can see you Wednesday morning.’

‘And dinner with Barry.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘Of course not. I’d imagine your boss will be fine with you turning down the opportunity to lobby one of the party powerbrokers.’

‘There are times I think I hate you, Alec. Can he sit with me at the dinner?’

‘Perfect. Will all that be before or after you see the PM’s wife?’

Another pause. ‘Before.’

‘You are a miracle worker, Lobelia.’

A sigh. ‘What do I have to do?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’ Alec hung up and grinned. It was going to happen. He was going to put into place a sensational bipartisan program that would see all prospective mothers screened for the possibility of PND and ensure they had the treatment they needed before anything happened. No other woman would go through the terrible time Madeleine had. None.

Satisfied that matter was dealt with for now, Alec went onto making notes for Barry for the day. In those notes, he included information about the news story he had noticed—a government contract for NextGen Networks, who had been one of the companies involved in the Census debacle. Not as well-known as IBM, the name may not have registered with a lot of people. Alec directed Barry to ask questions about the diligence done to ensure there wouldn’t be another issue.

Would Leon de Belle be telling the opposition leader the same thing? If he didn’t, it wasn’t Alec’s fault. And it would be delicious. Very, very delicious.

Speaking of which—Alec looked at the crumbs of his croissant. The in-house cafes would be open now. Time to hunt down a proper breakfast before the day began.

Cecily

Cecily Carter closed her front door, leant against it and let her breath out slowly, slumping against the wood. Day done. Home. In her sanctuary.

Another deep breath, wishing the stresses of the day away. She loved her job, she really did, but she loved this moment of peace just as much.

Opening her eyes, Cecily marched across the living room to her computer and turned it on. If she was going to get any sleep tonight, she needed to get cracking. She waited a moment to ensure the screen was firing up, then into the kitchen.

There, she watered her herbs and poured herself a glass of wine. She put some rice crackers and a portion of her favourite cheese on the plate, then carried her snack and drink out to the computer.

As she sipped, she entered her passwords and opened the game. Within moments, her avatar—a female warrior with muscles that Cecily could only dream of—had appeared on screen and was joining the group.

Cecily put on her headset. ‘Hello, everyone. Sorry I’m late.’

‘Greetings, Carterix.’ The head of their group nodded to her. ‘Now we are gathered, let us consider the strategy for this attack.’

This level involved storming a castle to find the treasure and rescue the princess. Always a princess, Cecily thought and made a mental note to search out a game with a male needing rescuing.

As the strategy was developed, a window popped open on the side of the screen. A private chat from someone with the screenname MiklePerfect.

‘Hey, Cec. How ya doing?’

Cecily typed back. ‘Fine, Mike. Work is stressful, blah blah blah. How are you?’

‘Work is stressful, blah blah blah. Except we’ve got a new receptionist and she’s kinda hot.’

‘Don’t poop where you eat.’

‘Hah. You sound just like Mum.’

‘I learnt all my best stuff from her. How is she?’

‘Great. Had a check-up yesterday. Still in remission.’

Cecily let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d held. ‘That’s terrific news. Give her and Bob my love.’

Being fostered by Denise and Bob Perth at the age of twelve had been the saving grace of Cecily’s life. It had been the first time in forever that she had felt safe, and loved, and free to actually believe and be herself. The whole thing had come crashing down when Denise was diagnosed with breast cancer when Cecily was sixteen, and the family needed to relocate to Brisbane to be near support networks to deal with it all. As a ward of the state of NSW, Cecily couldn’t go with them. Thankfully, she’d been old enough for the state to decide to spend the money supporting her living alone, rather than try another placement or a group home. So Cecily had been taking care of herself, but she’d been able to continue with school, go to university and was now following her dream career into politics.

She had kept in touch with all the Perth’s but Mike was the one she spent the most time with, part of this gaming group. He was the closest thing she had to a brother.

The group took their positions in front of the gate. Mike’s character, the group’s magic user and elf, blew the gates. Goblins streamed out and the slaughter began.

Cecily swung her sword, dispatching monster after monster. The mindlessness of the activity and the community built around it pushed all her fears and doubts away and she could relax.

After several minutes of hacking and slashing, the goblins were dealt with. Cecily hadn’t lost any of her life reserves but some of the rest of the team had, so they waited for the group healer to fix them before they moved forward.

One of the things Cecily loved about this game was the graphics, so detailed and accurate. It really did seem like she was stepping into the bailey of a medieval castle. It was quiet, which signalled all the rest of the monsters were inside the stone tower before them.

‘Treasure search,’ the head of the group said. ‘Find what you can before we go inside.’

Cecily started hunting around the barrels piled to one side to see what was there. A small bag of copper coins—could be handy. She claimed it. And what was that over there?

‘So what line should I pull on her? I love how you handle our phones, want to handle me? Or I see you like ordering things. Want to order me?’

‘Oh dear god,’ Cecily typed to Mike while considering then dismissing the small dagger next to one of the barrels. The dagger she already carried was better and she could only have one at a time. ‘No line. Just ask her out.’

‘Really, no line? That seems like a waste.’

Cecily was about to give her foster brother a lesson in the psychology of women when another message window popped open. She looked at it and then leapt across the room, half dragging her computer from the desk before her headgear came off. She stopped when she was on the couch against the other wall, legs drawn to her chest, shivering.

The words of the new message flashed before her as if she could still see them. ‘Hey little girl—wanna make your papa happy?’

Cecily closed her eyes as the memories washed over her. Eleven years old. Dead of night. Foster father coming into her room. Whispered words as he pushed her nightgown up …

‘You can’t beat me, you can’t hurt me, I’m better than you, I’m gonna win.’ It was a silly little song she’d made up as a little girl, but singing it always helped her refocus on where she was, what was actually happening, so the horror wouldn’t swallow her and ruin everything. ‘You can’t beat me, you can’t hurt me, I’m better than you, I’m gonna win.’

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then another, then a third. Slowly, her heart rate slowed, the shivering ceased and her hands relaxed from claws ready to strike.

Cecily opened her eyes, stood and went back over to the desk. She straightened her computer, sat down and put on the headset. She closed the window that had caused all the trouble. Some dweeb who thought talking like that was sexy. He didn’t deserve any attention from her. Just as her former foster father didn’t deserve her memories.

She looked at Mike’s message screen.

‘Cec?’

‘Cec, where are you?’

‘Cec, you okay?’

She looked at the time. Wow, she’d been away from the screen for ten minutes. Her avatar was alone in the courtyard, the rest of the team having gone into the castle without her.

‘Sorry,’ she typed to Mike. ‘Emergency. I’m here now. Where are we?’

‘Inside, turn right at first hall. Are you sure you’re okay?’

‘Fine,’ Cecily said and she meant it. It had been horrible, that re-awakening of the memories, but she had dealt with it and put it aside. That part of her life was over, and she wasn’t going to let it ruin the rest.

***

Horrible screeching woke Cecily from a deep sleep. She sat upright, picked up her phone and took a moment to look at the time—excellent, three in the morning—and then answered.

‘Good morning, Senator.’

‘Cecily, it’s a disaster.’

Cecily rolled her eyes. Senator Michelle Abeyson, recently elevated to the role of Parliamentary Secretary for Multiculturalism, had a tendency to the dramatic that would have made her a fun person to be around if she wasn’t an ambitious political animal. ‘What has happened?’

‘The red suit has shrunk. I was supposed to wear it today.’

When the senator had been promoted to the position of Parliamentary Secretary for Multiculturalism—a sign she was on track to eventually be a minister and maybe even make it to cabinet and be one of the top decision makers—she’d been most excited about the fact she might now get the media’s attention. Junior senators tended not to get much coverage and she needed people to notice her in order for her influence, and thus her position, to improve. But she’d been silly enough to think that just meant more doorstops and not realise that the media now considered everything she did potentially newsworthy and maybe even a reflection on the government. So she hadn’t been ready for the photograph of her chasing her hat across the road outside the Senate entrance to be the front page accompaniment of a story about the government being out of control. Ever since she had been obsessed with ensuring she looked perfect at all times and nothing ever went wrong.

Cecily was pretty certain the red suit hadn’t shrunk, rather that the Senator was enjoying a little too much all the hobnobbing and dinners that had come from her elevated position in the government. ‘I really don’t think the red suit would be a good choice, Senator. Much too uncomfortable for you to travel in this evening. May I suggest that you go with that lovely silver cashmere jumper over your grey slacks? You look so classy and elegant wearing that.’

‘I look too much like every other politician in that outfit. The red suit was going to make me stand out.’

‘You could never look like every other politician, Senator.’ It was true—Michelle Abeyson was one of the few women in the place of Middle Eastern background, and her dark skin, hair and eyes was a dramatic contrast to most of the white males that wandered the corridors. ‘What part of the suit isn’t fitting, may I ask? Perhaps you can mix and match it.’

‘The skirt. Bloody thing won’t do up. I bet the jacket won’t either. Hang on.’ The sound of fabric being ruffled. ‘Yes, it won’t do up either. You need to have a word with the dry cleaner.’

‘Of course.’ The word Cecily would have would be with a tailor, to let it out. ‘In the meantime, there is your wonderful yellow jacket. Why not wear it over a simple shirt, with the grey trousers? It will be a wonderful splash of colour.’

‘Indeed. Indeed it would. Thank you, Cecily. I knew you would help me see right. Now, promise you won’t forget to go hard on the dry cleaner.’

‘Leave the red suit here in Canberra over the weekend, Senator, and I will deal with it.’

‘Thank you, Cecily. See you in the morning.’

Cecily disconnected and looked at the time. Twenty minutes of quality snooze time, wasted by a woman who was so caught up in doing the right thing to aid her ambitions that she panicked every time something went wrong.

At least here in Canberra she was reasonably well behaved. Her office staff in Sydney had some horror stories, and since she’d been promoted after the last election, Michelle Abeyson had been through no less than three personal assistants.

Cecily put the phone down, grateful the sitting week finished today. Michelle would go home and wouldn’t be back in Canberra until Sunday evening. Cecily would have three whole days of being able to just focus on her job—making her boss look good. Keeping her boss out of trouble would be the Sydney office’s job.

When she became a politician, Cecily was never going to make her staff’s jobs so difficult. When politician and staff worked as a team, they were unstoppable, and Cecily was just as ambitious as her current boss.

Rolling over, Cecily drifted back to sleep.

John

John Worthing closed the door and looked down at his fitness tracker. Good pace. Good time. At this rate, he might even be able to consider the Canberra half-marathon in a few weeks.

He went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from his fridge. As he downed it, he stepped back into the lounge room and noticed a red light flashing on his answering machine. He pressed the button and a female voice spoke.

John’s knees buckled and he slumped to the floor. He stared at the black device that was spewing out his mother’s voice.

‘Hello, my darling John. Happy birthday. I am so sorry I cannot be with you. I want you to have a good day. Be happy. Laugh. Enjoy your friends. You deserve it. I love you.’

It was like a knife through his heart. He could tell from the weakness, the huskiness, that it had been recorded near the end of her life. But still, three months later, to hear her speak again—it was heaven and hell in the one moment.

John staggered to his feet and stumbled over to his couch. There, he sat and stared up at his ceiling through eyes brimming with tears.

Fuck. Damn. Shit, it hurt. His heart felt like it was trying to explode through his chest and split in two at the same time.

John became aware that his trousers were wet, sticking to his thigh. He looked down, blinked back the tears to focus his vision and cursed. He’d dropped the bottle of water on his lap and it had leaked through his clothes.

His phone rang and he made his body haul itself upright and go over to answer it.

‘Hello?’

‘Johnnie. Happy birthday.’

‘Dad.’ John sat at his kitchen table. ‘Why did you do it?’

Thankfully, his father didn’t ask what he was talking about. ‘She begged me to. Can’t deny a dying woman’s wish.’

‘I wish you hadn’t.’ John rubbed the back of his neck. His entire body ached, like he had the flu.

‘You would have known there was something coming, son. You would have been waiting for it all day. This way, it’s over and you can put it behind you and get on with the day.’

Actually, John thought, he hadn’t expected anything and that had been what he’d been dreading about this day. Every birthday, his mother would do something to make it special. Something unexpected. Something surprising. Something funny. The fact he was going to go through his birthday and have none of that happen had been dragging him down.

‘She wasn’t going to let it pass, was she?’

‘No.’

A suspicion arose. ‘Is there anything else you’re supposed to do today?’

‘Nope. That was it for this year, I swear.’

‘This year?’

‘Whoops.’

So she’d planned several surprises. ‘How many years?’

‘Another six. She figured by the time you turned 40, you’d be over it.’

John couldn’t help but smile, even as tears tracked down his cheeks. ‘She’s dead and she’s still being a pain.’

‘Your mother wouldn’t be satisfied if she wasn’t. Will you be okay?’

John let out a sigh. ‘Yeah, I will be.’

‘Wish you could come home this weekend.’

‘Me too, Dad. There’s nothing I want to do less than traipse around the electorate with Mrs B. But with all the time I missed with Mum …’

‘I know. Well, make sure you come home soon. Kenny’s planning on taking down one of his cattle in a few weeks. Fresh meat.’

‘I’ll make plans and let you know.’

John hung up and held the phone against his forehead for a moment, letting one last wave of grief pass. Then he put the phone back in the cradle so he could begin the day.

***

‘Mr Worthing, is that you?’

John slowly put his coat on the coat rack, walked over to his office and put his brief case on his desk. Then he went in to greet his boss.

‘Good morning, Mrs Blakely.’

‘John. Get in here. Something utterly ridiculous has happened.’

John didn’t doubt that it had. Being chief of staff for the Assistant Minister for Defence and Member for Blackpool involved a lot of dealing with the ridiculous.

His boss—the Honourable Doris Blakely—was stabbing her finger at the screen of her computer. John walked over to look over her shoulder. ‘A problem with your diary?’

‘Yes, there’s a problem with my diary. What is this?’ She stabbed her finger at the screen again.

‘The meeting on the Defence White Paper has been moved to Tuesday evening. Helen sent you the text about it yesterday.’

‘And why is it actually in my calendar?’

‘I believe Helen thought as Assistant Minister for Defence, you would want to attend.’

‘Did I, or did I not, specifically arrange a meeting with some constituents for tonight that meant I could not attend the Defence White Paper meeting at its original time?’

‘You did.’ John had organised the meeting with the constituents—a.k.a. dinner with the local newspaper editor—himself.

‘So tell me why I would want to attend the meeting next Tuesday?’

‘It is to every politician’s benefit to be seen to be doing their job.’

Blakely stared at him. ‘Are you saying I am not doing my job?’

‘Of course you are, Minister. I have seen you do your job on many occasions. But here in your office, other people cannot see you do your job and from time to time, it is good to make these things public.’

‘But at a Defence White Paper meeting? No one cares about those things. If as you suggest I should be more public about doing my job, then it needs to be something the public will see. Get in touch with Defence and organise a photo opportunity. Surely they’ve bought some new gun or something lately.’

‘I will see what I can find,’ John said.

‘In the meantime, there must be something I can do on Tuesday to avoid attending the meeting but be able to give genuine regrets. Is there some charity event or something I can say I have a long-standing commitment too?’

John got out his phone and looked through invitations that had been received. ‘The Australian Doctors’ Association is having their annual dinner on Tuesday night. You turned down the invitation.’

‘Well, now I’m accepting it. Get in touch with the organisers and tell them I’m coming. Make sure they understand that I always meant to accept, there was a miscommunication and I have had a long-standing commitment to their function. Then get it into my diary, and apologise to the Defence meeting for my being unable to attend.’

‘Absolutely.’ John knew the organisers of the dinner would be far from impressed about this—they would have sent in numbers and