Husband Hunters

By Genevieve Gannon

This isn't love. This is business. For fans of Zoe Foster, Lauren Weisberger and Mhairi Macfarlane.

Clementine, a psychologist specialising in couples counselling, is reeling from the discovery that her boyfriend is married. Annabel, an ex-model, only seems to attract men who want her as a trophy. Daniela, a civil engineer, is stuck in the friend-zone. The evidence is adding up: true love as we know it is a hoax.

Abandoning the romantic daydreams that have gotten them nowhere, the three friends decide to team up and use their considerable professional skills to find a partner. This isn't about hearts and flowers - it's about being practical.

Warm and witty, Husband Hunters is a tongue-in-cheek look at the dating game and what happens when you try to engineer love.

'One of the most enjoyable books I have read all year' Tess Woods, author of Love at First Flight

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781460704707

Genevieve Gannon

Genevieve Gannon is an award-winning Sydney-based journalist and author of four novels. She is presently the staff writer for nation's biggest women's magazine, The Australian Women's Weekly, where she covers everything from cold-case murders and cults to celebrities and sports stars.She has written in-depth political profiles, comedic personal essays and true crime pieces. Her first foray into professional writing included dating and relationship columns which she published while writing her Masters' thesis on global terrorism and the media. She then moved to Canberra to start her news career covering local issues and politics.Before she joined The Weekly, Genevieve was the chief court reporter for Australian Associated Press in Melbourne, covering some of the most notorious crimes of recent years. Her journalism has appeared in most of Australia's major newspapers and she has recently won the Mumbrella Publish Journalist of the Year.

Book preview

Chapter 1 Clementine

Clementine’s hands trembled as she layered on more makeup. War paint. That’s what her mother used to call it. It’s a funny name for pink waxes and creams that smell like jasmine, she thought, as her fingers worked busily. Who thinks of soldiers going into battle armed with semi-automatic machine guns and a pot of pearlescent eye shadow? She dabbed some powder across her eyelids and watched the angry red colour disappear from her skin. What had been irritated and puffy now looked smooth and carefree. The tracks left by the thousand tissues that had been dragged across her eyes to soak up tears vanished.

That must be where the term comes from, she thought. It’s camouflage.

Her phone trilled, making her jump, and her pulse accelerated at the sound of the electronic bells.

‘You’re not going, are you?’ Melanie said before Clem had a chance to speak.

‘I have to go. I promised Mirabella I would.’

‘Don’t worry about her,’ Melanie urged. ‘She’s a bitch.’

‘It’s not just that,’ Clem’s voice was soft. ‘I can’t stop living my life just because of what happened.’

‘Good. Yes. That’s the right attitude. Have you got a killer revenge dress?’

Clementine slid her hand over the moss-coloured gown. It had cost $400.

‘It took me a month to find. What do you wear to a day of torture? It seems irrelevant. You may as well put on your pyjamas and be comfortable.’

‘Oh, Clem,’ Melanie’s voice became uncharacteristically gentle. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Clem sighed. ‘It’s not your fault.’

‘It’s not your fault either.’

Clementine rubbed her silk skirt between her fingers and bit her lip. Melanie had listened patiently to hours of her relationship autopsy. Clem had already said to Melanie one thousand times: ‘I should have known.’ One thousand and one times Melanie had said back: ‘You couldn’t have.’

‘How could I let this happen?’ she said again.

‘You’re a psychologist. Not a psychic.’

Clementine looked at the mirror. The person staring back was polished and a little judgemental. Her freckles were dulled by a layer of expensive foundation; an attempt at putting on a brave face. Her own wasn’t ready yet, so she was painting on courage with blush and pointed eyeliner pens.

‘Mel, can I call you back? I’m still in phase one of my survival plan.’

‘Sure. I’ll be here.’

Clem hung up and continued applying her disguise. When she had found out she would be seeing Jason at Mirabella’s wedding she had meticulously researched collagen creams, mineral powders and acids until she had selected a batch of products that would make her look young and fresh, and capable of feats of flexibility that would rival a Russian gymnast. She owned a small collection of basic makeup, but today’s event called for heavy-duty artifice.

She added lipstick. Her mouth instantly looked happier. Even though the corners remained downturned, her lips were a cheery colour. Sweaty gym clothes lay beside her in a pile. After the breakup, she had allowed herself exactly seventy-two hours to wallow and poison herself with caramelised oranges and Kahlua before she had started her rehabilitation. Exercise, fresh food, no booze, high-potassium meals and lots of water. It was what she prescribed for the heartbroken women who darkened her office door.

But it hadn’t worked. Perhaps it was guilt.

Her insides contracted as she thought of the night Melanie had discovered the truth. Melanie had ordered Clem to join her for dinner after Clementine had spent months neglecting her friends and her work commitments. She had stopped running her night-time couples counselling sessions, and had struck regular appointments from her calendar to make room for Jason. Once she had even called in sick to her Sunday-night radio show for divorcées, just for a few extra hours in his arms. Melanie had been furious when she’d heard.

‘I’m sorry,’ Clem had said over plates of spaghetti marinara, sounding not even a little bit sorry. Her friend was frowning. Clementine shifted in her chair. ‘Is something wrong?’

Melanie Sissowitz was a high-powered talent agent and steadfast single girl. She went on more dates than anybody Clementine had ever encountered. Including fictional characters. So she wouldn’t have expected Melanie to be bothered by her behaviour. ‘Mel? What is it?’

‘Aside from the fact you shouldn’t be blowing off work for a man, I have something … I have discovered something.’ She looked at her food and started prodding her pasta with her fork.

Clementine’s own fork hovered halfway to her mouth. Her appetite vanished. ‘What? What’s happened?’

Melanie sighed. ‘Do you know who this is?’ She held up a glossy weekend magazine opened to a black-and-white photo of one of their regular writers.

‘The gossip writer for the Herald. Amanda Lauder, isn’t it? I wonder if she has any connection to the makeup company.’

‘It’s not her real name,’ said Melanie, solemnly. ‘Her real name is Amanda Ceravic. Her husband manages logistics for Brinkley Lin. His name is Jason. Jason Ceravic. I’m really sorry, Clem — she’s married to your boyfriend.’

‘No,’ Clementine said, taking the magazine. ‘No, that’s impossible. My Jason works for a company based out of China. That’s why he’s always out of town on the weekend. That’s why he sometimes has to cancel at the last minute …’

Melanie took a gulp of wine.

‘I can’t believe this,’ Clem shook her head.

‘Apparently they’ve been married six years.’

Clementine pushed her plate away. ‘I feel sick … So this is what it’s like to have a broken heart.’

‘Your heart will mend,’ Melanie pressed her hand. ‘But if this gets out, imagine what it will do to your career.’

‘My practice,’ Clem whispered. She had started out as a family psychologist, but over the years she had developed a reputation as a crack couples counsellor. ‘I could lose everything.’

‘You don’t have to lose everything,’ Melanie said. ‘Just lose him.’

For their first date, Jason had taken Clementine to a tiny Italian place all the way out in Chullora. It was a forty-minute drive from their sibling suburbs of Double Bay and Paddington, but once they arrived her misgivings about the distance disappeared. The snug restaurant’s bluestone walls and attentive staff charmed and distracted her. The dining room held only nine tables, each lit by the waxy, waning light of a single candle, and covered with a brocade table cloth.

‘I’m so glad they mixed up our orders at that restaurant,’ he said, tearing up a breadstick. ‘If they hadn’t given you my medium steak instead of your medium–rare, we never would have met.’

‘See, it pays to be fussy,’ she grinned at him.

Jason was aggressively handsome. He had tiny smile crinkles at the corner of his eyes and thick black lashes. One had slipped loose and was sitting on his cheek. Clementine had the ridiculous urge to reach forward and lift it off with the tip of her finger, and tell him to blow it and make a wish so she could feel his breath on her palm.

Later that night he had torn off her clothes. Nobody had ever treated her like that. Previous partners had patiently removed their ties and shirts while she unlaced her sensible shoes. Then they had folded their trousers over the back of a chair, following her lead as she hung her dress on a padded hanger. Jason had ripped open her shirt without undoing any of the buttons. And when he had yanked off her knickers, his thumbs tore right through the lace.

‘I’ll buy you another pair,’ he breathed in her ear. Goosebumps peppered her skin.

For six months it was the same. Twice a week they would stare into each other’s eyes over dinner at a small, out-of-the-way restaurant. They would finish the night tangled in Clementine’s bed sheets, their skin not only flushed and sweaty, but scratched and bitten and lightly bruised. He would hold her for half an hour, then roll off the mattress and slide on his boxer-shorts. They never went to his place. Never ate in the city or at any well-known restaurant.

‘I want to have dinner with you, not with two hundred wannabes out to be seen,’ he had said the one time Clementine had pressed him on this point.

A smart woman would have emptied her mind of him the moment she found out that he had a wife. A smart woman would have consigned him to the dating scrap-heap with all the liars and lechers, and that man who had called her Kate on the third date. And, of course, she did end it. But that didn’t mean she had stopped loving the bastard.

And now she had to spend an afternoon with him, his wife and two hundred of Sydney’s most odious people at Mirabella’s wedding. She didn’t even have a date. (‘Clem, darling, I did wonder whether I should put plus-one on your invitation, but I didn’t want you to be embarrassed about not having anybody to bring.’)

She was dreading it.

For the finishing touch on her ‘I’m over you’ costume, Clementine reached for her fattening mascara. It had an applicator like a chimney-sweep’s brush, and contained a magical ingredient that transformed all women into gummy-lashed sirens. Psychology 101: Makeup is applied so that the eyes appear larger and their owner more vulnerable, or childlike. Which is a little sick if you think of it. But she wanted to look good. She needed to look good. Her hand trembled as she brought the bristles to her face. She had to grip her wrist to steady it. It wasn’t just Jason she had to convince; she had to fool every single person at the wedding into thinking she felt nothing for him. Images of the scandalous article Amanda Ceravic would write about the marriage counsellor who stole her husband filled Clementine’s mind. She grabbed her phone and dialled Melanie.

‘I need you to talk me through my pre-wedding nerves,’ she said.

‘You’re much smarter than she is. She’s vacuous and vain. Another Mirabella.’

‘Remind me how they know each other again?’

‘They both suffer the same debilitating condition: socialitis. Neither of them can get through a week without going to a launch or a benefit.’ Melanie huffed on the other end of the phone. ‘I don’t know what it is those two are supposed to contribute to those events; their most prominent features are their skeletons.’

Clementine squeezed her hands into tight fists until her nails burrowed red crescents into her flesh. The thought of Amanda filled her with a savage jealousy. But mostly she was torn apart by the injustice of the whole situation.

She called a taxi, then went into the bedroom to put on the shoes she had bought in Paris. They still had the lovely smell of fresh leather. Clementine only allowed them out of their tissue-paper cocoon on very special occasions. She had bought them to prove a point to a sales girl who had wrinkled her debutante nose at her as though she didn’t belong in the Saint-Germain boutique. They were far too expensive, but on days like this she was grateful to have them. In these shoes she was invincible and glamorous. Or at least had glamorous feet. As she leaned down to pull the left strap around her ankle, she felt a snap.

‘Dammit!’

The silver buckle had come off in her hand. The cab horn blared. ‘Think positive,’ Clementine murmured as she tried to jam her keys into her tiny handbag. They jingled in her shaking hands.

Clementine took a seat on a church pew between two men, hoping Jason would think one of them was her date. But she couldn’t see him. The church felt overheated. She twisted the ring on her middle finger; a rose-gold filigree band her mother had left her.

By the time she arrived at the reception she was sick with anxiety, and just wanted to eat her plate of salmon and go home. Around her, unfamiliar people were greeting each other; throwing air kisses and calling out names. ‘Bronwyn, how are you?’ ‘Chelsea!’ ‘Laura, it’s been too long!’ ‘Amanda!’

Clem’s head snapped up. Was that—?

‘Amanda!’

Clementine turned slowly. There she was, extending a slender arm to scoop up the skirt of her silver dress. It was backless and clung tightly to her elegant frame. Clementine noted, with an ache, that Amanda Ceravic was far more stunning in person than in the photographs she had scanned during late-night internet-stalking frenzies. Her short, sharp, flaxen hair was all the more intimidating, because anybody can be confident with flowing curls. Clem envied her angular frame. She liked her own figure most of the time, but this confidence evaporated when she saw Amanda.

‘I wouldn’t kick that out of bed,’ said an appreciative voice.

Clementine turned around. ‘Dani? Daniela DeLuca?’

‘Clem.’ Her old friend held her arms out. ‘It’s been months.’

Clementine hugged her. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ she said, meaning it.

‘How are you?’

‘Fighting off crippling self-hatred. You?’

‘Ha! Preparing my stomach lining for lots and lots of wine,’ Daniela held up a dinner roll. Clem laughed.

‘You look wonderful.’

Dani’s eyes dropped to her shoes as she pulled at her dress strap. ‘I had to borrow this from my cousin Concetta. It doesn’t really fit.’

Daniela never wore dresses or anything feminine. She had an intense, natural beauty that would only have been marred by cosmetic pigments. Her features were coloured exclusively from a brown palette: skin like a strong café latte, dark chocolate hair and hazelnut eyes. Her frame was as thin and delicate as a hummingbird.

Despite her appearance, she was one of the toughest women Clem knew. She was an engineer who spent her days on construction sites with men, and was known for her imagination and capacity to preserve beauty in functionality. Clementine had last run into her when Daniela had a contract near her Redfern office. She had been dressed in jeans and denim work-shirts that nearly drowned her, and had been swinging a spirit-level like a mace.

‘Who wouldn’t you kick out of bed? Him or her?’ Clem asked.

As they watched Amanda and Jason glide across the room, Clementine’s insides curdled.

‘Either. I’m as straight as they come, but look at her — she’s exquisite.’

‘You spend too much time on building sites. Next thing I know, you’ll be hollering Show uz yer tits.’

‘Well I wouldn’t mind knowing what’s keeping them pointed up like that. Look at that dress: you’d get more coverage from a cleverly folded napkin.’

Clementine forced the muscles in her face to smile. ‘Yes’ was all she could manage.

Daniela shoved her playfully and told her she looked bellissima, too. ‘How’s your practice? I hear you’ve been seeing a lot of damaged married men.’

‘What?’ Clem stole another glance at Jason. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Melanie Sissowitz. She said you had helped her brother through a difficult divorce.’

‘Oh, yes, right … I seem to have a knack.’

‘Why? What did you think I meant?’ Dani’s eyes narrowed mischievously.

‘Nothing, it’s just … it’s so good to see you. How did we let it go so long without catching up?’

Daniela shook her head. ‘I don’t know. It’s unforgivable.’

‘I wish I’d caught you at the church.’

‘I didn’t go,’ Dani waved her hand dismissively. ‘I play in a Sunday-morning touch-rugby competition. It’s a farce anyway. Who is this man Mirabella’s marrying? He looks twice her age, three times her size, and we know it can’t be personality that has drawn them together, because he’s obviously four times smarter than she is.’

‘I think you might find the answer in the fact that he has about five times her net worth.’

‘There you have it,’ Dani rolled her eyes. ‘Let’s find our table. I need a drink.’

Mirabella had named all of the tables after precious gems, and decorated them accordingly. The bridal party sat at the diamond table, where diamantes cast rainbow prisms and everything sparkled with white light. The emerald table was green, the sapphire blue and so on for twenty-four tables. Clementine and Daniela were on the garnet table.

‘What does that tell you?’ Clem muttered.

The reception centre was at capacity, so it took them some time to pick their way to their table, which was all the way down the back of the room, practically blocking the doors to the kitchen. A man gripping a champagne bottle leaned on Dani’s shoulder as he tried to manoeuvre his way into the chair next to her. His hair was damp with perspiration, and his powder-blue suit was wrinkled.

‘Don’t you think you should ease up on the wine?’ his wife suggested. She was the shade and shape of a beetroot.

‘Why?’ the man drawled. ‘Mirabella expects me to embarrass her, and I don’t want to let her down.’

He rested his arm on the back of Daniela’s chair. The beetroot smacked her husband roughly with the starched napkin, then shot Dani a warning glare.

To Daniela’s left was a compact man in a tweed suit and green tie, who introduced himself as Patrick Bodenheimer. He was a botany professor at Sydney University and wore an iris in his buttonhole. Next to him was Mirabella’s Uncle Dominic. He wore a flashy tie, shiny shirt (greenish, the colour of nausea), slicked-back hair and a fog of aftershave.

‘How are you, sugar?’ he asked, winking at Clem from across the table. She turned her back to him, casting around the room to see where Jason was seated, and saw Amanda lowering herself into a chair at the sapphire table.

After the entrée the best man made a rousing speech. He was followed by Amanda Ceravic. Clem’s heart seized at the sight of her. Amanda’s voice tinkled like expensive jewellery. She said that Mirabella, in her infinite generosity, had asked that, since the couple was already so blessed, people should consider donating to a charitable trust in lieu of a gift. Clementine looked at the trestle table piled high with professionally-wrapped presents and thought that Mirabella was leaving her plea for philanthropy rather too late. However, the assembly met the request with modest applause as Amanda returned to her seat. Clem craned her neck. The chair beside Amanda was empty.

‘I’d like to show her my endowment.’ Uncle Dominic winked at the powder-blue man from across the table. The powder-puff gave a low wolf whistle. This carried on for five more minutes, with talk of them wanting to invest in Amanda’s assets, et cetera, et cetera.

‘Excuse me.’ Clementine stood and headed for the ladies’ room.

‘Clementine!’ Someone grabbed her arm. ‘I have to speak with you.’ It was Jason.

‘I can’t,’ she said, searching for Amanda out of the corner of her eye, and freeing herself from his grasp. ‘What if someone sees?’

‘It’s important.’ He looked at her pleadingly.

‘Not here,’ she whispered.

‘Okay, okay, come on.’ He took her hand and pulled her through a side door into a parking lot. The building was shrouded in trees. Standing by the exit they were hidden from view by manicured topiary bushes.

‘God, I’ve missed you,’ he said, falling onto her in an embrace. His hand slid into her hair and angled her face up toward his. She squeezed her eyes shut.

‘Jason, stop it,’ Clementine said, icily. ‘Your wife is inside.’

She tried to squirm out of his grip, but he held her tight. He kissed her neck. The night air was cold on her skin, and the touch of his lips against her collarbone was electric.

‘It’s over,’ he pleaded. ‘I swear. I’m only keeping up appearances for the wedding.’

‘No’ — she tore herself away — ‘I can’t.’

She pulled at the door, but it wouldn’t open, so she had to go back through the front entrance. Barging to the back of the room, she burst into the ladies’ where she locked herself in a cubicle. She wanted to cry.

Leaning against the stall wall, she took deep breaths. It felt as though her rib cage was shrinking and crushing her lungs. Swearing quietly, she tried to remember what she told her clients to do in similar situations. She took two more heaving breaths. After a few minutes she was ready to return to the table. She pushed open the cubical door roughly and stormed out.

‘Oh!’ Amanda Ceravic was startled. She had been leaning into the mirror re-applying some lip gloss. She looked at Clementine, but didn’t say anything.

‘Sorry,’ Clem mumbled, and ran some cold water over her hands. Amanda kept staring. Clementine dried her hands, then inspected her face. It was flushed. She dabbed her eyes with a wet hand-towel and tried to ignore Amanda, who was still watching her reflection.

‘Do I know you?’ Amanda asked, arching a perfect eyebrow.

Clementine gulped.

‘You look familiar,’ Amanda said slowly. Clem held her gaze, terrified. Could she see his fingerprints on her skin? Could she smell her husband’s cologne lingering in her hair? Clementine took a step backwards.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know. Perhaps you recognise me from the engagement party?’ she lied. She hadn’t gone — it was yet another event that had been sacrificed for a night with Jason. Guilt burned in the pit of her stomach. She put her hand to her cheek to hide the blush.

‘Perhaps.’ Amanda sounded unconvinced. ‘I never forget a face, though.’ She turned away from the mirror to look directly at Clementine. ‘How do you know the bride?’ she demanded.

‘High school,’ Clem squared her shoulders, but her mouth was dry.

Amanda took a step toward her. Up close she was even more beautiful than Clementine had first thought. Her blue eyes had a remarkable lilac tint that was both mesmerising and unsettling. Or perhaps that was just her expression as she looked down at Clementine. Her lip was curled ever so slightly into the most lady-like of sneers.

‘You do know me. I saw you looking at me and my husband before. I’ll figure it out,’ Amanda stated flatly. Clem’s pulse skipped to double time. But then Amanda softened. ‘I’m a journalist — it’s my job to remember people,’ she teased, smiling.

Clementine smiled back, stiffly. ‘Well, I’d better be getting back to my table,’ she said, and left before Amanda had the chance to reply.

She was rushing to her table when she collided with someone.

‘Clem!’ She looked up.

‘Jason—’

‘Why did you run off like that?’

‘I—’

‘Clem?’ Amanda was behind them. ‘Do you two know each other?’

Clementine opened her mouth to deny it, but nothing came out. Jason was paralysed, too. They were like a pair of possums caught in the headlight of Amanda’s stare.

‘Well, I, eh …’ Jason stammered.

The realisation hit his wife. She raised a finger and opened her mouth. Time seemed to slow down, as it did before a violent crash in a film.

In a flash a tall blond man appeared by Clementine’s side. ‘Darling,’ he said, throwing an arm around her waist, ‘I just sent Jason to get you. I’ve been looking everywhere.’ He smiled at her and winked. Then he turned to Amanda. ‘Mandy, I see you’ve met my beautiful new girlfriend, Clementine.’ He gently pushed her forward by way of introduction.

‘Clementine?’ Amanda said suspiciously, as if she didn’t believe this was her name. ‘Damon, I had no idea you were seeing someone.’ She paused. ‘Why aren’t you sitting together?’

‘We haven’t been seeing each other very long,’ Clem blurted. ‘Mirabella didn’t know we were an item.’

Amanda put her hands on her hips. The father of the groom clinked his glass with his fork to announce the next round of speeches.

‘We had better sit down,’ Jason said, putting a hand on Damon and Amanda so as to herd them to the safety of the sapphire table.

‘Come and visit us after the last speech, darling,’ Damon said. Then he took Clementine by the shoulders, pulled her to him and kissed her firmly on the mouth.

‘Damon!’ Jason cried. Everyone turned to look at him. ‘Um, have a little decorum, will you?’ Then they returned to the sapphire table.

‘Wow! Who was that?’ Daniela asked when Clem sat down.

‘His name is Damon,’ she said, touching her lips. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘Ha! Clem and Damon? If you two were a celebrity couple they’d call you Clemon.’

‘No danger of that,’ Clementine said as she gratefully reached for the pear tart waiting for her on the table.

Chapter 2 Annabel

Annabel counted four sets of silicone breasts at her table of twelve. All were sprayed an unconvincing brick colour. They were matched with equally fake dye jobs in Swedish blonde, beach blonde, honey and platinum. She could practically recite the colour numbers: 101, 102, 107 … During her modelling years she had been them all. From ash to ebony, and everything in between. The uniform look of the women at her table was finished with Botox lips and a shellacking of gloss. They were talking about teeth-capping or teeth-whitening or something. Annabel sighed and stole the pear tart her neighbour had deserted, thinking, ‘What am I doing here?’

She used to love weddings. It was like being part of someone’s own personal fairy-tale. Boy meets girl. Boy finds the courage to send girl text message. Boy and girl have extravagant wedding and live happily ever after in Willoughby. And then there are the outfits: elegant Aurelio Costarella cocktail dresses, sweeping Jayson Brunsdon gowns, conceptual Ellery garments. Corsets so tight they make your eyes water. Shoes finer than Cinderella’s, purchased by women hoping for a happy ending of their own.

But this wedding represented something completely different.

‘I heard the dress cost $24,000,’ said one of the women.

‘No?!’

‘Yes! The lacework was all done by hand.’

Annabel swivelled in her chair to get another look at the bride. Mirabella had swapped the veil she had worn at the church for a tiara, and was holding court with an older gentleman in a military jacket and the man who reads the six o’clock news. Her crimson lips were the same colour as her hair. She caught Annabel’s eye, then looked quickly away. Mirabella Burbage-Jones didn’t like Annabel, and Annabel didn’t like Mirabella Burbage-Jones. But she had introduced the bride and groom, which apparently was worth a free plate of salmon.

‘You know who could use some lipo,’ said one of the half-silicone perma-babes on Annabel’s table. She nodded in the direction of the groom.

Humphrey Harrison McRae was affectionately known as Humpty because of his resemblance to the nursery-rhyme egg. He had a very big heart, but his generosity was prone to exploitation. Mirabella was the latest in a long line of millionaire-wannabes he picked up at places like Marble Bar and The Ivy, where they stuck to him like lint.

‘My Humpty is so clever,’ Mirabella would purr at every public opportunity, as she played with the ropes of pearls around her neck. Annabel was trying to believe that Mirabella truly cared for him. Humpty deserved love, which is why it infuriated her to hear the buzzards on the ruby table being so cruel behind his back.

‘He is lucky to have her,’ they said, picking all of the interesting bits off their food and eating the calorie-light bases.

‘She knows what she’s doing. She’s set for life now.’

‘She’s much better off now than when she was with that teacher.’

‘Did you see the difference in him since she’s been in the picture? The new haircut, the cologne … Let’s hope he doesn’t blow it.’

‘Ssh! Ssh!’ They hit each other with acrylic fingernails as he approached.

Humpty settled himself next to Annabel, beaming. Mirabella was swanning around the dance floor in her Chantilly lace, her champagne glass proffered in a sustained toast to herself, shouting things like ‘Daah-ling, have you met the Devlins?’ and ‘Oh, you must come to our summer house when it gets warmer — there’s plenty of room.’

He watched for a moment, the pride plain on his face, before turning to Annabel.

‘Annabel, the most beautiful woman in the room … ah, I m-mean the second most beautiful, of course.’

‘Well done, Humpty.’ She leaned over and gave him a kiss. ‘I hope you’re very happy together.’

He gave a satisfied sigh, then shuffled around to face her with a furrowed brow. ‘What about you? You look a bit forlorn. How’s your love life?’

‘Oh, you know me.’ She looked over his shoulder at the room full of men.

‘Don’t worry.’ Humpty pressed her knee gently. ‘He’s not here.’

She smiled weakly. ‘Thank you. You used to be such good friends—’

One of the perma-babes interrupted their conversation.

‘I haven’t seen you in any of the magazines for a while, Annabel,’ Veronica Bowers said. ‘Not modelling any more? It’s hard when your looks go, isn’t it?’ She screwed up her face like a squirrel that had bitten into something sour.

‘I’m in PR now, actually,’ Annabel said. ‘I run my own business.’

‘Aw,’ Veronica made a sympathetic noise. ‘Is that why you haven’t had time to find a husband?’

Annabel gave her an acid smile, then put a forkful of pear tart into her mouth to stop herself from saying something she’d regret.

‘Annabel’s business is her one true love,’ Humpty said, coming to the rescue.

Sweet Success was regarded as a rising star in the public relations world.

‘I work an eighty-hour week and it’s still less trouble than a man,’ Annabel said.

‘Well,’ said Veronica, standing, ‘look at you.’

Humpty leaned towards Annabel and lowered his voice. ‘Speaking of trouble, any word from—’

‘No.’ She reached for her wine glass. ‘I haven’t heard a peep out of Hunter since Christmas.’

‘Good.’

Hunter had been