film-going public.’
Fenella placed the brush on the dresser in front of her. ‘I don’t give a damn for what the public think of us as a couple,’ she said slowly, choosing her words precisely. ‘I am with you because I love you – not because you are Guy Wilkes, the dashing thespian. No more or no less than that. I do not care if Uncle Arthur feels our relationship is good for business.’ She stood and walked towards Guy, whose eyes were still glazed from the withdrawal of the heroin he had inhaled. She touched his face with the tips of her fingers. ‘You have to trust me or we have nothing together.’
Guy was surprised that her caress felt condescending rather than affectionate. Carefully keeping his emotions under control he raised his own hand to grasp her fingers and draw them down to her side. ‘I do trust you,’ he said quietly, turning away from her. ‘It is time that I left to return to my place.’
As Guy made his way to the front door he congratulated himself on agreeing to George Macintosh’s request. Fenella Macintosh was as traitorous as all other women that he knew – just like his own mother who had deserted his father and him when he was only five years old. When he was able to really confront himself, Guy had to admit that he despised women for their nature. It was ironic, he mused,that women loved him for his handsome looks and charm. Destroying Fenella Macintosh would teach her a lesson she would remember all her life, he thought as he closed the door behind him. It did not hurt that he would be richly rewarded for his services. Fenella needed to learn that she was a mere woman who should not upset him with her flirting ways. Yes, she would pay dearly.
George Macintosh slipped the gears of his Buick two-seater into neutral and left the car at the front of the old horse stables, now converted to a shed to garage his cars. He would let his manservant park the car inside as he did not want to bother himself with the effort. Miss Coral Gregory-Smith was safely at her home and it was time to retire to his grand house – once the property of his relatives, Granville and Fiona White. The house was smaller than the Macintosh mansion but still built of sandstone and two storeys high, with ivy creeping up the front and framing the array of windows looking out to the harbour. Alighting from the car George walked across the fine, gravel driveway to open his front door where he was met by a sleepy, older man dressed in a much-worn dressing gown.
‘Sorry, Mr Macintosh,’ the elderly manservant apologised. ‘I thought that you might arrive home earlier. I seem to have dozed off.’
George eyed his manservant. Maybe he was getting too old for the job, he thought, and might best be replaced. He did not reply to the older man but pushed past him with a grunt of acknowledgment. When he had reached the bottom of the ornate stairway he turned to the servant. ‘I am expecting a visitor around eleven o’clock tonight, Curtiss,’ he said. ‘Please ensure you are awake to allow herentry. Oh, you can put the Buick in the stables,’ he added, tossing the key to the old man who fumbled with them, dropping the key to the floor.
‘Very good, Mr Macintosh,’ the servant replied, rising from his knees after retrieving the key and shuffling out the door.
George climbed the stairs to his library and found a bottle of fine Scotch whisky in a cocktail bar adjoining the wall-to-ceiling shelves of musty books collected by the Whites over the years they had resided in their Sydney house. Given what George anticipated would fill the rest of his evening, he broke his strict rule on the consumption of alcohol and sat down in a chair behind his desk to gaze about the library, reflecting for a moment on the previous owner. George had heard the family stories about Granville White. A man of peculiar tastes, was the way his father had described Granville, leaving the rest to the imagination. George somehow felt that he
Fenella placed the brush on the dresser in front of her. ‘I don’t give a damn for what the public think of us as a couple,’ she said slowly, choosing her words precisely. ‘I am with you because I love you – not because you are Guy Wilkes, the dashing thespian. No more or no less than that. I do not care if Uncle Arthur feels our relationship is good for business.’ She stood and walked towards Guy, whose eyes were still glazed from the withdrawal of the heroin he had inhaled. She touched his face with the tips of her fingers. ‘You have to trust me or we have nothing together.’
Guy was surprised that her caress felt condescending rather than affectionate. Carefully keeping his emotions under control he raised his own hand to grasp her fingers and draw them down to her side. ‘I do trust you,’ he said quietly, turning away from her. ‘It is time that I left to return to my place.’
As Guy made his way to the front door he congratulated himself on agreeing to George Macintosh’s request. Fenella Macintosh was as traitorous as all other women that he knew – just like his own mother who had deserted his father and him when he was only five years old. When he was able to really confront himself, Guy had to admit that he despised women for their nature. It was ironic, he mused,that women loved him for his handsome looks and charm. Destroying Fenella Macintosh would teach her a lesson she would remember all her life, he thought as he closed the door behind him. It did not hurt that he would be richly rewarded for his services. Fenella needed to learn that she was a mere woman who should not upset him with her flirting ways. Yes, she would pay dearly.
George Macintosh slipped the gears of his Buick two-seater into neutral and left the car at the front of the old horse stables, now converted to a shed to garage his cars. He would let his manservant park the car inside as he did not want to bother himself with the effort. Miss Coral Gregory-Smith was safely at her home and it was time to retire to his grand house – once the property of his relatives, Granville and Fiona White. The house was smaller than the Macintosh mansion but still built of sandstone and two storeys high, with ivy creeping up the front and framing the array of windows looking out to the harbour. Alighting from the car George walked across the fine, gravel driveway to open his front door where he was met by a sleepy, older man dressed in a much-worn dressing gown.
‘Sorry, Mr Macintosh,’ the elderly manservant apologised. ‘I thought that you might arrive home earlier. I seem to have dozed off.’
George eyed his manservant. Maybe he was getting too old for the job, he thought, and might best be replaced. He did not reply to the older man but pushed past him with a grunt of acknowledgment. When he had reached the bottom of the ornate stairway he turned to the servant. ‘I am expecting a visitor around eleven o’clock tonight, Curtiss,’ he said. ‘Please ensure you are awake to allow herentry. Oh, you can put the Buick in the stables,’ he added, tossing the key to the old man who fumbled with them, dropping the key to the floor.
‘Very good, Mr Macintosh,’ the servant replied, rising from his knees after retrieving the key and shuffling out the door.
George climbed the stairs to his library and found a bottle of fine Scotch whisky in a cocktail bar adjoining the wall-to-ceiling shelves of musty books collected by the Whites over the years they had resided in their Sydney house. Given what George anticipated would fill the rest of his evening, he broke his strict rule on the consumption of alcohol and sat down in a chair behind his desk to gaze about the library, reflecting for a moment on the previous owner. George had heard the family stories about Granville White. A man of peculiar tastes, was the way his father had described Granville, leaving the rest to the imagination. George somehow felt that he
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