In the photo, Eliza was standing in front, beaming, her long black hair in two plaits, dark against her white angel costume. Right behind, her arms wrapped around Eliza, was her mother, smiling too. They were almost the same height. To Eliza’s left, Maxie; to her right, Olivia. They were like two guardian angels.
Her godmothers stayed for three nights. Eliza went to bed each evening to the sound of the three of them talking and laughing, of corks regularly being taken out of bottles. It felt different to Eliza, much better, to hear the cork noise when there were others with her mother.
At some stage over that weekend, the godmothers’ holiday plan was hatched.
‘We made a solemn promise about it,’ her mum told her the morning they left. ‘I wanted to seal it in blood but we shook hands instead.’
Every year from now on, she explained, Maxie and Olivia would take Eliza away for a week or so each. It would mean she’d have two holidays a year. She’d get to know her godmothers, and they’d get to know her. It would also give her mum a break.
‘Not that I need a break from you, sweetpea. But they said I was being selfish keeping you to myself.’
The first year, both holidays were in Australia. Maxie still lived in Sydney. Olivia was based in Scotland but had come back to see her family. But as the years went by, with Maxie moving to the UK for her work too, the destinations became more exotic and interesting. By the time Eliza was seventeen, she’d visited Edinburgh, London, Paris, Singapore, Hong Kong and Hanoi.
Eliza never knew beforehand where she was going. A month before each holiday, she’d receive a letter or, in later years, an email, telling her the departure date and what to pack. On the chosen day, her mum would drive her to the airport or train station. Only then would she learn the destination. Her mum would kiss her goodbye and stay waving for as long as she could see her. When Eliza came home, full of stories, her mum was always waiting for her, eager to hear everything, see photos, exclaim with delight over the gifts Eliza would bring back for her.
The year she was seventeen, she’d been staying with Maxie in New Zealand. It had been a magical, action-packed week, visiting glaciers, lakes and movie sets. She’d rung her mum from their hotel the night before she flew home, as always, to confirm her arrival time.
‘Thank God. I’m missing you desperately,’ her mum said from their small house in Heathcote, a town one hundred kilometres north of Melbourne. ‘Tell the pilot to put his or her foot down. I want all speed records broken.’
‘I’ve got so much to tell you. Today we went to —’
‘No, no, don’t tell me. I want to hear it face-to-face. Every single juicy detail. Don’t forget anything.’
Her mum sent her an email the next morning too, written in their favourite list form.
Safe
and
happy
travels
my
dearest
darling
daughter.
I
Can’t
Wait
To
Hear
EVERYTHING.
Love
You
To
Pieces.
Mum
X
X
It was a turbulent flight from Auckland to Melbourne, but knowing her mum would be at the airport made it bearable. Sometimes Jeannie prepared a sign that she’d wave as Eliza appeared through the doors. WELCOME HOME TO THE BEST DAUGHTER IN THE WORLD, the last one had read.
‘Too bad if it’s embarrassing,’ she’d said to a mortified Eliza. ‘It’s true.’
It was after eight p.m. when Eliza stepped into Arrivals, smiling, gazing out at the crowd, searching for the beautiful familiar face. An hour later she was still waiting. Their home phone went unanswered. So did her neighbours’. She finally remembered they were visiting their son in Sydney.
Eliza had no choice but to go to the taxi rank and negotiate a fare – far more than she could usually afford. Thankfully Maxie had slipped two hundred dollars into her bag as she left. Several times on the journey to Heathcote she thought about asking the driver to stop at a public phone box so she could ring Maxie, or Olivia. Each time she talked herself out of it. Everything was all right. Maybe her mum had been called into work. Or was having trouble with the car.
The lights were on in the house as the taxi dropped her off. Her mother’s second-hand Honda was parked in its usual place. Eliza could hear music. Her heart started thumping as she reached for her keys.
She stepped into the kitchen. There was an empty bottle of wine on the table. More empty bottles by the rubbish bin. The music was coming from the bathroom. Cheerful music. A jazz station, an announcer telling his listeners that coming up was a trio of classics. Eliza kept moving, down the hall, towards the bathroom. The door was wide open.
Sarah Vaughan’s smoky voice was playing loudly as Eliza ran forward and frantically tried to pull her mother’s lifeless body out of the half-filled bath.
CHAPTER TWO
Thirteen years later
Eliza’s working week began as it usually did. She woke at six in her tidy rented apartment on the fourteenth floor of a building near Melbourne’s Southbank. It was only a one-bedroom, but all she needed. The living room window looked out across the city, giving her a bird’s-eye view of the ever-changing weather. Blue skies in the morning that often turned into wild storms by the afternoon.
She’d selected a week’s worth of outfits the night before, as always, to make her morning routine more efficient. Corporate suits in neutral colours, low-heeled shoes. At five foot ten, she didn’t need any extra height. She pulled her long black hair into the usual low bun. After a breakfast of cereal and fruit, she left the apartment at exactly 7.15 a.m. It was late March, allegedly autumn, but with thirty-six degrees forecast, it still felt like summer.
It took her twenty-five minutes to walk to her office on the third floor of a building on Exhibition Street. From the air-conditioned café downstairs, she ordered two cups of black coffee, one for her, one for her boss, Gillian, and one tea (white, two sugars) and a croissant (ham and cheese) for Hector, the old homeless man who slept in the alley around the corner. As usual, he interrupted his swearing at the world to shout at her. ‘What’s the weather like up there, Lofty?’
She was first into her office, as always. She’d already answered her work emails at home. After checking the stationery supplies, thermostat and water level in the cooler, she settled at her desk and began to review all her current projects.
She’d worked for Gillian Webster Enterprises for nearly nine years. Almost a third of her life. After finishing her business degree at the University of Melbourne, she’d sent her CV to ten companies advertising for graduates. Gillian was the first to reply.
‘High distinctions in all subjects,’ she said. ‘You’re my type of person.’
During their meeting that same day – ‘I don’t mess around. How soon can you come in?’ – Gillian did more talking than Eliza. She described herself as ‘an entrepreneur, a can-do dynamic ideas person’. Gillian’s original business was a successful recruitment agency. She’d recently expanded into the conference industry.
‘What I need is a right-hand woman, someone to keep an eye on all aspects of the conferences. The delegates, the finances, casual staff, travel arrangements. Detail, detail, detail. Twenty-four seven.’