in the double digit millions. Wasn’t there a bitter divorce in his background—an aggrieved ex-wife, a public battle for ownership of the house? She’d have to look it up. If she were to win this job—and she understood that it was still a big if—she needed to get a grasp on how this man ticked.
‘Okay, so that’s sorted—no Christmas,’ she said, aiming to sound briskly efficient without any nod to the anguish she had read at the back of his eyes. ‘Now I know what you don’t want for your party, let’s talk about what you do want. I’d like to hear in your words what you expect from this party. Then I can give you my ideas based on your thoughts.’
The party proposals she had hoped to discuss had been based on Christmas; she would have to do some rapid thinking.
Dominic Hunt got up from the sofa and started to pace. He was so tall, his shoulders so broad, he dominated even the large, high-ceilinged room. Andie found herself wondering about his obviously once broken nose—who had thrown the first punch? She got up, not to pace alongside him but to be closer to his level. She did not feel intimidated by him but she could see how he could be intimidating.
‘The other planners babbled on about how important it was to invite A-list and B-list celebrities to get publicity. I don’t give a damn about celebrities and I can’t see how that’s the right kind of publicity.’
Andie paused, not sure what to say, only knowing she had to be careful not to babble on. ‘I can organise the party, but the guest list is up to you and your people.’
He stopped his pacing, stepped closer. ‘But do you agree with me?’
Was this a test question? Answer incorrectly and that scrapheap beckoned? As always, she could only be honest. ‘I do agree with you. It’s my understanding that this party is aimed at...at image repair.’
‘You mean repair to my image as a miserly Scrooge who hoards all his money for himself?’
She swallowed a gasp at the bitterness of his words, then looked up at him to see not the anger she expected but a kind of manly bewilderment that surprised her.
‘I mightn’t have put it quite like that, but yes,” she said. ‘You do have that reputation and I understand you want to demonstrate it’s not so. And yes, I think the presence of a whole lot of freeloading so-called celebrities who run the gamut from the A to the Z list and have nothing to do with the charities you want to be seen to be supporting might not help. But you are more likely to get coverage in the social pages if they attend.’
He frowned. ‘Is there such a thing as a Z-list celebrity?’
She laughed. ‘If there isn’t, there should be. Maybe I made it up.’
‘You did say you were creative,’ he said. He smiled—the first real smile she’d seen from him. It transformed his face, like the sun coming out from behind a dark storm cloud, unleashing an unexpected charm. Her heartbeat tripped into double time like it had the first moment she’d seen him. Why? Why this inexplicable reaction to a man she should dislike for his meanness and greed?
She made a show of looking around her to disguise her consternation. Tamed the sudden shakiness in her voice into a businesslike tone. ‘How many magazines or lifestyle programmes have featured this house?’ she asked.
‘None. They never will,’ he said.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘The house is both magnificent and unknown. I reckon even your neighbours would be willing to cough up a sizeable donation just to see inside.’ In her mind’s eye she could see the house transformed into a glittering party paradise. ‘The era of the house is nineteen-twenties, right?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was originally built for a wealthy wool merchant.’
She thought some more. ‘Why not an extravagant Great Gatsby twenties-style party with a silver and white theme—that gives a nod to the festive season—and a strictly curated guest list? Guests would have to dress in silver or white. Or both. Make it very exclusive, an invitation to be sought after. The phones of Sydney’s social set would be set humming to see who got one or not.’ Her eyes half shut as her mind bombarded her with images. ‘Maybe a masked party. Yes. Amazing silver and white masks. Bejewelled and befeathered. Fabulous masks that could be auctioned off at some stage for your chosen charity.’
‘Auctioned?’
Her eyes flew open and she had to orientate herself back into the reality of the empty room that she had just been envisioning filled with elegant partygoers. Sometimes when her creativity was firing she felt almost in a trance. Then it was her turn to frown. How could a Sydney billionaire be such a party innocent?
Even she, who didn’t move in the circles of society that attended lavish fund-raising functions, knew about the auctions. The competitive bidding could probably be seen as the same kind of one-upmanship as the spending of thousands on a toddler’s party. ‘I believe it’s usual to have a fund-raising auction at these occasions. Not just the masks, of course. Other donated items. Something really big to up the amount of dollars for your charity.’ She paused. ‘You’re a property developer, aren’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Among other interests.’
‘Maybe you could donate an apartment? There’d be some frenzied bidding for that from people hoping for a bargain. And you would look generous.’
His mouth turned down in an expression of distaste. ‘I’m not sure that’s in keeping with the image I want to...to reinvent.’
Privately she agreed with him—why couldn’t people just donate without expecting a lavish party in return? But she kept her views to herself. Creating those lavish parties was her job now.
‘That’s up to you and your people. The guest list and the auction, I mean. But the party? That’s my domain. Do you like the idea of the twenties theme to suit the house?’ In her heart she still longed for the choristers on the staircase. Maybe it would have to be a jazz band on the steps. That could work. Not quite the same romanticism and spirit as Christmas, but it would be a spectacular way to greet guests.
‘I like it,’ he said slowly.
She forced herself not to panic, not to bombard him with a multitude of alternatives. ‘If not that idea, I have lots of others. I would welcome the opportunity to present them to you.’
He glanced at his watch and she realised she had been there for much longer than the ten-minute pitch he’d allowed. Surely that was a good sign.
‘I’ll schedule in another meeting with you tomorrow afternoon,’ he said.
‘You mean a second interview?’ she asked, fingers crossed behind her back.
‘No. A brainstorming session. You’ve got the job, Ms Newman.’
It was only as, jubilant, she made her way to the door—conscious of his eyes on her back—that she wondered at the presence of a note of regret in Dominic Hunt’s voice.
TRY AS SHE MIGHT, Andie couldn’t get excited about the nineteen-twenties theme she had envisaged for Dominic Hunt’s party. It would be lavish and glamorous and she would enjoy every moment of planning such a visually splendid event. Such a party would be a spangled feather in Party Queens’ cap. But it seemed somehow wrong.
The feeling niggled at her. How could something so extravagant, so limited to those who could afford the substantial donation that would be the cost of entrance make Dominic Hunt look less miserly? Even if he offered an apartment for auction—and there was no such thing as a cheap apartment in Sydney—and raised a lot of money, wouldn’t it be a wealthy person who benefited? Might he appear to be a Scrooge hanging out with other rich people who might or might not also be Scrooges? Somehow, it reeked of...well, there was no other word but hypocrisy.
It wasn’t