Marriage Material. Ally Blake
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this latest from Mr Golf Pro is something else again, for your eyes only. And it reads like…a recipe for the perfect woman.’
‘Give me that!’ Romy spat out.
Gloria kept a tight hold of the sheet of paper.
‘What does it say?’ Romy asked. ‘It says:
Dear Ms Bridgeport,
Further to our discussion I thought I would give you a running head start on our mission. In formulating the plans for my renovation, please keep in mind that I must in the end be capable of drawing an individual with the following non-negotiable criteria:
Easy on the eye
Able to string a sentence together
Must at least reach my chin when not in heels (old back injury means I cannot bend my neck for prolonged periods of time)
Employed
Hope that gives you somewhere to start.
Cheers, Sebastian.’
Well. He’d said he was willing and able with a bevy of ideas and it looked as though this could be the first. How helpful. What had she got herself into?
Gloria slumped into the guest chair, her eyes brimming with tears of laughter. ‘Is he for real?’
‘I’m afraid I really could not tell you.’
‘If you had to make a list outlining the perfect man, what would it be?’
‘Are you for real?’
Gloria pursed her lips and Romy knew it was either answer or be badgered for…forever.
‘If I had to reduce someone to a list, my perfect partner would be serious, committed, optimistic, thoughtful and kind. He would remember my parents’ birthdays and give up his window seat in a plane.’
Gloria grimaced. ‘Sounds more like the qualities of a good priest than a good husband. But unfortunately I can picture who you are describing without even thinking about it.’
So could Romy and for that she was infinitely thankful. ‘At least it’s a tad more specific than that rubbish. How about you?’
‘Did you not hear me regale you concerning Mr Fox’s glorious butt an hour ago? And now I see there is a devious mind to go with it. Your Mr Fox is someone I’d happily bump into in a dark alley.’
If only the girl was not the most astute assistant she had ever worked with…
‘Don’t get ideas, Gloria. He’s not my Mr Fox.’
‘But now he’s our client?’
‘Looks that way.’
‘Fantastic.’
Romy expected Gloria, who refused to wear skirts or high heels, claiming they were a form of bondage imposed by men to put women at a disadvantage, of all people to be outright offended by Sebastian’s ridiculous list. But alas, she seemed to have quickly succumbed to the man’s more flagrant charms.
Gloria leapt from her chair and practically skipped to the door. ‘I’d be happy to take dictation for every one of your meetings with that one.’
Romy held her arms out, palms upwards in submission. ‘If it will make your day.’
‘Romy, that would make my year.’
Sebastian sat back in a dark leather chair in the office he kept in a cottage in the back yard of his Hawthorn home. He’d been in there all afternoon, catching up on correspondence, including forwarding the paperwork necessary to clear up his change of legal representation.
Now moonlight from the large bay windows streamed into the small room, spilling across glass cases filled with his sporting trophies, medals and pennants. Having them on display, even in this private room had been Melinda’s choice. Sebastian would have put them in storage but Melinda insisted he keep them as a reminder of his wonderful successes.
All they did was remind him that he no longer professionally played the game he loved. A back injury sustained long ago had cut short his promising career before he had even hit his stride.
But he still preferred that cosy room to all others. His big house was too big. Too quiet. Too lonely. It had been built to house a large family and as such had never realised its potential.
Rather than submit to the usual claustrophobia creeping up on him, to gain a much-needed boost of human contact, he dialled his sister’s phone number.
‘Hey, Melinda.’
‘Hi, Seb. What’s up?’
Sebastian heard the clank of cooking pans and pictured Melinda in the kitchen with the phone tucked between her chin and her shoulder.
‘Just calling to say hi.’
‘Hi.’ She paused. ‘What is it? Come on, it’s dinner time. Hurry up.’
Sebastian had rung to let her in on his project. She wanted him to get a project and he had obeyed. But how on earth would he tell her his project involved the babe moulding him for marriage? If he was in the same room he just knew that Melinda would scuff him about the ears and accuse him of making a play for the woman. Which he most certainly wasn’t. The thing was, he needed Romy. He needed her passion, her energy, her faith in a happily ever after.
Though Melinda would do anything for him, she could not do this. She just would not understand. She had gone straight from home into Tom’s arms and had lived ten solid years with her wonderful family.
‘Put Chris on.’
‘He’s doing his homework.’
‘Come on. Put my nephew on or I’ll call you Mindy forever and ever.’
‘Fine. Chris!’ she shouted out so that even the neighbours would hear. ‘Uncle Seb’s on the phone!’
Sebastian heard the muffled noise of footsteps thundering down the carpeted stairs.
‘Here he is.’
‘Thanks, Mindy.’
‘You little—’
‘Hey, Uncle Seb! Mum said you’re taking us out Sunday. Where are you taking us?’
‘I was thinking the zoo.’
‘Yeah? Cool!’
Sebastian felt all his cares slip far, far away as he slumped back into his soft chair and listened to the excited babble of his young nephew.
CHAPTER FOUR
AROUND eight o’clock that night Romy and Gloria tumbled into Fables on Flinders in a mass of coats and scarves. The bar, with its wood panelling, burgundy leather seating and lawyerly clientele, may as well have been a law firm with a liquor licence.
Romy ordered a glass of white wine. ‘You need more colour in your life, Gloria,’ she said as Gloria sipped on her Black Russian through a straw.
They soon spotted Alan with a few of his cronies. He waved them over. They were like clones of every other man in the place, the men Romy associated with on a daily basis. They were young and successful in their tailored suits and handmade shoes but, considering their profession, these attributes were tempered by male-pattern baldness and premature pessimism.
‘We hear you have stolen Alan’s meal ticket,’ one of the guys said.
‘Jealous?’ Gloria asked.
The guy shrugged and said nothing and received a good ribbing from the others.
‘I am sorry, Alan,’ Romy said. ‘He didn’t get any encouragement from me.’
‘Don’t worry, Romy,’ Alan said. ‘I’ve had a day to get over it. And I’m sure I will be able to put