The Problem with Perfect Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Megan Mayfair

  Cover Design: Adobe Stock © innakos

  Editor: Sue Barnard

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Red Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2019

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  and something nice will happen.

  For Michael.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank my publishers, Crooked Cat. Thank you to Laurence and Stephanie once again for taking on one of my stories. Many thanks as well to the other Crooked Cat authors for their support.

  Thanks to Sue Barnard for once again being an attentive and supportive editor.

  Thank you to those who provided fantastic insights into drafts of this novel, especially Heidi Catherine and Jayne Kingsley. Thank you to Marianne Bayliss, Lou Greene and Stella Quinn for their friendship and writing advice.

  Finally, many thanks to my family and friends, most notably my husband, Michael, and our children, Thomas, Patrick and Beatrice. Love you always.

  About the Author

  Megan Mayfair lives in Melbourne with her husband and three young children. She has a background in public relations and higher education.

  A coffee snob with an out-of-control scarf collection, Megan loves thinking up the ‘what if’ scenarios that fuel her writing.

  She regularly writes in cafes and focuses on contemporary fiction containing a dash of family intrigue, a sprinkling of humour and a spoonful of romance.

  Megan loves to connect with readers, so please say hello on social media, visit her website www.meganmayfair.com or subscribe to her newsletter www.meganmayfair.com/subscribe for the latest news.

  The Problem with Perfect is her third novel.

  The Problem with Perfect

  Chapter One

  Marigold

  Marigold scoffed at people who lived their lives in complete and utter disorganisation.

  Everything she did was planned to the minute. Every decision, from the small (what shoes she was going to wear today) to the large (marrying Julian), was made with significant care and consideration.

  When Marigold met Julian, she knew immediately he was the perfect man for her. It wasn’t a ‘feeling’ or a ‘sense’. It was a cold, hard fact.

  He was a lawyer from an excellent family, attended an outstanding school followed by a prestigious university, and even had the most lovely blond hair.

  He understood her dedication to perfection. He strived for similar perfection in his own life.

  They were the ideal team.

  Their dinner parties were legendary, featuring sparkling company, gourmet food and finely-matched wine. Their home was magnificent, right down to the dimmed lighting, white suede designer sofa, and art that elevated the spirit.

  Their wedding had been the social event of the year, with the reception at her parents’ grand estate in regional Victoria. She wore a couture designer gown; Julian, an impeccable tuxedo. She had stood at the Cathedral in her hometown of Bendigo, said her vows and congratulated herself on what had been one of her most planned moves yet. A husband of such standing, a husband of such good looks, a husband who was prepared to build exactly the sort of life she wanted.

  The life she needed.

  Now she was back at the same Cathedral where they’d exchanged their vows almost five years ago. She was once again impeccably dressed, in a Burberry black midi dress with a patent leather belt pulled into her waist, black Prada heels and her deep burgundy-coloured Miu Miu handbag (the one with the gold embellishments that Julian had bought her for Christmas after she had pointed it out to him).

  Her dark hair was pulled into a chignon at the nape of her neck and not a hair was loose – she had checked several times in the gold-edged mirror in her parents’ foyer before leaving for the Cathedral. A black lace handkerchief was tucked into her pocket. It was an heirloom, bought in Rome by her late grandmother who had left it to Marigold in her will.

  The Bishop turned and said something, but Marigold didn’t catch it. It was simply a buzzing of jumbled consonants and vowels. She had specifically asked the Bishop to officiate today, and she couldn’t understand a word he was saying. It was as though he was talking underwater. Was she going deaf, or was his lapel microphone on the blink?

  The Bishop continued to mumble, then gave her a small nod, momentarily startling her before she realised it was her time to speak.

  Standing, she smoothed out her skirt and walked to the lectern and looked over at the coffin she’d chosen: polished mahogany draped with white roses. It was hard to believe it contained the body of someone she loved so much.

  Her parents were sitting in the front pew. Her mother dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief, not dissimilar to the one in Marigold’s pocket.

  Her father stared ahead, a stoic expression on his face. He appeared older. Perhaps he was tired. Work had been hectic, especially with the merger she was overseeing for him. Guilt stabbed at her. Was she contributing to his stress levels? It would be ok; she’d be back at work soon and could help him.

  Her brother, Frederick, was next to their mother, clutching the hand of his heavily-pregnant wife, Amelia. He gave Marigold an encouraging nod. Like their father, he seemed older too. Was he feeling the stresses of his impending fatherhood? It was a big responsibility, and Frederick was so carefree. Would he cope with the demands of a small child? And Amelia, so close to her due date. She must be uncomfortable sitting in the wooden pews.

  Marigold looked at her family again. Was it them, or was the lighting in here particularly bad? She snuck a glance around the church. It was troubling how pale and sallow everyone looked today. Had the lighting been this harsh at her wedding? She hoped not. She’d speak to the Bishop about this afterwards, and have him examine any lighting modifications required in case she needed to use this Cathedral again in the future.

  She glanced at her younger sister, Rose, who was holding Amelia’s other hand. Her eyes were red and her usually flawless eye make-up smudged at the corners, giving her ever-so-slight Panda eyes. In itself this was jarring, Rose usually looked cat-walk perfect.

  Yes, everyone was a little off-centre today. But then again, Marigold had been off-balance for days now. It had been a harrowing week. She’d even forgotten to put the bins out on Tuesday.

  She surveyed the congregation, sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows, and as she did the buzzing noise between her ears became louder. She looked down at her notes but the words jumbled together. She swallowed and began, the words croakier than she’d anticipated.

  “This wasn’t meant to happen,” she said, as the tears she had been holding back for days finally sprung free. “Julian and I were meant to be together forever.”

  She wiped away a tear with her grandmother’s lace handkerchief. “This wasn’t meant to happen,” she repeated. She turned to the coffin, as if to directly speak to her husband. “You weren’t supposed to do this to me, Julian.”

  Chapter Two

  Finn

  Finn slipped into the Cathedral. As much as he could discreetly enter. The floor was made of some sort of stone, the ceilings were high, and his shoes echoed as he walked to a nearby pew. He wasn’t light on his feet but the noise he was making seemed ridiculous
ly loud.

  He’d never been in a church this big. He’d rarely been in a church at all, in fact. He’d not grown up with any resemblance of religion in his life. Was he opposed to a higher being? Perhaps not, but if there was one he’d never felt particularly looked after by it.

  He sat down, as close to the back as he could without looking as if he was hiding. People often sat in the back in the hope of not being noticed, but he found the opposite was true. It looked suspicious. He found a spot about a quarter of the way down and to the side. It was shadowy, with a large pillar obscuring him. He’d blend in there, thanks to his dark suit and bowed head.

  He didn’t want any attention drawn to himself. He wasn’t even certain he should be there. He definitely didn’t want to be there, that was for sure. Three hours ago, he’d debated whether he should stay home. As recently as an hour ago, he’d considered taking a U-turn at a service station and returning to Melbourne.

  But he was here now.

  His eyes scanned the room. Was it a room? What was the name for the inside of a church? Congregation? No, that was the people who attended. Vestibule? No, that was the fancy name for the foyer. He couldn’t think of anything that worked.

  Room it was.

  There was a lot of seating, and most of the pews were about three-quarters full. A sea of people dressed in black. It was a warm day outside, but the mourners looked bundled up in suits and black dresses and jackets.

  It was so quiet. Eerie. Still. People’s movements were small, their voices hushed. Half-smiles and vague nods greeted each other, the mourning of the person lost being more important than a warm smile to see an old friend.

  Funerals were all the same, weren’t they? They were a funny thing. Regardless of the difference in some rituals or the types of flowers or the order of service, they were simply people saying goodbye to someone.

  The last funeral he’d been to was Simon’s. The first funeral he’d been to was his father’s.

  It had been strange to have those as bookends before today. Two men who really should still be here. Both taken too young. And two of three men he admired most.

  And the third he admired, Peter Doyle, was alive and well, sitting with his wife and adult children, a few rows in front. Owner of D-Line, one of the largest transport and logistics businesses in the country. An excellent businessman, and, importantly, a good person.

  As much as Finn had been torn whether or not to attend, the reason he was here was his respect for Peter. Yes, he knew Marigold. She was second-in-command of D-Line and he’d worked with her on a number of projects, but Peter was the one who had thrown him a lifeline when he really needed it. He’d taken a chance on a former police officer turned inexperienced security consultant. It was the right thing to do. A professional courtesy, and, if anything, he considered himself professional.

  As the service commenced, Finn looked down at the service booklet he’d been handed when he walked in. A picture of Julian, a kind of smarmy grin on his face. It was a pretty accurate picture really. Julian had always had a smarmy grin. Not that he’d ever actually met Julian or shaken his hand, but he’d seen it plenty of times from a distance.

  But now he was gone.

  He looked up as he watched Marigold walk across to the lectern. Walked wasn’t even the word, it was a stride. That was how she moved.

  It was certainly nothing like how Tamsyn had limped to deliver Simon’s eulogy until she’d broken down and Finn had stepped in. Or nothing like his father’s funeral, where his mother had been too shocked, too pale to even say a word. Once again, Finn had stepped in there, despite only been eleven at the time.

  As Marigold opened her mouth and begun her eulogy, Finn saw tears stream down her face and her hands begin to shake.

  He tilted his head. Marigold was no different from Tamsyn, or his mother. She was the picture of grief, just had they had been. A strange unease settled over his body, and he pressed his hands to his knees until the urge to help her subsided.

  Chapter Three

  Marigold

  Marigold’s assistant, Kendall, gasped when Marigold walked in the office on Monday morning.

  She quickly stood up when she made eye contact with Marigold. She pushed aside a large coffee cup and a chocolate muffin, and wiped the crumbs from her hands.

  “Marigold! I wasn’t expecting you,” she said hurriedly, her face reddening. She nodded towards Marigold, repeatedly, as if she was bowing to meet the Queen.

  “I can see that.” Marigold looked down at Kendall’s feet. She was wearing pink runners with her grey dress. “Don’t you have any other shoes? This isn’t a gym.”

  Kendall continued to turn scarlet, which made her plump face seem rounder than usual. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d be in. I’ll put my heels on,” she said, crouching down to untie her laces. “I’m sorry,” she added in a whisper.

  “It’s ok. Just please don’t do it again. Now, I’d like to run through my diary please, in about ten minutes,” Marigold said, doing her best to give her a smile. She opened the door to her office.

  Her sanctuary. She placed her handbag in the special cupboard that was designed to house her bag during the day. She hated handbags perched on desks, but it was marginally better than dumping them on the floor under the desk.

  Kendall, now wearing sensible black heels, appeared at the door and repeated her apologies. “I’m sorry. Mr Doyle said you wouldn’t be in.” Kendall was clearly flustered. Her words rushed together, as they sometimes did when Marigold caught her wrong-footed.

  Despite her occasional tongue-ties and startle when she was caught unawares, which thankfully happened only rarely, Kendall was a good assistant. Frederick joked that Kendall didn’t seem to have a life other than being ordered around by Marigold. She didn’t really know what Kendall did outside work. She could do whatever on earth she wanted. She could have been into windsurfing or knitting or fishing for all Marigold knew, but it was of no concern to her as long as she did a good job at work.

  Marigold cleared her throat. “Well, that’s what my father may think, but I’m ready to come back.”

  “The funeral was on Friday.”

  Marigold narrowed her eyes. She knew this expression caused Kendall to look down to avoid the intensity of the glare. And it had the desired effect.

  “Thank you, Kendall. I’m aware when my husband’s funeral was held. But I’m back, and I’d like to run through my diary in ten minutes. Oh, and all these flowers?” She waved her hand at a bench with various floral arrangements in vases.

  “They’re nice, aren’t they?”

  Marigold stared at a white rose for a moment. They were identical to the ones on Julian’s coffin. She had always loved white roses, but would she ever be able to look at them the same way? Perhaps she would need to ask the gardener to remove the ones from her front garden. Could she bear to be greeted by those every time she arrived home?

  She looked back to Kendall. “They’re nice, but I don’t want them here.” She swallowed. “After you take your lunch break, would you mind dropping them around to the aged care facility? The one on Victoria Street. Maybe the residents there would like them. Please take the cards off first so I can write thank-you notes.”

  “Of course. A cup of tea?”

  “Earl Grey with lemon, thank you, Kendall.”

  Marigold undid the button of her suit jacket and sat down in the white leather chair in front of her desk. A framed picture of Julian was positioned next to her computer. She ran a finger over the glass. She loved that picture, taken when they were skiing in New Zealand.

  She blinked away a tear and switched on her computer and reviewed her diary for the day. It was best if she focused on her meetings today, specifically those about the merger. Nothing could get in the way of the merger.

  But the diary was blank. She checked the date. Yes, it was right. She opened her mouth to call for Kendall when her father appeared at the door.

  “I thought you were going to
take a few weeks off?” His voice was gentle, yet not soppy or weak. He still had that air of control he’d mastered over his lifetime of business experience.

  “It’s fine. I want to be here.” The order, the structure, the distraction. It was the only place that made any sense right now.

  He crossed his arms. Another move that meant business. “Marigold, the funeral was on Friday.”

  What was this? Had everyone been issued with the same memo detailing what to say to annoy her? “I’m aware of that, thank you. Kendall just reminded me of the same fact.”

  Kendall had slipped in with a cup of tea and slid it onto Marigold’s desk before taking a large step back, almost a leap, as if to ready herself to make a speedy exit.

  “I’ve lost my husband, not my ability to read a calendar,” Marigold added, picking up the cup and taking a sip.

  Kendall always made drinks at the perfect temperature so Marigold could drink them immediately. Who had time to wait for things to cool down? She wanted the tea now, not in ten minutes, otherwise, she would have asked for it in ten minutes’ time.

  Kendall and Peter exchanged a look.

  Marigold continued to sip her tea and cast her eyes over her email inbox, wishing her father would leave so she could get on with her work. Didn’t he have a full schedule?

  “Kendall, can you give us a minute?” he asked. Kendall moved hurriedly out of the room, her heels squeaking.

  Peter sat down in a chair in front of Marigold’s desk. “I don’t think this is a good idea. You need time, love.”

  She bristled. He never called her ‘love’ at work. At D-Line, family relationships were firmly left at the door. Her father treated Marigold like any other colleague, and that was the way she wanted it. Being the owner’s daughter wasn’t all sunshine and lollipops, especially in such a male-dominated industry. The idea of competitors, employees or stakeholders hearing her father call her ‘love’ or ‘darl’ was cringe-worthy.