Legally Addicted - By Lena Dowling Page 0,56

morning appointments.

‘Anything I can do, sir?’ Jeffrey said, as Brad stopped halfway out of the outdoor chaise, stooped over, his stiff joints refusing to straighten out.

Brad thought for a moment.

‘Get me a list of every eligible female rich-lister under forty. I’ve got to find a date for this bloody gala now, preferably someone with her own money.’

‘Oh dear. I am sorry, sir, I had rather thought this last woman was different.’

‘So did I, Jeffrey. So did I.’

Georgia leaned down and bumped her head against her desk a couple of times.

‘You did it, didn’t you?’ Miriam asked, placing a stack of files in her in-tray.

‘What?’

‘You asked Brad for the money, didn’t you?’

Georgia didn’t answer, bumping her forehead a third time like a talisman, as if self-flagellation would somehow bring the situation to rights.

‘Sort of — damn it — yes.’

‘Georgia! I warned you.’

‘I know, I know. You warned me, and now I have no chance with this addiction centre proposal. If it even gets on the shelter board agenda, Caro Marsden will shoot it down, and without support from Brad the idea will be more extinct than the Tasmanian tiger.’

‘Oh well. At least you still have Brad.’

She shook her head.

‘It’s over.’

‘Oh, Georgia. I am sorry.’

‘Don’t be. At least now I don’t have to go to that stupid shelter fundraiser. I think Brad would have been expecting me to go as his date.’

‘Let me guess, after work you’re planning to go home, change straight into your jammies, eat takeaway food, followed by a tub of ice-cream, all sitting in front of trash TV.’

Miriam’s many talents had suddenly expanded to include the art of clairvoyance. That was pretty much exactly what Georgia had in mind for her evening.

‘Possibly.’

‘Or you could go by your gorgeous self, flirt your arse off and make Brad Spencer jealous as hell.’

‘But I haven’t got anything to wear.’

‘Says the woman who uses her secretary as her personal stylist. Come on, grab your coat and your plastic, and we’ll go find something.’

Eight hours later Georgia was standing in the kitchen at the gala dinner as Caro Marsden thrust a server’s apron at her, the money Miriam had convinced her to spend at Castlereagh’s now completely wasted under a cotton full-length grocer style apron.

‘Thank you so much, Georgia. When one of the servers let me down I didn’t know what to do, but when Brad arrived with Paris Walsh on his arm, I realised you must have come on your own and wouldn’t mind helping out.’

Bee-atch.

Why had she agreed to this? Right now jammies, ice-cream and trash TV had never looked so good.

So, Brad hadn’t wasted any time, and he was fishing back in familiar waters. Well, good. He should stick to his own species. He had no business going downtown if he couldn’t cope with what he found there, or exploded at the simple suggestion he should increase the charity he directed to the less fortunate. She had been beginning to think he was different from all the other rich hypocrites she had ever encountered. Luckily she found out the truth before it was too late.

‘I’ll put you on table eight,’ Caro said.

Georgia fully expected table eight to be Brad’s table, her life was going that well. Being forced to serve Brad and his date would just top everything off, but by some miracle, a loophole in Murphy’s Law had opened up and she was assigned to another table further back. She kept her eyes firmly on the party she had been assigned and avoided looking around.

Instead, she concentrated on what she had to do, making sure everyone at her table got the correct meal and that the glasses were topped up. She was so caught up in her serving duties that she didn’t have time to stop to listen to the speeches between courses, but as she took a plate of profiteroles from the tray she was carrying, ready to set it down in front of a guest for dessert, she heard her name.

‘Georgia, yes — that’s right, you, Georgia.’

The spotlight that had been on Caro, who was playing mistress of ceremonies up on the stage, skittered across the room and alighted on Georgia. For once she couldn’t control her facial expression. Her mouth gawped with mortification, and the audience laughed. Over two hundred sniggers, all in unison, all directed at her. It was like the nightmare of her childhood writ large, playing on the big screen. Georgia wanted to run and hide, throwing herself under one of the tables,