LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘GERRY, I look completely ridiculous. Nobody in their right mind wears clothes like this to a celebrity polo tournament!’ Jan Carruthers stared at her reflection with appalled fascination as her cousin carefully settled a wide-brimmed hat onto her short, auburn hair. Some milliner, crazed by romanticism, had draped both crown and brim with what looked to be the entire stock of a florist’s shop.

      ‘That,’ Gerry said smugly, stepping back to gaze at her, ‘is the whole idea. When you do “before and after” shots, you always make the “before” shot as outrageous as you can. You, little coz, are now definitely, extravagantly, magnificently conspicuous—just the way you should look.’

      ‘I should have told you to find some other midget when you came up with this absurd scheme.’

      ‘You did, several times. But I’m cunning, and I know all your weak spots. As soon as I mentioned all those poor women who think it’s necessary to spend thousands of dollars to look good, you wavered. Then I pointed out that you could donate the money you’re going to earn to your centre for troubled girls. Being the noble-minded sucker that you are, you couldn’t say no.’

      ‘It’s not my centre, and I’d have turned you down without a moment’s thought if I’d known you were going to dress me up as a mushroom.’ Jan glowered down at the narrow-skirted silk suit in palest peach. Worn to a fashionable lunch it would have been perfect; it would be totally out of place at the polo ground just south of Auckland.

      ‘No, you wouldn’t have.’ Secure in her model’s figure, and with her extra eight inches of height, Gerry radiated satisfaction. ‘Stop grumbling—of course you look like a mushroom. Women who are only five foot two can’t wear hats like cartwheels. Just be grateful we didn’t decide on the toadstool look, and make the hat scarlet with big white spots.’

      The far too many people needed to set up a photographic shoot for a fashion magazine sniggered. Clearly this rare opportunity to indulge themselves with flagrantly bad taste was giving them all a sneaky forbidden pleasure.

      ‘Besides,’ Gerry pointed out mercilessly, ‘your centre for disturbed girls needs all the money it can get. Didn’t I see in the newspaper that the government has just cut the grant by fifty per cent?’

      ‘And fifty per cent of a shoestring is a thread,’ Jan muttered, still feeling the sick dismay the news had caused.

      Gerry surveyed her with affectionate resignation. ‘Under that glossily smart, sophisticated, hip exterior you’re the most motherly creature I’ve ever come across. Why don’t you get married and have kids of your own instead of spending most of your spare time worrying about, raising money for and counselling your wayward girls?’

      ‘They are not my girls, and they are not all wayward!’ ‘Oh, semantics! In need of care and attention, then—and don’t you dare frown!’

      Jan froze. It had taken so long for her make-up to be applied that she didn’t dare risk cracking it. More for form’s sake than from conviction, she said, ‘I warn you, I’ll have strong hysterics if anyone so much as smirks.’

      The hairdresser, a nervy young man with a shaven head set off by a diamond stud in his ear, said fretfully, ‘I still

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