Page 1 of The Secret Club
PROLOGUE
“Rosie, something has to give. We either sell up and move somewhere more affordable or one of us needs to get another job.” My husband’s words pull on my heart strings.
I love this house, I love this cul-de-sac, I love this area, and I love the kids’ schools. The last thing I want to do is sell up and move somewhere more affordable. My husband works full time, I work part time for my own business. We need extra money because of the rising costs of life—our mortgage, food, bills, just about everything has gone up. And wouldn’t it be nice to afford the nicer things in life? Family holidays being the top of my wish list.
James already works every available hour in his job, so Ubering is out for him. I don’t even like to drive somewhere I don’t know so it’s a hard no from me. I also don’t want to give up my beloved little business. So it’s up to me to find a supplementary income. For my family. I’m 35 years old, when did things get so tough? I thought life was meant to get easier as you got older? Shouldn’t we have our shit sorted out by now?
There’s been a niggle at the back of my brain since James told me a few months back about a friend of a friend’s golf probuddy being flown out to Singapore to help a golf club member take part in a golf weekend away. It made me wonder about who plays golf at the prestigious Clarendon Club, how they can afford the annual fees and what else goes on there when they can literally pay to fly golfing experts out to their sporting holidays.
Opening my laptop in bed I look up the Clarendon Golf Club and am greeted with a beautiful website showcasing inside a modern clubhouse and beautiful pristine landscapes and greens. I know nothing about golf, have never set foot in a golf club, watched it on tv or desired anything about it. I don’t even care for miniature golf. But something is pulling on my desire to reach out to the owners for a job. I have bar and café experience, surely these well to do golfers need some coffee to fuel them around hectares of grass all day. Or a beer to celebrate a successful day of golfing? Do they even call it golfing? And would they drink a nice chardonnay instead of a beer?
Taking a sip of my Pinot Noir for dutch courage, I write what I hope is my most flattering but not desperate email asking to be a part of Clarendon Golf Club in any capacity they might need. Once that’s done I shut my laptop and try to sleep. What would it be like working for someone else again? It’s been eight years already working for myself. Can I even work for someone else?
The next morning to my utter surprise is a reply waiting.
Nervously, I click on the email and read to my amazement
Dear Rosie,
Thank you for reaching out overnight. You have actually caught us in a moment of need and we would love to arrange a meeting for Tuesday morning. Please let me know if 10am suits you for an interview at our in house café/bar the Marion.
I look forward to meeting you, Sandy.
1
Buttering sandwiches for the kids’ lunches, James comes up behind me—his bulk pushing into the back of my body, pushing me into the stone top counter, one hand snakes around my slender waist as it dips down to rest just in front of my pussy. The other hand pulls my long brown hair to the side to expose the side of my neck as he leans in close to whisper, “You’re going to smash it this morning,” in my ear.
His freshly showered, clean sandalwood scent fills my senses and his close breath sends a shiver down my spine before he nips at my ear lobe and all too soon he’s pulling away leaving fluttering in the pit of my stomach. What this man does to me, even after 15 years together…
I turn to meet his playful smile and light blue eyes twinkling back at me. This man knows how to leave me in a puddle and he’s doing it on purpose.
“Seriously, Rosie, go smash it. Be yourself, they won’t be able to resist you. We don’t need the moneythat muchif you hate anyone or anything about The Clarendon. I’ve been to Golf Clubs like this one, they’ll just expect things done in a certain way and that is nothing you can’t do. Just flash themthat beautiful smile, push your shoulders back and keep your chin held high. Yes, we do need money, but, in my opinion they cannot afford to not give you a chance. Go get them tiger.”
And with that, my mountain of a man bends down to land a kiss that doesn’t last long enough on my lips and pats my bottom goodbye. That goofball of a man is always touching me in some shape or form.
Thirty minutes later, I’ve packed the kids into the car, dropped them off at school and am making the twenty-minute drive to The Clarendon. Turns out where we live in Melbourne there are plenty of golf courses to choose from. The Clarendon is however the most exclusive and desired of them all. It certainly attracts the highest annual fees of $54k a year or thereabouts. To me, that is someone’s actual annual salary. What kind of people can afford to pay that for a hobby?
Nerves start to bubble inside of me as I drive through black iron gates, entering the estate’s property in good time for my interview. I follow the palm tree lined driveway a kilometre before it opens out to a stunning white horse fountain in the middle of a roundabout with a backdrop of the most—what I can only describe as a castle manor type building. Not at all what I was expecting. When I was on the website, only the inside and golf grounds were shown in all their verdant glory.
I drive past the fountain and building, the road leading to a carpark on the right. There are only a handful of cars currently parked. All are black, have blacked out windows, are shiny and look expensive. Not quite the grey Volvo I’ve just pulled in with. I check myself in the mirror before forcing myself out of the car. This is a lot more regal than I had imagined. In fact, this is nothing like I had imagined. I almost kick myself, what on earth was I thinking? Why would they hire someone like me?
I’m wearing the only black pair of heels I own, which I paired with a black pencil skirt and cream blouse. I’m hoping it gives me an air of sophistication, but tottering along the graveldriveway, I’m not sure what I look like just trying to stay upright. Heels are not my usual daytime attire. Working for myself, I wear whatever the heck I like and most often that’s comfy leggings and a sweater and Converse.
When I get to the giant double door, I wonder if I should push through or ring a bell. Looking up, I can see a camera and try and hold myself back from giving a little wave. I decide on the doorbell seeing as the door is closed. I press once and wait a mere second before the heavy door is swung open slowly and a petite blonde lady is waiting on the other side.
“Hi Rosie, I’m Sandy.”
Sandy reaches out her dainty hand and gives me a firm but gentle shake. It’s been a long time since I even had to shake someone’s hand. Come on Rosie, pull yourself together now. It’s game time.
“Really lovely to meet you Sandy, thank you so much for seeing me today,” I say earnestly. I hope that didn’t come across as too desperate already. I smile brightly and hope that takes the edge off my nervousness.
Sandy is wearing a cream skirt suit, her blond hair neatly curved into a bob that touches her shoulders. She must be in her 50s and is certainly under my 5'5". “Follow me Rosie, I realised you wouldn’t know where our meeting point is so let me take you there now.”
Sandy leads me through the foyer that is large, open with shiny parquet wooden floors, a grand chandelier, wooden benches below huge windows adorned with pretty pastel flowers. The room has an old world feeling that speaks of class and money. At the back of the foyer room, we turn right and I take in a breath. In complete contrast to the front of the building, this room has floor to ceiling windows that look out onto the endless greenery of the golf range. The room feels light and airy and reminds me of the wineries I’ve visited in the Yarra Valley.
Sandy leads us past the bar that is all black, with back lighting on all the wines and spirits they clearly stock. Sandy shows me to a seat by the window overlooking the grounds in the right corner. Before my bottom hits the plush black chair, a pretty tall waitress in her mid 30s is by our side.
“Hi Sandy, will it be your regular for this morning?”
