We wove magic between us with our words, soul to soul, and when the sun cracked the horizon he kissed me goodnight and promised me he'd write as soon as he arrived in London. 'You won't,' I said, feeling the morning cold. 'You'll forget me.' He stood up. 'You'll see,' he said. 'We belong to each other now. Always will.' Melbourne, 1927. The summer flowers smell like Christmas the night Zara Dickins meets Harry Holt. Zara is wearing a dress she has designed and made herself: white organdie over a short black slip, with black embroidery and a crimson taffeta sash. It's party season and the university crowd are celebrating end-of-year exams. Zara loves dancing with the boys and flirting with them, but it's a game to her. Nothing serious. Until Harry. He plans to be a politician once he finishes law. She, a fashion designer, if she can find a way to break out of the secretarial pool. When he takes her hand, she doesn't want to let him go. The spark they ignite that night will last forty years. Portsea, 1967. When Australian Prime Minister Harold Holt disappears while swimming, his wife Zara loses herself in the memories of their volatile relationship. She always believed Harry when he said no matter what happened, he'd never leave. Their bond has stretched to London, Europe, India, America. It has survived anger, loss and heartbreak, media scrutiny, secrets and lies. But now all Zara wants is for Harry to come home.
