‘How old were you when you went to live with them?’
‘Young. Why?’
‘Was she sick? Is that why you were sent away?’
I stiffen. ‘Your mother is not a person I care to discuss.’ ‘No.’
Her eyes probe my face; I keep my expression neutral. ‘Did your dad sue for custody?’
Nausea almost winds me. ‘No.’ She’s not going to let this go. I turn to face her properly, meeting her eyes as though it doesn’t cost me. ‘She didn’t want me any more. I wasn’t particularly conducive to her lifestyle.’
‘What lifestyle was that?’
‘She liked to entertain. She was glamorous and I was a hindrance.’
Her eyes narrow, as though she can’t make sense of this. ‘So she sent you to live with your dad and...what? Had you on holidays? Weekends?’
My heart shifts. ‘I only saw her a few times after that, never for long. The first I knew she’d got sick was when she died.’
Cora’s expression shows an abundance of pain and sympathy. She moves towards me and puts a hand on my chest, her features soft and beautiful, stirring something to life inside me. ‘And that hurt.’
It’s not a question. I can remember every detail of that afternoon so vividly. My mother taking me to a huge building, a skyscraper with offices, leaving me sitting in a waiting room filled with expensive leather furniture while a nice woman, Mrs Adams—she was one of my father’s assistants—ferried lavender shortbreads and sweet tea to me, in between waiting on Ryan Hart and my mother. I remember the exact taste of those biscuits, the smell of the sun-warmed leather furniture, the sound of the air-conditioning humming, the sheen of the polished tiles beneath my feet. I remember the boredom that seeped into my bones right before shock took over. I push the memories aside.
‘I was a child. Lots of things hurt. I grew out of that.’
She lifts a finger, tracing the rose, her eyes troubled, showing that perhaps she disagrees with me. She doesn’t speak, though, and I find myself—strangely—filling the silence.
‘She loved roses.’
Her expression is sympathetic. I don’t want sympathy; I hate it. I change the subject abruptly.
‘Are you hungry?’
Her eyes widen a little, her brows lifting. ‘I can grab something later, on my way home.’
‘No.’ I press myself against her, my mouth finding her earlobe and drawing it in, wobbling it between my teeth so I catch her small groan, I feel it against my body. I can’t say why it matters to me, but I want Cora to stay longer—I feel that I need her in this moment. ‘You’ll stay and eat with me first.’
She lifts her face to mine, something shifting from her to me. ‘Are you trying to boss me around again?’ A smile is quirking the corners of her lips.
‘Yes.’ And then, because she’s making fun of me and I hear what I sound like, I say, ‘Okay?’
She lifts her fingers, walking them up my side then twisting them behind my back, rubbing the flesh between my shoulder blades. ‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’
‘What’s for breakfast?’
That’s easy. ‘Whatever you want, baby.’
CHAPTER NINE
The sixth to last morning
‘SO, SUNDOWN CREEK?’
I pause, midway through lifting a corner of waffle to my mouth, shooting him a look that’s part exasperated, part impressed—that he remembered, that he’s interested. I can’t really work out why the latter is true, but an hour after we came in from the balcony he’s brought the conversation back to the question of where I used to live.
‘Uh-huh.’ I resume the waffle’s trajectory, biting it and watching him as I chew, inwardly amused by his obvious discontent. Holden Hart is not a man who likes to be made to wait.
I wonder if that’s because he’s who he is—as in, a guy who was raised with a silver spoon, knowing his billionaire fate awaited him, and so from a very young age he’s been worshipped and adored, with an army of servants to undertake all his bidding.
Or is it just him? There’s a latent authority that moves within him. I felt in from the moment he stepped onto the jet and, unobserved, I watched him. I feel it now.
‘What was it like?’
That’s an easier question. General, non-specific. ‘It was quiet.’ I lean back in the chair a little, thinking of my hometown. ‘It’s a small place, well off the beaten track. Miles in from the coastline, just a small creek to irrigate the crops, and the creek dries up completely through winter—we get our storms in summer. I was bored a lot, as a child.’ I look towards my camera backpack, on the edge of the sofa. ‘I think that’s why I got into photography.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I found an old camera of my grandma’s and started playing around. Grandpa had a darkroom, and taught me how to develop the films.’ My smile is laced with nostalgia. ‘I hate to think what kind of chemicals I inhaled as an incautious seven-year-old. And what it must have cost them to sustain my hobby.’
‘You were passionate about it.’
‘Yes, but a lot of the photos were terrible—’ I laugh ‘—I had a lot to learn.’
‘So this is your hobby still?’
‘It’s more than a hobby. It’s a...’ I search for the right word. My eyes fall to him and it’s easy to remember. ‘A compulsion.’
‘Why?’
I consider that a moment. ‘A photo is a snapshot of time. But it’s so much more. In a photo you can capture an extra layer of reality, things you can’t fathom or don’t recognise in the moment are there to be understood later. Lines around eyes, hopes, dreams, wants, needs.’
‘So you prefer portraits to landscape?’
My smile is whimsical. ‘I think landscapes can have secrets of their own too. I like juxtaposition and contrast.’ I stand up, moving to grab the camera, flicking up the photos I took the day before. ‘See what I mean? The sharp tips of the Opera House, the gentle lifts of the tiny waves in the harbour? The shadows here and the sunlight there? Contrast makes us care; it intrigues us.’
He studies the photo. ‘This child with her ice cream cone and eyes so full of hope and the old lady on the bench, enjoying the sunshine.’
My heart bursts because I noticed exactly the same detail—I intentionally framed it that way. This is why I want to be a photographer. It’s a form of art and information. ‘Yes.’ Just a small breath sound.
‘This is very good.’ He clicks into another photo and another, then places the camera down.
I feel as though I’ve trapped a beautiful butterfly in a glass jar. These dreams of mine have been secret for so long, kept that way by my own certainty that they’re laughable and fanciful, and yet, with Holden, I want to share them with him.
I tilt my head to the side, trying to find the words, and end up blurting it out. ‘Actually, I’m hoping to pursue this as more than just a hobby.’ My cheeks infuse with heat. ‘I mean, I know it’s hard to make a living from something like photography, but I have a little capital, enough to pour into this, and it’s what I’ve always wanted to do.’
I’ve piqued his interest. He leans forward a little, his eyes assessing. ‘What does that entail?’
‘To start with, a course through the National Photography Institute. It’s here in Sydney, so kind of a no-brainer.’ I lift my shoulders. ‘I’m nervous, you know. I love photography and I’m worried—’
‘Why?’
‘Well, there’s a chance I might suck at it. And then what? I mean, I quit a great job for this, because I wanted to chase the dream I had when I was just a kid. That’s stupid, right?’
‘You don’t suck.’
I push his praise away. ‘But following my dreams?’
‘People seem to say you should pursue your dreams.’
‘But you don’t?’
His smile is
hard to analyse. ‘I don’t believe in dreams, no.’
Something chips at my heart. An ache for him, pain, deep inside of me.
‘But you’re talented. This isn’t a whim.’
Pleasure at his praise warms me.
‘And what then, after the course?’
‘Well, it’s a year long. Then, there are some great opportunities to shadow renowned photographers, depending on area of interest. Finally, the business part, but I can’t even think of that yet.’
‘And your career as a flight attendant?’
‘It served its purpose.’ The telling phrase is out before I can stop it. I lift some more waffle to my mouth.
‘Which was?’
I chew, fingering the lip of my coffee mug. ‘To see the world.’ It’s a version of the truth. ‘Sundown Creek is beneath the flight path for a lot of planes. I used to stand in our garden, looking up at the sky and watching those white trails track across the deep blue and I wanted, more than anything, to be on board. To go somewhere. I wanted to leave Sundown Creek, even as a girl.’
‘Why?’
He doesn’t fall for the romance of exploration. His question is more probing than that.
‘Lots of reasons. Haven’t you ever wanted to get away?’
His laugh completely lacks humour. It’s a gruff sound that makes my heart ache for him for a reason I can’t comprehend.
‘That’s how you felt?’ He refocuses the conversation to me with effortless ease.
‘I wanted—yes. I wanted to get away.’
‘From what?’
My heart slows. It almost stops. I feel tempted to talk to him, tempted to tell him everything, and I wonder at that, because holding this inside of me is habit. It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to anyone about anything important. I’m an expert in shallow, meaningless social engagements.
But talking to Holden is like talking to nobody, in the sense that I won’t know him in a week or two, and he won’t know me. Maybe that’s why I find this strangely seductive. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been more physically intimate with him than anyone else and there’s a sense of connection that comes from that act, whether wanted or not.
‘Everything, I guess.’
He leans forward. ‘That’s kind of vague.’
‘I know.’ I run my knife over the top of the waffle then put it down, because I’m fidgeting for the sake of it.
‘But it’s the truth,’ I say, shaking my head, my smile heavy with sadness. ‘My dad. My boyfriend. My life.’ The last word is heavy with grief, because by ‘life’ I mean ‘loss’.
‘You don’t get on with your dad?’
‘He died.’ The words are said without emotion, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel his loss. ‘A year ago.’
‘I see.’
I like that he doesn’t offer a platitude. I realise I did when he told me about his mum, but I’m glad he leaves it be.
‘We weren’t close, in the end.’
He’s quiet, like he knows that if he doesn’t interrupt I’ll keep going.
‘He wasn’t abusive or anything. But he was—’
He’s still silent. I search for a word.
‘Self-destructive. It was hard to watch.’
He doesn’t move, except for the small, almost imperceptible, shift in his eyes.
‘How so?’
‘Oh, you know. A raging alcoholic. One beer after another after another until he could barely stand. Which made him, from time to time, mean. Angry. Unsafe.’ I shake my head, frustrated at my inability to help him coiling through me like a fresh wound. ‘It was just him and me. It’s hard as a kid not to take that on.’ I lift my shoulders. ‘Over the years I’ve come to realise it wasn’t my fault, but it felt like it, a lot of the time.’
‘Where were your grandparents?’
‘My dad was in his fifties when I was born, so they were older, you know? They died before I was ten.’ I shake my head slowly. ‘Up until then, it was okay because I had somewhere else to go, but then, nothing.’
‘And your mother?’
‘I never knew her. I gather she was a lot younger than my dad. Didn’t feel like she could cope with being a parent. She stayed around just long enough for me to be born then split in the middle of the night. He never found her again. She never reached out to me.’
There’s an eerie watchfulness in Holden’s expression. He’s so still, almost as though he’s carved from stone.
‘And that doesn’t bother you?’
‘No.’ I purse my lips. ‘She’s an abstract to me. Being a parent is about more than biology. Like your mom, I guess, she just didn’t want to be a mum, so I don’t think of her like that. She gave birth to me, full stop. Dad raised me. And he wasn’t the best dad in the world—not by a long stretch—but he loved me and he was there for me.’
His stillness persists. His eyes don’t quite meet mine. I feel as though he’s lost in thought, contemplating what I’ve said, imbuing it with more weight than I intended.
‘Anyway...’
‘You still wanted to escape him, though?’
His question shifts the focus back to our conversation, when I was about to wrap it up. ‘It’s more complex than that.’
‘How so?’
I hear it. The silence. The hospital room filled with equipment, the beeping, the gentle throbbing of pulse monitors. The quiet nothingness of all the staff as the baby was pulled from my body, not breathing.
‘I had some personal stuff. It was easier to move on from it when I wasn’t in town.’
‘Your boyfriend?’
‘He was part of it, yes.’ I can’t smile dismissively like I want to. My memories are making me heavy. ‘It’s not something I like to discuss.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s difficult and sad.’
‘Try.’
I sip my coffee, my eyes shifting to the view. The day is turning grey, the sky thick and leaden. Maybe keeping our baby a secret is part of the problem. Perhaps I would have recovered from that grief more quickly if I’d been open to discussing it.
‘I had a baby.’ I fix him with a stare that conceals the trauma of that. ‘A stillbirth.’
I swallow. The lump in my throat won’t shift. Great. I’m going to cry. I dig my nails into my palms beneath the table, trying to hold the emotions at bay.
‘It was the hardest thing I ever went through. I felt alone and bereft and like an abject failure, and there was no one I could talk to, no one who’d understand, and I just wanted—needed—to escape. Every moment I spent in Sundown Creek made me feel like I was drowning. We had a funeral service, a small one, and spread his ashes over the creek bed.’ Salty tears fill my eyes. ‘I left town the next day.’
‘How old were you?’
‘I’d just turned nineteen.’
He’s silent. I feel the weight of my confession, I feel his response, even when he doesn’t frame one. After a moment he stands, putting a hand out to mine, silently urging me to echo his movement and stand. I do, his touch a comfort no words could offer.
‘I’m sorry.’ I don’t knock the platitude back. I need it. He drops his mouth, kissing me slowly, and it’s only after a moment I realise I can taste salt in my mouth; I’m crying, unchecked, my tears joining with our kisses. His arms wrap around my middle and lift me, his lips never leaving mine as he carries me, body to body, through the penthouse and into his bedroom.
I’m still wearing his shirt. He pushes it up, over my head, without bothering to undo the buttons. It’s not necessary. The shirt is too big. It comes away easily. I’m naked beneath. And as if he understands my need for obliteration he kneels before me, his mouth seeking my sex, his tongue tormenting me as his hands hold my hips, keeping me where I am, so the warmth and power of pleasure begin to drum through me, rollin
g like waves I can’t resist, dragging me away from the pain of my memories into an ocean that is clear and forgiving, an ocean where there’s no blame, no hurt.
I hold his shoulders, my orgasm coming gently at first, tingling the tips of my toes and the edges of my fingers, before tearing me apart with its blinding intensity. I hold onto him as though he’s an anchor of sorts, and perhaps he is, or maybe it’s this gift of pleasure that’s tethering me to an earthly certainty I didn’t even know I needed.
My breathing is tortured, my body spent in the same way as when I ran a half-marathon a few years ago. He stands slowly, tangling his fingers in mine, his stare direct. And he does that, simply looks at me, for a long time, his jaw clenched so a muscle throbs at its base and I stare right back at him, as if hypnotised or something.
I once heard that intense pain understands intense pain, that there’s something innately bonding about it, and I wonder, briefly, if there is a shared experience, something between us that resonates on a level we can’t understand, as though my consciousness and his consciousness are communicating beyond our spoken words.
How else can I explain this? I feel like he gets it, gets me, and I haven’t felt that in such a long time.
‘I want to fuck you.’
The words are incongruous if taken at face value, but the tone in his voice fells me at my knees because it’s hoarse and deep, like he’s hurting because I’m hurting. I stare at him, my stomach in knots, my mind spinning, as though I’m about to step off the edge of a cliff.
‘Please.’ Like he needs this as much as I do. I bite down on my lip and I nod, surrendering to this heady rush, knowing it will obliterate the pain of my confession, knowing it will push my memories back into the recesses of my mind.
* * *
I have no words for her, afterwards. I can’t say anything, but that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking it, that the feelings aren’t there, demanding I let them in, just this once. I stroke my fingers over her naked back, appreciating the softness of her skin, the indent at the base of her spine before her body swells to form her buttocks.
Harden My Hart Page 10
