by Nicola Marsh
She squared her shoulders, tugged down her jacket and smoothed her skirt, before striding into the conference room where Andrina waited for her. Polly had scheduled her presentation for nine sharp and she had two minutes to spare. Not that it stopped Andrina from glancing at her watch and frowning, but Polly wasn’t in the mood for her games today.
Today she was going to kick ass.
‘What’s this about, Polly?’ Andrina stared at the laptop Polly opened as she prepared the electronic version of her presentation, as if expecting it to spontaneously combust. ‘I haven’t got all day.’
‘This won’t take long.’
Andrina’s eyebrows rose at Polly’s commanding tone, far from her usual deference.
‘I prepared this last night and once you take a look I’m sure you’ll be convinced I can drive this company’s financial growth even further.’
Polly resisted the urge to swipe her clammy palms down the sides of her skirt, took a deep breath and launched into the spiel she’d mentally rehearsed.
She spoke with clarity, making concise points, using her presentation to back up her proposal. If Andrina was bamboozled by the figures she didn’t show it. Instead, for the first time since Polly had started working at Sizzle, Andrina looked at her with genuine interest.
Last night, Polly had timed the presentation to keep to a brief twenty minutes, but with Andrina asking countless questions, by the time she finished it was closer to forty-five.
‘That’s some impressive work you’ve done there.’ Andrina pointed at her laptop. ‘Did it really only take you an evening to prepare?’
Polly nodded. ‘I’m good with figures. My degree’s in statistics and I can see gaps in the market and ways to improve any company’s bottom line.’
Andrina’s brows knitted together. ‘I’m guessing you’re wasted as my personal assistant.’
‘Yes.’
Polly’s voice didn’t quiver and she didn’t glance away. Instead, she eyeballed Andrina and squared her shoulders, a woman in command of her fate and going after what she wanted.
Andrina glared at her with grudging admiration. ‘In that case, it’s time we found you a position more suitable to your skills and talent.’
Polly wanted to leap out of her seat, punch the air and do a hip-swivelling victory dance. She settled for a sedate, ‘Thanks. I know I can make a real difference to Sizzle’s bottom line.’
Andrina offered a brief nod. ‘Can I ask you something?’
The fact her boss was actually looking her in the eye, let alone treating her like a human being, was shock enough, but now she wanted her opinion?
‘Sure.’
‘Why did you apply for the job as my PA if you knew you were overqualified?’
‘Because I love fashion. Sizzle is the best in Sydney, and I wanted some hands-on experience before showing you what I’m capable of.’
Andrina tapped her bottom lip, admiration in her gaze. ‘For what it’s worth, you’re the only PA I’ve ever had with half a brain and I’ll be sorry to lose you.’
Wow, praise too. Polly couldn’t help but grin.
Andrina waggled a finger at her. ‘But don’t get ahead of yourself. You’ve still got to make sure the fundraiser runs smoothly, then we’ll discuss your new role next week.’
‘Sounds good to me.’ She stuck out her hand. ‘Thanks for the opportunity, Andrina. I won’t let you down.’
Her boss grunted as she shook her hand, releasing it quickly. ‘You’ve certainly made an impression on Ryder Beale. He speaks very highly of you.’
Polly hoped her cheeks wouldn’t flush crimson. ‘I’m sure he’ll do a fine job as keynote speaker.’
Andrina looked like she wanted to ask more but the last thing Polly felt like doing was revealing how well she knew Ryder and for how long.
‘I’d better get back to work.’ She closed her laptop and gathered her things.
Thankfully, Andrina took the hint and left the room, leaving Polly wanting to jump up on the conference table and dance a jig.
She’d done it.
She’d confronted her demon boss and impressed her enough to get the job she coveted before the end of her three-month trial period. She really should be dancing a jig, a highland fling and a hustle.
But Polly knew she had a much more difficult confrontation looming and she hoped Ryder would be as receptive to what she had to say.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
RYDER HAD SCALED mountainsides with just a few ropes keeping him from plunging to his death. He’d shot down rapids in tiny boats not deemed safe enough for white-water rafting. And he’d skydived more times than he could count.
But none of those daredevil activities terrified him as much as standing outside the front door of the house he’d grown up in, ready to confront his grandmother.
He’d had no intention of doing it this soon, but after hanging with Archie last night, then poring over the information for his book today, he’d known it was time.
For the simple fact he felt like a fraud.
Putting so much of his life into a book for public consumption when he had unresolved issues from the past made him feel like an imposter. Who was he to give advice to people on how best to lead their lives when he was actively avoiding the tough stuff in his own?
He had survivor’s guilt, commitment issues and—the doozy of them all—a deeply strained relationship with his family.
He had to start somewhere and seeing his grandmother seemed the logical place. He’d avoided her for too long, had blamed her for too much. Hopefully, with some kind of resolution, he could start dealing with the rest.
He could’ve called ahead and warned her but he didn’t. He hadn’t wanted to give her the opportunity to come up with an excuse or not answer the door. This confrontation was long overdue and he had to do it for his own peace of mind.
Inhaling and exhaling slowly, forcing air into his lungs like the shrink had taught him, he calmed his rampant nerves and knocked on the door.
Swiping his palms down the sides of his jeans, he waited, willing his grandmother to have enough decency not to turn him away.
His heart raced and a stabbing pain jabbed at his chest, so he took slow, deep breaths, quelling a possible anxiety attack like the shrink had taught him. Back then, the chest tightness, pain and light-headedness would come on with no warning. One minute he’d be using an elastic band to rehab his weak leg, the next he’d be gripping the walking bars so he wouldn’t slither to the floor in a heap.
The worst flashbacks were confined to his dreams but the panic attacks terrified him because he had no control over them even when he was awake. He had feared that made him less of a man, and he’d wanted to talk to his gran about it. When he’d reached out and called his grandmother to tell her about his broken leg and the accident, he’d expected her to welcome the contact because it had been so infrequent.
Instead, she’d dismissed him, as cool and callous as ever, and he’d taken it as a sign to move on. But maybe he should’ve fought harder. He hadn’t given up when physical challenges had seemed impossibly difficult in the past and he sure as hell hadn’t given up after the accident, no matter how much he’d wanted to. He’d confronted those fears, had learned to live with them the hard way, even if he acknowledged he’d never fully be in control of the guilt that dogged him. He lived, others had died, and he needed to make the most of that.
The thing was, he’d let this relationship lapse as much as she had. He’d been quick to blame her when things had deteriorated between them and had severed all contact. She may not have reached out but he hadn’t either, and he had to cut her some slack or tonight wouldn’t go well.
He heard footsteps, surprised by a wave of nostalgia as he remembered how Gran never wore slippers even at home. She wore black patent leather court shoes with a tiny kitten heel, ensuring sh
e made clacking sounds wherever she went.
It had been helpful in the past because it had meant he’d been able to avoid her. Strange how a sound that had once driven him to hide from her now seemed like the most welcoming sound in the world.
When the door swung open, the nostalgia grew stronger, making his lungs seize.
She looked the same.
Older, with more wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but essentially the same: shoulders back, head straight, perfect posture, with a steely blue-eyed gaze that missed little.
For one crazy second he swore he glimpsed pure, unadulterated joy in her eyes before she blinked and peered at him.
‘You’ve come home at last,’ she said, and surprisingly her tone held no judgement.
‘Hi Gran. Can I come in?’
She nodded, swinging the door open and as he crossed the threshold and the familiar smell of floor polish and her favoured gardenia-scented candles hit him, his throat tightened with emotion.
This house held nothing but bad memories. Memories of being ignored by the only family member he had left, memories of silent dinners with a woman who virtually ignored him, memories of long, sleepless nights when he wished he had the guts to run away.
But for all the bad stuff there’d been good too, namely Polly and Archie next door, and they’d saved him even if they hadn’t known it.
‘Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’
She sounded perfectly normal, like he was just another guest she had to entertain, and even though he hadn’t expected a welcoming gesture he lamented the fact they’d grown so far apart that they couldn’t hug after five years of absence.
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’m not,’ she muttered, shooting him a hesitant glance. ‘A brandy is definitely in order.’
‘In that case, make it two.’
He followed her into the lounge room, where he spied a basket of knitting next to the chair she spent her evenings in. That was new. After Pop had died she’d spent countless hours staring into space or trying to read, looking at the print without turning a page.
He knew because he’d be lying on the couch reading and shooting the occasional glance her way, the only time they’d co-existed in the same room with some kind of peace. She’d ask him the occasional question about whatever book he’d been reading, though she’d frowned when he’d read comics. Those evenings reading together in here were the only good memory he had of this house.
‘It’s good to see you, Ryder.’ She handed him a brandy balloon and raised hers, waiting until he’d tapped it before saying, ‘Welcome home.’
Stunned by her easy acceptance of his appearance after all this time, he sipped the brandy, savouring the burn down his throat. Anything to ease the emotion threatening to well up.
Brandy made him think of Polly, and how she loved doctoring chocolate milk with it. She’d always been quirky and cute, and he hoped that once he made an effort to resolve issues with his gran he could do the same with her. He had to leave soon, and telling her would be tough.
But he needed to take one confrontation at a time and for now he had to focus on Gran and setting the past to rest once and for all.
‘Let’s sit.’ She gestured to the sofa and he sat, expecting her to resume her usual seat, but she sat next to him instead. ‘You haven’t said much. Everything all right?’
‘Fine,’ he said, making a mockery of that when his hand shook and he quickly tossed back the rest of the brandy before placing the balloon on a nearby coffee table.
She cocked her head to one side, the same mannerism he’d seen countless times in the past when she’d looked at him as if she couldn’t quite figure out what he was doing living in her house. ‘Then what brings you by?’
Typical. She thought he’d only visit if there was something wrong. Did she have no feelings? No sense of family? Nothing?
‘I haven’t seen you in over five years. Isn’t that reason enough?’ He sounded bitter but didn’t care. They had to talk, and rehashing the past was bound to bring up his latent feelings of resentment.
The Edie Beale he’d known would have compressed her lips and preferred not to answer. They’d existed in silence for so long after his grandfather had died he’d given up trying to make her talk back. As for showing emotion, she’d never let him get close. He’d wanted to offer comfort, to tell her everything would be okay with just the two of them but she’d closed off and eventually he’d given up trying.
He’d expected more of the same tonight so when he glimpsed the sheen of tears in her eyes he couldn’t believe it.
‘We have a lot of catching up to do,’ she said, placing her brandy balloon on the table before clasping her hands in her lap. ‘A lot to talk about.’
‘I’m surprised you want to.’
She didn’t flinch at his bluntness. Instead, she nodded, but the way her knuckles stood out beneath the fragile skin indicated tension she was struggling to hide.
‘You must think I’m some kind of monster,’ she murmured, blinking rapidly. ‘Your parents entrusted your care to Fred and me, and we let you down.’
Stunned she’d broached the subject before he did, he shook his head. ‘You’re not a monster. But I’d like to understand what happened to us. One minute we were okay, the next Pop died and you pretended I didn’t exist.’
She stared at her clasped hands in her lap for what seemed like an eternity before raising her eyes to meet his and they held a world of pain and regret and sorrow.
‘I didn’t like the way Fred treated you, but losing your father, our only child, broke something in him and stupidly he blamed you.’
Great, more survivor’s guilt.
Thanks for nothing, Pop.
‘Nothing I could say got through to him, so I lavished the attention on you that he couldn’t.’
Yet it wasn’t enough. Sure, she’d paid him attention and come to a few functions at school like the art fair and athletics day, but Pop had always come first in her eyes and if it had come to a choice between the two of them she’d always chosen Pop.
Gran had loved him though. She may not have been overly demonstrative but she’d shown him affection in myriad ways that had gone some way to making up for Pop’s appalling treatment. So it had been harder to fathom when Pop had died and she’d withdrawn from him totally, when they should’ve been there for each other.
‘I appreciated the effort of you trying to make up for Pop’s terrible treatment, but it didn’t really change anything,’ he said, remembering his grandfather’s putdowns, his callous indifference, his deliberate coldness. ‘I ended up hating him.’
‘And that’s why you acted out.’
He nodded, not proud of some of the stupid things he’d done to taunt his grandfather in the hope he’d garner attention, even negative attention. It had become a game to him after a while, a stupid, self-sabotaging game of one-upmanship. In his younger years he’d swap out the sugar for salt or bicarb soda, childish stuff that had earned scolding and criticism. Later, he’d rebel by doing the opposite of everything Pop said, from playing his music too loud to deliberately failing maths when it had been his favourite subject.
She eyeballed him and he couldn’t fathom the emotion behind her stare. ‘When his heart gave out too young, I blamed you.’
Shocked, Ryder ran a shaky hand through his hair. ‘Why?’
‘You gave him constant trouble and it was easier for me to think you drove him to an early grave than consider other possibilities...’ The corners of her mouth drooped, accentuating the deep lines bracketing it. ‘I could’ve done more to snap him out of his grief. Losing your father gutted us both but I was more resilient. Then when he turned on you, I hated him a little and I shut down too. I withdrew from him emotionally. We were virtual strangers when he died...’
She trailed off, s
wallowed several times and reached for her brandy. He waited until she’d taken several sips before asking, ‘It seems contradictory. You hated how he treated me yet you irrationally blamed me when he died?’
‘It’s not logical, I know, but I felt so guilty for treating him badly that it was easier to shift blame than assign it where it really belonged.’ She pressed a hand to her chest. ‘I’m ashamed for so much, but most of all for withdrawing from you when you needed me the most.’
He of all people understood the blame game; he’d been doing it himself since the accident. Acknowledging it, accepting it and trying to move on as best as he could had helped. He hoped the same would happen for his gran now she’d finally opened up.
‘But what about the last decade or so? Pop’s been gone a long time.’
‘I thought I’d lost you.’
A lone tear trickled down her crepe-like cheek and he resisted the urge to swipe it away. ‘I wanted to reach out so many times but it was easier just to provide for you financially when I had nothing to give emotionally.’
She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed the tear away. ‘When you left Sydney, I saw it as a reprieve. I thought time apart would mellow us both. But the few times you returned you were more stilted and formal than ever, and I knew I’d pushed you away for good. So I let it be. I joined a group for grieving widows and instigated some changes in my life, hoping you would embrace your freedom and come to some realisations too.’
‘Considering the lack of contact over the last five years, the only realisation I came to is that you didn’t give a shit about me and probably never did.’
‘That’s not true...’ She reached out and laid a hand over his, the briefest of touches before she withdrew. ‘I’m not proud of the way I treated you, Ryder, but the fact you’re here tonight means there’s hope for us.’
Ryder’s chest tightened with suppressed emotion as he struggled to get himself under control. He’d never been a crier but the urge to bawl now was strong.
‘And thank you for the money. I don’t need it, but I hoped that by withdrawing it you’d know how much it meant to me that you hadn’t turned your back on me completely.’ She offered a tremulous smile. ‘I opened up a trust fund and deposited your money in it for the children you’ll have in the future.’
