The Season to Sin

by Clare Connelly

  ‘I was a foster kid,’ he says slowly, standing, walking towards the enormous windows that overlook the Thames. His back is to me and I allow that; perhaps he finds it easier to speak without looking at me. That’s not unusual. His shoulders are tense, his back ramrod-straight. ‘From when I was three.’

  So little!

  ‘But my mum still had visitation rights—I saw her every second week. When she wasn’t high or stoned or pissed.’

  He says the words as though it’s a joke, but I hear the pain scored deep in his voice.

  ‘Do you...remember your life? Before foster care?’

  ‘No.’ I suspect it’s a lie, but I don’t want to push the point now.

  ‘And what about your foster family?’

  ‘Foster family?’ He angles his head so I see his profile. ‘I lived in seventeen homes, Holly. I didn’t have a family. I had a revolving door of bedrooms and people and new schools and new rules.’

  It starts to make sense to me now, and my heart throbs in sympathy for the little boy he was. ‘Which foster home did you spend the most time at?’

  There is a pause, and I don’t know if it’s significant or if he simply can’t recall. ‘The Morrows,’ he says after a moment. ‘Julianne and Paul.’

  There is no malice in his tone. ‘You liked them?’

  He shrugs. ‘It was a long time ago. I was with them when I was eight years old.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He’s impatient now.

  ‘Why did you leave them?’

  ‘They left me,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘Paul got transferred interstate. A big job in Melbourne and my biological mother wouldn’t give permission for me to leave the state. I had to stay in Sydney.’

  I nod. ‘I imagine the foster system is similar to here—your mother’s wishes had to be respected.’

  ‘My mother was a drugged-out whore,’ he says bitterly. ‘Her wishes should have been irrelevant.’

  ‘You wanted to go with the Morrows,’ I surmise.

  ‘At the time,’ he says coldly, ‘I didn’t want to have to move into a new home, a new school, find new friends. I wanted to stay with the Morrows because it was easier.’

  ‘But you would have had to meet new friends and go to a new school if you’d gone to Melbourne,’ I point out logically.

  ‘I was eight. I didn’t think it through like that.’ There’s rich frustration in his tone now.

  ‘So they left,’ I say quietly. ‘That must have been hard for you.’

  ‘Not really,’ he says, and again I feel he is lying. Hiding something. ‘I was used to it by then. They were my seventh family already.’

  ‘So many,’ I say with a shake of my head. ‘Did you keep in contact with them?’

  ‘No.’ A terse word. I make a mental note to ask him about this again later. Another time.

  ‘Do you keep in contact with any of them?’

  ‘Any of who?’ Belligerence is back.

  ‘The people you knew through foster care?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Closed book. ‘Such as?’ I prompt.

  ‘Gabe.’ The word is very quiet; at first I almost don’t catch it. And it’s not immediately meaningful to me. But then I recall something I’ve read about Noah at some point, and I recall his business partner is a man named Gabriele Arantini.

  ‘Your business partner?’ I prompt.

  ‘Friend, business partner, foster brother. Take your pick.’ He turns to face me and his face is pale. There is a hint of perspiration on his brow.

  His response is classic for someone with PTSD; I’ve pushed him too far. I still don’t know what exactly provokes this reaction in him, but somewhere within these questions is the key.

  ‘You know,’ I say thoughtfully, tilting my head to the side, ‘Ivy would love to stay another night with her grandmother. Why don’t I organise it and you and I can do something...fun?’

  ‘Fun?’

  He repeats the word, his eyes clouded, still pained by his recollections. I must remove that hurt for him. Now with a sticking plaster, and in time with conversation and understanding.

  ‘Yes. Dinner? Movie? You know. Fun.’

  He says nothing for a moment and I wonder if he wants to be alone. If perhaps I’m moving him too fast.

  But then his eyes lock onto mine. ‘I have a better idea.’

  * * *

  Noah’s better idea is something I would never have predicted. Standing at City Airport, staring at a sleek white jet with the Bright Sparks logo on the tail, I have the sense that I’m falling down a rabbit hole with no end in sight. How far does it go? When will I land?

  He grips my hand, intertwining our fingers in that intimate way, and grins at me as we walk towards the jet, leaving his driver and his limo—so he doesn’t always use the racehorse bike—on the tarmac.

  ‘I suppose you think this is all very impressive,’ I say with a small laugh, being purposely ironic.

  ‘I already know you’re impressed by me.’ He winks and reaches up to my cheek with his spare hand, touching me lightly.

  My heart squeezes. I turn back to the jet. It’s small, as in not like a passenger jet, but when we step inside and are greeted by two women in smart navy blue uniforms, I see it’s bigger than I realised. There are seats at the front, bigger than first class, in rows of two. Behind them, there’s a large table and, beyond that, some sofas and armchairs all angled towards a movie screen.

  ‘Jesus.’ I blink as I study the obvious glamour and luxury. ‘This is how you travel?’

  He shrugs. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Are you kidding? It’s amazing. I just don’t want to go back to the real world afterwards.’ It’s a throwaway comment, but it could so easily apply to our personal relationship as well as his aeroplane. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, to cover up any misunderstanding.

  He shrugs. ‘You get used to it.’

  It’s not yet lunchtime and the prospect of the twenty-four hours ahead fills me with excitement.

  ‘You’re smiling,’ he says, his eyes latched on to my face.

  I nod. ‘I was just thinking how nice it is to be doing something like this. Something just for me. It’s been a long time since I’ve...had fun. It’s...kind of nice.’

  ‘Nice?’ He arches a brow, but his smile is broad, like I’ve said something that’s making his heart glow too.

  ‘Better than nice.’ He leads us to the sofas and waits for me to settle down. There’s a seat belt low down in the cushions; I slip it around my waist.

  ‘You’ve done it tough the last few years?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not as tough as most. I’m lucky to have such good support with Ivy. And she’s an incredible kid. Smart and funny, and sweet, and so easy. She’s always been a good sleeper, great eater, well behaved. But, yeah, there have been times when it’s been hard. I mean, just having someone to laugh with about her silly games, or whinge to when I’m exhausted and she’s not listening, or have a glass of wine with and watch a movie, someone to rub my feet when I’m tired.’ I lift my shoulders. ‘But I love my job and it keeps me busy and, other than wishing, sometimes, that Ivy had a dad in her life, I don’t regret the way I’m doing it.’

  He is quiet for a moment, letting my words sink in. ‘I’ll bet you’re a great mum.’

  ‘I’m the best mum I can be. Some days great, other days not so much. But that’s parenthood.’ I eye him thoughtfully. ‘What about you and kids?’

  He grimaces exaggeratedly. ‘As in having kids of my own?’ Another grimace. ‘No, thanks.’

  He’s making light of the question, so I laugh, just a small laugh, but something the exact opposite of amusement courses through me. I tell myself it’s just surprise—surprise he can be so adamant about not wanting children when the experience is so
rewarding. If I can say that—when I’ve borne a child to a person I hate, when I’ve raised that child on my own—then surely anyone can.

  ‘You don’t like kids?’

  ‘From a distance? If I can’t hear them or smell them? I like them okay.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘They’re not that bad.’

  ‘Sure. They’re just not for me.’ He’s grinning, like he doesn’t realise the significance of this conversation. Like he doesn’t comprehend that it is an admission that immediately restricts our relationship. I mean, it was probably already limited by who we are, but I don’t know. There’s something so different about Noah and the way I feel with him that, without overthinking this, I would have said it was impossible to define what we are and where this will end up.

  But an unnegotiable aversion to kids is a deal-breaker. I mean, I have one. But I’d like to have another one day. Holly would be a great sister and I’ve always clung to the hope that some day in the future I’d have what I so badly coveted as a single mother. A real family.

  A loud family.

  A family who talked and laughed and shared ideas and went on holidays together.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Moore?’ A stewardess approaches us with an efficient click of her shoes. ‘Can I get you a drink before take-off?’ Her smile encompasses us both.

  Noah flicks a glance at his watch. ‘Yeah. A beer. Holly? Champagne?’

  I shake my head. ‘Just a water, thank you.’

  He nods. ‘And something to eat. I’m starving.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  She departs quickly, leaving us alone. There is a whirr, though, as the engines fire to life.

  I push aside my misgivings with regard to Noah’s desire not to have children. After all, this is all new and different for both of us. I’m not naïve enough to think I can change his mind, but I do feel like there might be a hundred reasons for this thing to run out of steam. Maybe we’ll just wake up and decide we don’t want each other any more. Maybe this is just an itch I’m scratching. I mean, five years, come on.

  I smile brightly at him, refusing to let my tendency to analyse the heck out of everything tarnish this wonderful break from normality. When was the last time I did anything even remotely like this? The answer to that is simple.

  Never.

  ‘So, Mr Moore,’ I purr. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘That, Miss Scott-Leigh, awaits to be seen.’

  The stewardess appears with a tray. She places our drinks down, then reaches between us to arrange a little armrest-cum-table. She places a bowl of fries and a fruit platter on it, then smiles brusquely and walks away.

  ‘Is this how you like to wine and dine women, Noah?’ I watch him thoughtfully, pleased that I can ask such a sensible question without sounding jealous or possessive.

  ‘I don’t wine and dine women,’ he responds seriously.

  ‘Then what do you call this?’ I gesture to the food.

  ‘Lunch.’ He grins, reaching for a chip. I watch him eat it, not realising that I’m frowning. He scans my face, though, and I make an effort to relax.

  ‘Well, I’m starving,’ I say, just to fill the silence.

  ‘You had an active night,’ he points out, his voice deep.

  My cheeks flush pink.

  ‘And you’re fucking adorable when you blush like that.’

  ‘I didn’t know I blushed until I met you,’ I say seriously.

  He laughs. ‘I’m glad I can bring your blood to the boil.’

  ‘In more ways than one.’

  His phone rings and he lifts it out of his pocket, frowning. ‘I have to take this.’ He unbuckles his seat belt, standing and moving away from me.

  Despite the fact he’s on his phone and standing in the middle of the plane, we begin to taxi. Apparently the rules are vastly different for private planes versus commercial, or perhaps Noah Moore was just born to disobey rules.

  I think about the conversation we had this morning—about the information he reluctantly gave me. His upbringing was far from conventional, and that would have a huge effect on his development.

  As children, we need to feel safe and secure, to have a healthy attachment to someone or something. It governs all our relationships for the rest of our lives—the ability to form natural relationships, relationships that rely on trust and respect. It’s a problem with a lot of kids who come from abusive homes or, yes, end up in foster care.

  As children we are taught that, no matter what we do, our parents will still love us.

  Noah never had that.

  Noah doesn’t do relationships, even now, except his friendship with Gabe Arantini. The roadblocks that were put in place during his childhood continue to shape his personality, his ability to attach.

  But there’s something more.

  His sleeping issues suggest a deeper trauma—a trauma that has re-emerged in recent weeks. I’m not treating him; he’s not my patient. And yet I know I will find out what’s happened to him, because I can’t not.

  Because I care.

  I care about his problems and I’m terrified that I’m starting to care about him. All of him.

  * * *

  We are in Paris. Of all the places I thought Noah would bring me, Paris wasn’t on the list. And I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s so classically romantic and he’s insisted that he doesn’t ‘wine and dine’ women, and this ancient city is quintessentially romantic, especially at this time of year. Right now, it has fairy lights sparkling and Christmas wreaths hanging from the ornate lamp posts and snow drifting down on the glorious buildings.

  I am in love with Paris. It’s a new love affair, just a couple of hours old, but it feels like the best place on earth to me.

  When he slips the key into the lock of the penthouse suite of the Ciel Étoilé and pushes the door open, I am instantly hit by the view. The Eiffel Tower is perfectly framed by enormous windows, hung on either side by burgundy velvet curtains. The whole apartment is more sumptuous than I knew hotels could ever be. Gorgeous white leather sofas, a grand piano, hallways that are tiled in marble, a Christmas tree decorated with sumptuous gold baubles, and a Juliet balcony that has views towards the Seine.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘You like?’ he asks, unbuttoning the top of his shirt to reveal the column of his neck.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Noah.’ I smile at him, and then something catches my eye through an open door. I move towards it on autopilot, aware he’s following just behind me.

  The bed is huge. King-size, covered in cream bed linen and enormous European pillows. There’s another floor-to-ceiling window scenario in here, offering yet another breathtaking view of this glorious city. But that’s not what caught my eye. A dress is draped over the bed—a stunning dress, designer for sure. I frown, moving towards it. My first thought is there’s been a mistake. I run my fingers over it and look to Noah. He’s casually reclined against the door jamb, watching me, a small smile curving his lips.

  A knowing smile.

  ‘Is that...?’ I ask him, confused.

  ‘A dress.’

  I frown. ‘For...me?’

  His nod is slow.

  ‘Noah...’ I lift it up and hold it against my body, moving towards the mirror. It’s a beautiful dark blue with spaghetti straps and a demure neckline, but at the back it scoops right down—I imagine that when I wear it, it will show almost my whole spine. The skirt falls to my knees. It is soft and silky.

  ‘It’s...beautiful,’ I say, my breath hitching in my throat. It’s so far removed from the kind of clothes I usually wear—my mum clothes or my work clothes—and a thrill of pleasure runs through me at that. All of this is unusual for me—wonderfully so.

  He walks into the room then and looks at the dressing table. He opens a drawer and pulls out a box. A velvet box, about the size of a small sheet of
paper. He walks towards me, holding it flat in his hand. ‘And for this beautiful neck...’ He watches me intently as he opens the box.

  I don’t look at it, though. I’m frowning at him, my heart racing. He doesn’t wine and dine women and yet there’s no other way to say how I’m feeling. I am spoiled and I am adored and I am happy.

  ‘I saw this and thought of you.’ His voice is thick with emotion—emotions I can’t comprehend.

  I look down then and I can’t help the sound of confusion that escapes my throat. It’s a huge pink gemstone, so sparkly it’s almost blinding, and it’s surrounded by crisp white diamonds.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘A necklace.’

  I can’t help but roll my eyes. ‘I see that. Why?’

  ‘Because—’ he lifts it out of the box, his fingers distracting as they find the dainty chain and hold it ‘—I want you to have it.’ He comes to stand behind me so that he can clasp it behind my neck. The gemstone falls to the base of my throat, resting in the hollow there. It’s heavy and cool. I turn towards the mirror, lowering the dress now to stare at the image I make.

  The necklace is distracting in its size and beauty. ‘Is it a...a pink diamond?’

  I’m guessing. I have no knowledge of jewellery. My mother never wears anything but her wedding ring, and it’s not something I’ve ever bought myself. Nothing more than costume jewellery, anyway.

  ‘It’s Poudretteite,’ he says, though I barely catch the word. ‘Very rare.’ His eyes meet mine in the mirror and my heart stutters. ‘This gem once belonged to Marie Antoinette.’

  ‘Noah—’ I say his name softly ‘—it’s too much. Way too much. This must have cost a fortune.’

  He shrugs. ‘I have a fortune.’

  Like it’s nothing. Unimportant. Irrelevant. It’s strangely disconcerting when I’m sure he meant to assuage my concerns.

  ‘Well,’ I say quietly, ‘you didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘I wanted to,’ he reiterates. ‘You deserve beautiful things, Holly. I want you to wear this tonight and then, when we get back here, I want to take you to bed wearing only the necklace.’