by Liz Fielding
She remembered that quiet anger.
It was nothing like the flashpoint moments when he’d shouted at her, she’d shouted back; up and down and over in a moment. Well, until that last time, anyway. But that white-lipped quiet when he was too angry to speak, that was something else. She’d seen it when his father’s last marriage had broken up, when his brother Jack had given up trying to please their father and walked out of the family home, the business, the country. Losing Jack had been another huge blow for him. The two of them had been so close, but when he’d left Jack had cut himself off from everyone…
Did he think that was happening again? That history was repeating itself with her? Understanding began to filter through the layers of her sleep-fogged brain…
‘He seemed a little tense,’ Cal said, distracting her.
‘He’s got a lot on his mind.’
‘Oh, right. Just as long as I didn’t ruin a special moment.’
She glared at him. Then, because it wasn’t his fault, but hers, she said, ‘No, Cal. You’re all right. Max just wanted to talk about work.’
‘On a Saturday?’ He grinned. ‘Bit keen, isn’t he?’
‘Keen?’ As she laughed she remembered laughing with Max. How good it had felt. ‘Describing Max as “keen” about the business is like suggesting Rip van Winkle took a nap.’
‘He needs to relax. Take things easy.’ Then, ‘So…Breakfast?’ He reached up and unhooked a frying-pan from the overhead rack.
How ironic that Cal, a man normally so idle that he looked pained if he had to pull the ring on his own beer can, had today of all days decided to do something to justify his keep.
On second thoughts it was far more likely that hunger had driven him to action. That and genuine fear that if he’d woken her, she’d leave him sitting on the pavement next time he turned up unannounced; that he’d have to find a hotel and actually pay for accommodation.
In fact, now she actually looked at him, she realised that his offer of breakfast in bed had been all talk. Far from leaping into action, he was holding the frying-pan in the helpless manner of a man who was making a gesture, assuming that like any sensible woman she’d quickly relieve him of the burden; anything rather than let him loose in her immaculate kitchen.
‘Not right now, thanks, Cal,’ she said. ‘But you go right ahead.’
She ignored his crestfallen expression and instead helped herself from the carton of orange juice he’d so thoughtfully provided. She carried it through to the living room and, in an effort to wipe out the memory of Max’s expression as he’d walked out, put one of the Beach Street DVDs that Jodie had sent her into the machine. Then she broke open a packet of Tim Tams-if ever a moment called for chocolate-and told herself that she’d go after him later. He’d be easy to find. He’d be in his office, or one of the restaurants. Funnelling his anger, converting it into action, making it work for Bella Lucia.
Not that he had any reason to be angry. She had the sole right to anger in this scenario. How could he think her so shallow, so easy?
She’d never bed-hopped. Had discovered the very first time that it was not the way to drive him from her mind. On the contrary. It had only made the longing more desperate. As the chocolate hit her anger began to melt into something dangerously close to regret and, without warning, tears threatened.
‘Are you sure I can’t fix you a fried-egg sandwich?’ Cal called from the kitchen, hopefully. Or was that desperation in his voice?
‘I’ll pass,’ she assured him, then, as the familiar theme tune swept her back to the warmth of Melbourne, instead of letting go and indulging herself, she found herself wondering why, when Cal was a freeloading pain in the backside without a scruple to his name, she wasn’t ever tempted to decorate him with the contents of her egg basket.
Actually, it didn’t take a genius to come up with the answer; she wasn’t roused to fury by Cal for the simple reason that nothing he did actually mattered to her.
CHAPTER SIX
LOUISE’S attempts to distract herself with Beach Street were a dismal failure. Tensed for the sound of the doorbell, waiting for the phone to ring, she was unable to concentrate.
Neither obliged.
Why would they? Max had told her what time he’d pick her up. What else was there to say?
An apology for acting like a jerk, perhaps? Something along the lines of ‘It’s none of my business who you have staying in your apartment…’
It wasn’t any of his business.
Liar!
The little voice that had taken up residence in her head turned up the volume, refusing to be ignored and infuriatingly, she knew that it was right.
The way she’d responded to his kiss, her very bold-
No, she was done with fooling herself; if she was reduced to a blush just thinking about it she’d been a lot more than bold.
The way she’d responded to his kiss, her brazen assertion that she considered it no more than a down payment, made it his business.
When Cal had walked into her apartment as if he’d owned it, owned her, Max had had every right to be mad.
Which was the second time she’d been forced to admit, to herself if not to him, that he was right and she was wrong.
Not good.
Okay. Forget the apology, but he’d said he wanted to discuss their trip to Meridia. He might be mad at her, but he still needed to do that. When he’d calmed down he’d call her and she’d be able to tell him that he’d got it totally wrong, that she and Cal were not an item, never had been, never would be, so he could stop behaving like an idiot and get back here.
The thought briefly prompted a smile. Then reality brought her back to earth.
Apart from the fact that Max didn’t like anyone telling him he was wrong-which was, of course, what made it such a pleasing proposition-there was the small detail of what would happen next.
Would they pick up where they’d left off? With his arms around her and an expression in his eyes that promised her a world of trouble?
And your problem with that is…?
She swallowed, nervously.
Yes?
‘No problem, okay!’
At her outburst, Cal appeared from the kitchen. She glared at him, daring him to comment; he held up his hands in mute surrender and beat a hasty retreat.
No problem, she repeated, but this time silently, in her head. It was time to admit, at least to herself, that she wanted Max to finally lose it, make the kind of passionate, no-holds-barred love to her that he had done in her wicked imagination a thousand times.
Then, surely, she would be able to wipe him from her mind. Get over it. Forget him.
But not right now.
In the past it had always been Max in control of their relationship. Max doing the right thing. Max behaving well…
Just this once she needed to be the one in the driving seat, the one making things happen. If she ran after him, begged him to listen, no matter what happened afterwards, he would still be dictating events.
Abandoning the television, telling herself firmly that whatever he’d wanted to talk about would have to wait until Monday, that she wasn’t hanging around the phone waiting for him to climb down off his high horse and get down to work, she went to take a shower. A very cool one. Then she went to her office to finalise the HOTfood account.
Work had always been an escape from her feelings. They had that in common. He’d been right about that, too. He had done her a favour by firing her from the restaurant.
If she hadn’t been so angry with Max, so desperate to prove herself, she doubted she’d ever have made such a success of her business. She’d have simply drifted from job to job until she’d settled for marriage, children, domesticity.
She’d come close. But Max was always there. An unfulfilled ache…
She turned on all the lights, reached for the file, and she was doing fine until the cell phone on her desk began to ring.
She made a grab for it, then forced herself to
let it ring three times, to take a calming breath, before she looked at the caller ID.
It wasn’t Max, but her mother.
The one who’d brought her up. Held her hand when she was nervous. Cuddled her when she was sad. Bathed her knees when she grazed them trying to keep up with Max…
Lied to her.
She wanted to leave it, do what she’d been doing for weeks and let the voicemail pick up, unable to cope with the stilted awkwardness of a conversation where neither of them knew quite what to say, but found she couldn’t do it.
‘Hello, Mum.’
‘Darling? You were so long I thought I was going to get that horrible voicemail thing again.’
‘Sorry. I did mean to call you back.’
‘I know you’re busy.’
‘Yes,’ she said, hating that her mother felt she had to make excuses for her. ‘How are you? How is…?’ She closed her eyes, stumbling at the first hurdle, unable to bring herself to say the word. She’d always been Daddy’s little girl but the minute he’d discovered he had sons he’d brushed her aside. Second class…
‘Good,’ her mother said, quickly filling the too obvious silence. ‘Daddy’s a lot better. Walking the dog, eating plenty of fruit and fish, keeping the stress levels down. Even finding time to play a little golf now he’s retired. The heart man is very pleased with him.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Oh, it won’t last. He’s bored out of his mind, fretting about the business. Whether Max is coping.’
‘Coping? You’re joking. He’s in his element. Full of plans-’
‘You’ve seen him?’ Then, not waiting for an answer, as if that too was some information she had no right to, ‘I know how capable he is. He shouldn’t have had to wait so long for his chance. But Uncle Robert wouldn’t retire unless your father did, and you know your father…’
Her mother pulled up again realising, perhaps, that was the one person she didn’t know.
‘He’s fretting, Louise. The restaurant was his life. Maybe if you could come over, go for a walk with him, reassure him…’
No, no…
‘That’s why I was ringing. Is there any chance of you coming to lunch tomorrow?’
‘I don’t-’
‘No one else, just us,’ she said, offering swift reassurance that the prodigal sons wouldn’t be there.
How much more painful all this must be for her mother, Louise thought. To have her own inadequacies as a woman so cruelly exposed, to be eclipsed by the sons of a woman who’d taken money from William Valentine to ‘disappear’.
‘It’s been so long since it was just the three of us.’
But it never had been just the three of them. She had another mother and father, John Valentine had sons…
So many lies.
She couldn’t…‘I’m just so busy at the moment. I’m in the office now.’
‘You work too hard, Louise.’
‘I love what I do, but this is different. I’m going to be working for Bella Lucia from Monday and I’ve got a lot to clear up before then.’
‘Max managed to persuade you?’ Her mother sounded surprised, which was understandable, given their history. ‘Well, that’s good news. Daddy will be delighted.’
Her mother’s obvious relief that she’d be close, held within the family circle, at least for a while, set up her nerves like a nail on a chalkboard. Was that the real reason why Max wanted her? Not for her talent, but to please her parents? Was that part of the deal he’d made with Jack?
Did it matter? She was in control. She’d do a job that would bring kudos to her own consultancy. Gain an international reputation. It wasn’t only Max who could go global.
‘We’re flying to Meridia at the crack of dawn on Monday,’ she said, without comment. Pleasing ‘daddy’ wasn’t any part of her plan. ‘I’m sorry, but I really will have to give lunch a miss.’
‘I understand. Another time. Will you be seeing Emma?’ she asked, changing the subject, unwilling to hang up.
‘I expect so.’
‘Well, give her my love. And make sure you wrap up well. Have you got a really warm coat? The kind of thing you wear in London won’t do. It’ll be much colder in the mountains.’ Then, maybe realising that she was behaving like a fussy mother, she let it go. ‘Louise, have you met…?’
This time it was her mother who stumbled, unable to say the word.
‘Patsy Simpson?’ Lou filled in for her. ‘Yes, we had tea together this week.’
You had time for that, that busy little voice whispered in her ear. In the busiest week of your life you still found time for tea with Patsy…
‘Oh.’
The sound was small, agonised, as if a knife had just gone in, taking her mother’s breath away. Louise knew exactly how she felt. It was the way she’d felt when her father had told her she’d been adopted. Still felt…
‘Was it…a success?’ Ivy finally managed. ‘Will you be seeing her again?’
‘We’re having dinner next week. I’m meeting her new husband. Max is coming with me…’
Unless he’d changed his mind. Without warning, Louise’s throat seized as her eyes filled with tears…
‘Louise?’
‘I’m sorry, Mum, really, I have to go.’
‘Yes, of course. If there’s anything…’ She caught herself. ‘Well, you know.’
Yes. She knew. But it was as if an invisible barrier had been erected between them; where there had been spontaneity, warmth, there was now just this horrible awkward politeness.
Her fault.
Ring Ivy. Don’t cut yourself off…
Max’s words echoed in the empty space where her family had once been. And not just his words. He’d betrayed to her feelings that she’d never suspected, an envy of the warmth of a family life he’d never experienced.
It was for him that she picked up the phone again, rang the familiar number. ‘Mum?’
‘Louise…’
‘I will come. Soon. I promise…’
Max stared at his cell phone, flicking through the names in its memory; the modern equivalent of a little black book. It was Saturday evening and he didn’t have a date. Hadn’t had a date since before Christmas. Longer. He tried to recall the last time he’d taken a woman out for the evening and discovered that it had been before his grandfather, the patriarchal William Valentine, had died the previous summer, precipitating the events that had thrown the Bella Lucia empire into such confusion.
He’d warned Louise that this business was hard on personal lives and he should know. But he was no longer involved in the day to day management of the restaurants. He was now responsible for the entire business and he had to think global, which, conversely, meant that his evenings-should he wish them to be-were suddenly his own.
He glanced again at the phone. There was only one person he wanted to phone but she was otherwise engaged with her dumb blond Australian, and, giving up, he tossed it onto the chair beside him, staring out unseeing over a Thames that reflected the gunmetal grey of the winter sky.
It was as if his memory had been overwritten and the only face in his brain’s database belonged to Louise.
Louise, her blue-grey eyes dancing, hair the colour of a wheat-field in summer, silk beneath his fingertips…
Louise, lips parted as if she were about to say something outrageous…
Louise, eyes more black than grey, lips soft and yielding under his own…
He turned abruptly from the window as the phone began to ring. Picked it up.
Not Louise but his mother.
‘Georgie?’
‘Max! Darling! How are you?’
‘Fine.’ He fought down the surge of feelings, of hope that for once she was calling him just for a chat. Like a real mother. ‘You?’ he asked.
‘Well, actually, darling, I’m in a little bit of bother…’
Left with the choice of calling Max and putting him straight, spending what was left of the afternoon working, or going
home and playing handmaid to her unwanted guest, Louise decided on none of the above and went shopping, instead.
She found a beautiful coat in a bright, cheering red cashmere that came nearly to her ankles. Utterly gorgeous and warm enough to please a dozen mothers, she told herself as she opened her bag to take out her wallet. Then discovered that she was holding her cell phone.
Call him…
She shook her head, fighting off the memory of that moment in the kitchen when Max had held her, looked at her as if the only thing he’d wanted was to make her dream a reality. Before she could do anything she’d regret, she pushed her phone to the bottom of her bag out of harm’s way, found her wallet and paid for her coat.
Then she went in search of a hat, boots-no point in doing half a job-and threw in a scarf and lined gloves for good measure.
Then she undid all that good work by splurging on some gossamer silk underwear that had a tog value on the minus side of the scale.
Her subconscious did no more than raise its eloquent eyebrows. They said, ‘So, who did you buy those for?’
She ignored it.
Thermal underwear was taking sensible too far.
Cal did his best to interest her in going clubbing that evening, but she pleaded pressure of work. Instead she phoned Jodie, spending an hour telling her about meeting their mother and catching up with her news, then made a cup of cocoa, and, determined on a early night, went to bed with nothing for company but a couple of books she’d found about Meridia.
She hadn’t been to the gym all week and after yet another dream-filled night-this time spent chasing something unnamed, unseen that she was glad to wake from-she went and worked up a good sweat before going home and finishing off the Tim Tams for breakfast.
After that she spent the rest of the day at her office with her cell phone switched off and by the time she got home Cal had gone, leaving the flat a tip. Presumably the wilting flowers were his idea of thanks for her hospitality. She tossed them in the bin and got out the vacuum cleaner, glad to have something to keep her occupied. Stop her from dwelling on the fact that none of the messages on her machine had been from Max.
