by Nicola Marsh
IT BUGGED JAYDA that Brock had no online social media presence. How else was a woman supposed to get the lowdown on a guy? Sure, he had a plethora of publicity, articles and advertisements on his whiz-bang company but she wanted to know the important stuff: like where he liked to holiday, what he liked to do in his downtime, and who he liked to do it with.
Annoyingly, information on his company provided a lot of the latter. A lot. At every big function he’d attended or at every award ceremony, he had a stunning woman on his arm; a different one each time.
It bugged the crap out of her.
She felt like a fool doing this in the first place. At twenty-eight, she shouldn’t be doing online reconnaissance for a guy she wouldn’t see again after two weeks. And it sure as hell shouldn’t bug her that he had a penchant for beautiful women. He could date whomever he pleased.
‘Idiot,’ she muttered, shutting down the search engine with a stab of a button on the keyboard.
Her, not him. Brock was a genius, a multimillionaire, seriously hot and a trillion other things that could feed into every one of her insecurities if she let them. Old doubts like, ‘What’s someone like him see in a fatty like you? Why are you reading too much into his compliments? He’s only spending time with the cow for the free milk.’
Thankfully spending last night with him had made her feel incredible. Special. Wanted. He had this knack for doing and saying the right things that made her feel the most cherished woman in the world and she loved it. He reinforced positive body image and then some. If she ever allowed those old uncertainties to creep in, sex with Brock would kick its ass.
She pushed back from her desk where she’d been setting up for Brock to make a start on her website. He would arrive within the hour and she wanted to ensure she presented a professional front for the hours they’d be working together. She’d donned a black pinstripe skirt suit with a pearl high-necked silk blouse beneath, and her requisite four-inch stilettos. She wanted to make a clear delineation between their business and their fling. Which she’d believe if she hadn’t worn a sexy sheer black teddy beneath her professional ensemble on the off chance they wrapped up business faster than anticipated.
Her mobile pinged with an incoming message and her heart-rate accelerated when she glimpsed Brock’s name on the screen.
Sorry. Can’t make it. Something came up. Will be in touch.
Jayda stared at the message for a long time, inevitably trying to read between the lines. She could accept that he’d cancelled but her eyes were repeatedly drawn to his casual, ‘Will be in touch.’ It sounded so impersonal. As if he hadn’t been inside her last night. As if he hadn’t worshipped her with his mouth. As if he didn’t give a crap.
The old insecure wimp she’d once been wouldn’t ring him to reschedule but the second she’d undressed for him last night, requiring more trust than she’d ever given anyone else, meant she wouldn’t hold back over something as simple as a phone call.
However, before she could call him her mobile pinged again with another incoming message.
I’m outside. Please let me in.
Her mother.
Jayda had specifically asked her parents to leave her alone and to not contact her while she gave them a month to right their wrongs. Until she’d realised launching her own charity would raise questions amongst her family’s moneyed circles and she needed to ensure her folks wouldn’t sabotage her new venture before it got off the ground.
She’d arranged to meet Peony in three hours, to ensure that when Brock had come here to work they’d have kept a clear demarcation between business and pleasure. Two hours spent on her website before she politely announced her mother would be arriving any second, ensuring they stuck to business and she wouldn’t be tempted to drag him into her bedroom.
She should’ve known her mother wouldn’t stick with the programme. But at least Brock wouldn’t be around to witness what promised to be yet another awkward confrontation.
She flicked off the lights in her office, leaving a desk lamp on, and closed the door. Dragging in a few steadying breaths, she opened the front door, quashing the impulse to run into her mother’s arms, seeking comfort that never came: not when she’d been teased in primary school for being overweight, not when Sasha had died, not when she’d discovered her parents had been filtering hundreds of thousands of dollars from the charity fund she worked on for them.
‘What are you doing here, Mum? You’re three hours early—’
‘Please, Jayda. Can I come in?’
‘I’m busy—’
‘We’ve put things right and I want to show you proof.’
Tears filled her mother’s big blue eyes but Jayda knew from past experience that her mum was a consummate actress and could summon tears at will.
‘That was fast,’ Jayda said. ‘I guess the threat of being exposed worked.’
‘You have every right to be angry—’
‘I’m not only angry, Mum, I’m disgusted.’
A neighbour’s curtain twitched and Jayda sighed, knowing they couldn’t have this conversation privy to the ageing couple next door. She opened the door wider and stepped back, waiting until her mother had entered before closing it.
Jayda stomped into the lounge room, where a faux-stone fireplace gave out a welcome warmth. She felt chilled to the bone. She stood in front of the fireplace, hands behind her back to stave off the ice filtering through her, making her extremities numb.
‘Jayda, I’m sorry—’
‘So you said, Mum. But a trite apology doesn’t cut it. Not this time.’ Jayda shook her head, her indignation rising along with her body temperature as she thawed. ‘You used me. You guilted me into working for you after I finished uni, playing on my love for Sasha. So I let my IT skills lapse, becoming your glorified party planner, only to learn I’m not the idiot you think I am when I discovered you and Dad have been taking massive sums of money from your so-called charity fund.’
Her mother’s bottom lip wobbled and she ignored it. ‘So whatever proof you have that you’ve rectified your mistakes won’t change the fact that I despise both of you.’
She spat the last words, wanting to hurt her mother as much as she’d been hurt by the only people in the world she’d assumed had her back. The one thing she hated most in this world was being duped. Deon had done it, shattering her trust in men and feeding into every single one of her body-image insecurities, so discovering her parents’ duplicity in preying on her emotions because they needed a trusting stooge...
No matter what her mother said, it would take a long time to recover from their deceit.
‘You need to see this.’ Her mother took a folded document out of her designer handbag and smoothed it out. ‘Here.’
The faster Jayda took a look, the faster she could hustle her mum out of here so she grabbed at the paper.
‘We’ve replaced every cent your father gambled away from our personal accounts. And he’s joined Gamblers Anonymous. He’s been attending meetings twice a week...’ She ended on a sob and Jayda clamped down on the urge to comfort.
Considering her parents had lied to her for years, they were skilled performers and for all she knew this could be an act to draw her sympathy, despite what the figures on this bank document proved.
‘You have to forgive us, sweetheart. Your father went a little mad when Sasha died and when I discovered he’d used funds from the charity to gamble and how much he’d lost, I didn’t know what to do—’
‘You could’ve told me, Mum! You could’ve trusted me.’ Jayda’s throat tightened and she swallowed several times before she could continue. ‘Do you know what it feels like to discover that all the hard work I put in for years in an effort to help you was perpetuating a lie?’
Jayda thumped her chest. ‘I’ll tell you what it feels like. It feels like you’ve stabbed me in the heart.’
T
ears started flowing down her mother’s face. ‘We were grieving—’
‘I was too. And you never gave a shit about me.’ Jayda’s yell bounced off the walls but she couldn’t stop. Not this time. ‘I loved Sasha too and her death gutted me. I’ve always been invisible to you and I thought her death would bring us closer together as a family...’
She shook her head, tears blurring her vision. ‘I’ve never been good enough for you and Dad. Second best, always. But I accepted it because I loved you and wanted to help you as much as I could to ease your pain.’
The tears started spilling down her cheeks and she swiped them away with the back of her hand. ‘But what about my pain? What about recognising you still had a daughter? About acknowledging that while I could never fill Sasha’s shoes in your eyes, I’m special too?’
Her mother’s sobs grew louder but Jayda didn’t care. She was done trying to soothe her parents’ pain when they’d never cared about hers.
So she steeled herself to stare her mother down, an elegant woman in a pink designer suit, matching bag and shoes, with perfectly highlighted blonde hair and make-up that didn’t run despite her tears. She looked like a caricature of a wealthy woman, always had, and while Jayda had never taken her comfortable lifestyle for granted, she wished that for one second her mother would look approachable like the mums she saw at the supermarket in their jeans and hoodies, hair in ponytails with barely a slick of lipstick.
‘We love you—’
‘I didn’t invite you here to rehash the past. I wanted to tell you that I’m starting my own charity.’ She squared her shoulders and stared down the woman she’d once looked up to. ‘I’m honouring Sasha’s memory my way. I loved her as much as you and this is something I have to do.’
Tears burned her eyes again and she blinked them away. ‘I extended the courtesy of telling you in case you get questions from your cronies about my new start-up charity.’
Peony blinked, her gaze suddenly shrewd. ‘But you could come back and work for us, now that we’ve rectified the mistakes—’
Mistakes? Was that what they called embezzlement these days?
‘Just go, Mum.’ She held out the document and when her mother didn’t make a move to take it she flung it on the sofa. ‘I need time away from you both. Time to process. Time to see if I can forgive you.’
Her mother opened her mouth, probably to protest again, but Jayda turned away to face the fire, wishing she could climb into it, craving comfort. A small part of her yearned to feel her mother’s arms around her, for her mum to come up behind her and enfold her in an embrace that would make all the hurt go away.
But Jayda had given up expecting anything from her parents a long time ago so it didn’t surprise her when she heard heels clacking on the floorboards, before the front door opened and closed.
Only then did her legs crumple and she slumped to the floor, bawling like a baby.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BROCK HATED HOSPITALS. Something about the antiseptic stench, the poker-faced medical staff and the worried expressions of people in the waiting room got to him every time. Not that he’d been in them often, thankfully, but playing footy at high school to fit in meant he’d suffered through a broken collarbone, ruptured ankle and fractured wrist.
His stride slowed as he entered the orthopaedic ward of the western suburbs’ newest public hospital and it had nothing to do with the warring smells of old people and disinfectant and everything to do with the upcoming confrontation.
It had been five months since he’d seen his dad. A birthday lunch at the closest pub to their house, consisting of stilted conversation over chicken parmas and pots of beer. He had to admit his parents had been better than usual, not sniping at each other every few minutes, but he always felt the same in their company, awkward and on tenterhooks, and he couldn’t escape fast enough.
If his father wore his grumpiness like a badge of honour on a good day, Brock couldn’t wait to see how he was handling being confined to a bed.
Scanning the numbers above the rooms, he paused outside number thirteen. Not a good omen; definitely unlucky for him. Despising the thumping of his heart, he knocked and pushed open the half-shut door.
‘About time you brought me my car magazines,’ George barked out as Brock stepped around the curtain and glared at his father. No prizes for guessing George had been expecting his wife, who he bullied constantly and yelled orders at like a goddamn sergeant.
‘Brock, what are you doing here?’ George’s mouth sagged in shock as he struggled into a sitting position.
‘I came to see how you’re doing.’ Brock moved closer to the bed and handed his father a bag of chocolate-covered liquorice bullets, his favourite. ‘Heard you took a tumble.’
‘That old bloody ladder.’ George took the bag, opened it and his eyes lit up. ‘Don’t tell your mother you brought me these. She has me on a strict diet because I won’t be mobile for a while.’
‘She has your best interests at heart,’ Brock said, leaping to his mum’s defence as he always did. ‘So don’t eat those all at once.’
‘I’d tell you to mind your business but you brought me these.’ George rattled the bag, a cheeky glint in his eyes. ‘So I’ll say thanks instead.’
Brock struggled to hide his surprise. His father had few ways of communicating: barking instructions or talking over anyone who didn’t view the world as he did. Which meant for most of Brock’s childhood raised voices were the norm, followed by sullen silences and begrudging apologies.
George rarely expressed gratitude so the fact he’d thanked him for the liquorice...maybe he’d sustained a head injury along with a broken hip after that fall.
‘How are you feeling, Dad?’
‘Sore. Stupid.’ George winced. ‘I’m an idiot for thinking I can still do the stuff I used to do years ago.’
‘Dad, you’re forty-seven, not eighty.’
‘Still an idiot,’ George muttered, with a shake of his head. ‘Don’t know how your mother puts up with me.’
It was the first time Brock had heard his father acknowledge what a pain in the ass he could be and hot on the heels of his thanks it left him baffled.
‘I took a look at the accounts before coming here,’ Brock said, keen to focus on business and not this puzzling version of his father he didn’t recognise. ‘Everything looks in order but I’ll keep an eye on things and pop into the yard twice a week while you’re incapacitated.’
‘Good man.’
An odd expression crossed George’s face. If Brock didn’t know any better, he would’ve labelled it vulnerability.
‘I hate to ask another favour, son, when you’re already helping me out and I know how busy you are, but there’s something else where your input would be invaluable.’
Brock stiffened. Of course George would take advantage of the situation. He saw Brock’s helping out at the yard as weakness and wanted to put the screws to him.
‘What is it?’
George didn’t flinch at his short, sharp response. ‘The annual awards for car salesmen are coming up next week.’ He grimaced and pointed to his hip. ‘I won’t be mobile by then and your mother doesn’t want to go without me, so I was hoping you could attend instead, as a representative for our yard?’
Our yard? Brock wanted nothing to do with that dive but the great George Olsen never asked anyone for favours, least of all a son he rarely had time for, so this must’ve cost him. A lot. But the last thing Brock felt like doing was hanging out with a bunch of used-car salesmen for an evening. He’d rather stick a fork in his eye.
‘It’s not really my thing, Dad—’
‘Please, son. This is important to me.’
If asking a favour wasn’t in George’s DNA, pleading was unheard of. Brock stared at the man who’d begrudged his existence for as long as he could remember, the man who’d whinged about
having an extra mouth to feed, the man who’d doled out a few dollars in pocket money as if he couldn’t stand to part with it rather than acknowledge the endless hours Brock had helped out in the yard when kids his age had been skiving off into the city or going to the movies.
George looked at least a decade older than forty-seven with his receding hairline, grey hair and pouches under his eyes. He looked like a man who’d had a hard life and made life harder for those around him.
But whatever his father had done in the past Brock couldn’t turn his back on him now. He already harboured enough guilt for being the reason his mum had stuck with this man during her twenties, the years she should’ve been out partying; he wouldn’t add to her burden. Because nothing surer than George would pester his mum to attend solo if Brock turned him down.
‘Okay, Dad, I’ll do it.’
George’s relieved smile added to the lines around his mouth. ‘There’s something else.’
As if attending an event filled with his father’s cronies wasn’t bad enough. ‘What is it?’
George’s sheepish expression didn’t bode well. ‘I’m on the organising committee. In fact, I’ve planned the whole thing this year, so there’s a few finishing touches that need to be done.’
He held up his hand and started counting tasks on his fingers. ‘The caterers need to be contacted to ensure the menu is going out as planned. The florists doing the centrepieces need to be paid. The venue will need to be double-checked the morning of the function to ensure the decorators followed specifications...’ George trailed off, his bashfulness almost as shocking as his gratitude earlier. ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, son, but do you think you can do this for me?’
Brock’s first instinct was to refuse. Attending would be bad enough but finalising details of this shindig? Nightmare. Besides, since when did he have party-planning skills?
Party planning...
Something Jayda had said niggled...about her being a glorified party planner for her parents’ business...if she’d done this kind of thing before she’d be the perfect person to help. All he had to do was grovel.
