by Leah Ashton
He was referring to their one-hour—and one-sided—meeting in his office earlier. Ella had been fairly sure she’d been talking to herself.
‘So you were paying attention?’ Ella asked.
Jake swung open the changing room door as he shrugged into the soft tan leather jacket she’d selected for him. ‘You lost me for a while when you started going on about colour triangles.’
‘Colour wheel, Jake,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll be surprised how useful it is.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he said as he walked a little closer to the floor to ceiling windows behind Ella.
She rolled her eyes. Jake had definitely just relegated the poor old colour wheel to his brain’s recycle bin. But that was okay. It would be in Jake’s Rebranding Action Plan, which she’d be handing to him in a week’s time when her services ended.
She harboured some faint hope he might bother to read it, although she figured it was more likely he’d be back in his faded jeans a minute or two after the campaign concluded. And her painstakingly constructed action plan would head for a real life recycle bin. Or, more likely, a shredder.
But at least for today, and for the campaign, he was trying.
Ella propped her weight onto one heel and crossed her arms as she evaluated his outfit: tailored trousers in a muted grey-brown fabric, not too tight. A crisp off-white shirt, with a few buttons undone—definitely no tie. And a delicious leather jacket that she just adored to finish it all off.
He looked fantastic. A lot like the movie star she’d used as inspiration for all the outfits in his new wardrobe.
‘What do you think?’ she asked.
Jake was moving this way and that as he looked at himself in the mirror.
‘Jacket’s okay,’ he said. ‘And good call on the no-tie thing.’
But...
‘Could I wear jeans instead? Not sure about these,’ he said, tugging at the fabric of his trousers.
Ella sighed. How typical.
‘Why?’ Ella said. ‘You don’t like them?’
He didn’t surprise her when shook his head—honestly, it was impossible to not like Jake Donner in those trousers. ‘No, they look fine, I guess. They’re just not me.’
‘And we’re back to the suit thing. It’s denim or nothing, right?’
‘I don’t think nothing would go down too well on breakfast television,’ Jake said with a quirk of his eyebrow, referring to the intended purpose of said trouser and leather jacket ensemble.
Ella ignored the hint of heat at her cheekbones, the sudden image of Jake wearing boxers on live TV that burnt itself into her brain, and the subsequent urge to fan herself.
‘So again, I’ll ask what’s so bad about suits? It’s like you don’t understand why anyone would bother to wear one.’
‘Is this a normal part of your image consulting services, Ella? Psychoanalysis?’
Ella looked up, instantly realising she was far too close, but not wanting to—literally or otherwise—back away.
‘Is it so strange that I’d like to understand your clothing choices better?’
But it wasn’t really just about that. She was curious and unwise, she knew. She wanted to know something more about Jake Donner the software mogul, versus the Jake she remembered.
Jake looked down at Ella. She’d ducked her head, paying a lot of attention to the lapel of his jacket, and the red in her hair shone beneath the room’s down lights.
Did she have any idea what the feel of her fingers, even through the layers of leather and cotton, did to him?
She was touching him almost carelessly, as if she was going through the motions as she would any other client.
Or, more likely, it wasn’t careless at all. Ella had made it clear he was just another client. Her really, really strange email yesterday afternoon had only underlined that.
I’d like to take the opportunity to emphasise the importance I place on my professional relationship with you, and with Armada. As discussed, our childhood friendship does not in any way impact on the delivery of my image management services. It would be appreciated if our past was kept strictly between us, as otherwise I fear my appointment as your image consultant may be misconstrued...
Yep. Definitely weird.
So her closeness was deliberate, he decided. A stubborn refusal to acknowledge that anything had once been between them.
‘Well?’ she said.
Today she’d forgone the blood-red lipstick, replacing it with something clear and shiny. He liked it a lot more.
‘It’s not a big secret,’ he said, ‘I did try wearing a suit, really early on when I was hunting about for venture capital and figured I needed to look like I knew what I was doing.’
And as if he could be trusted with millions of dollars, too.
‘But?’ she prompted.
‘I hated it. The navy blue suit and tie uniform, well, it made me feel like I’d been spat out the end of a Sydney businessman assembly line.’ He shrugged. ‘I felt homogenised, and I didn’t like it.’
Ella’s forehead furrowed. ‘You can be an individual in a suit,’ she said. ‘I dress professionally every day, but I’m not some clone. I’m still me.’
Jake searched for the words to explain. He’d never attempted to before—as he was the founder of his company, no one had ever questioned him. Without this campaign, he was positive he could’ve happily gone on wearing jeans to work for ever.
‘I refuse to pretend to be someone I’m not,’ he said. ‘And I’m not someone who sees the benefit in never-ending, pointless, pontificating meetings, or long lunches full of faux camaraderie.’
‘That isn’t the inevitable result of wearing a suit.’
Jake shrugged. ‘It’s a common one. Besides, I’m a coder. People who enjoy that sort of stuff can go knock themselves out.’
That was what he was good at: coding. Of developing different ways to do things online, or using software to change the way stuff got done.
If he was having a day of naval gazing, he could probably even say that he wanted to create code that would change the way the world used technology.
If newspapers could be believed—and he knew from experience that often they could not—some people already thought he’d achieved that goal.
Yes, he acknowledged there was a purpose to meetings, and suits and suit-related duties, which was why he’d delegated the more excruciating elements of business, i.e. everything but the actual work, to the Armada board. He remained the founder of Armada, of course, and Director of Development. But the other stuff? He kept his toe in the water in the form of his attendance at board meetings, but that was it.
And he’d never regretted the decision—even this week. Sure, to say he was dreading the upcoming campaign would be accurate, but he’d created Armada’s current corporate structure for this very reason: to ensure that people with better brains for business kept his company running, and kept his software and, with the phone, his new technologies, out there for the public to use.
That was the thrill he got out of the job.
And he didn’t need a suit to achieve it.
Ella was playing with the ridiculous bow at her neck, her fingers running up and down the long pieces of silk that draped part of the way down the curve of her breasts. He knew she wasn’t doing it consciously, but the action was most definitely compelling.
Before he starting thinking too much about what would happen if she pulled too hard and the bow unravelled, he backed up a step. ‘I’ll go try on one of the other outfits,’ he said, just a little bit hoarsely.
Inside the change room, he made quick work of unbuttoning and shrugging out of his shirt.
‘That sort of makes sense,’ Ella said. ‘A kind of eccentric sense, and I can’t say I agree with it—but sense, nonetheless.’
‘Thanks,’ he said dryly. He hung the shirt back up on a hanger, and turned to the stack of other clothes hooked on the far wall of the change room. At the very back, behind a stack of shirts, disturbing
ly expensive fine wool jumpers and a heck of a lot of jackets, something caught his eye.
‘Although it kind of falls down when you start talking about public appearances, like what you’re about to do. Or other occasions to wear a suit. Like weddings. Or...’
‘The Armada phone launch party,’ he finished. Jake pulled the offending item from its hook.
‘I guess you found the suit—’
Ella went silent when he threw open the change-room door and held the jet-black suit jacket and trousers out in front of him.
‘You’re not wearing a shirt,’ she said, pointing out the obvious in a small voice. Her gaze rocketed about the room before settling very firmly on his face.
‘I’m also not going to wear a suit, Ella.’
‘You have to wear a suit to the launch party. The dress code’s cocktail.’
He shook his head. ‘No way.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Now you’re just being stubborn.’
He supposed he was. He’d attended weddings before. And worn a suit, even. His ex had bought the one he’d worn to the last wedding he’d attended, actually.
But that wasn’t the point.
‘It was the one thing I made very clear when I agreed to all of this.’
He’d been independent his whole life. His parents certainly hadn’t provided any guidance. None of his girlfriends had had any success when they’d tried.
He did his own thing. Made his own decisions.
Being told what to wear was bad enough. He’d needed to be the one to set the boundaries to at least have that control.
‘You agreed to follow my programme,’ Ella said, every line of her body tense and verging on combative. ‘To let me do my job. If I let you rock up at the awards night in jeans and sneakers, I’ll be a laughing stock. So will you.’
She snatched the coat hanger out of his hands.
‘I didn’t just grab any old suit, Jake. There’s no tie, for one, and the cut is exceptional. You’ll be amazed how comfortable it is.’
In response, Jake just shook his head.
Ella shook the hanger a little as her frustration seeped out. ‘Trust me, and just try the damn thing on. You’re being an idiot about this.’
‘Is that how you normally talk to your clients?’ he asked.
Ella went perfectly still.
A beat later, he watched as she deliberately rolled her shoulders back. Then she calmly lay the suit over her arm, smoothing it into place.
‘My apologies,’ she said, in a totally different voice from before. ‘I’ve handled this very badly. I’d hate for you to be in any way uncomfortable at the launch, and I’m concerned if you’re inappropriately dressed you’ll regret your decision. Would it help if—?’
‘Stop,’ Jake said. ‘Don’t do the whole pretending-you-don’t-know-me nonsense again, Ella. I don’t want to hear it.’
She sucked in a breath. ‘I thought I made it very clear in my email. It’s best if we start afresh. We’re obviously both different people.’
‘That was a nice idea, Ella. But that’s not the first time you’ve called me an idiot, and it’s stupid to pretend that it is,’ he said, referring to their many fights as teenagers. Usually over topics like the best buses to catch to get to the beach, or whether the movie Dirty Dancing could acceptably be referred to as a ‘classic’. Ella had thought so. Jake—immovably—did not.
At the worst possible time, a man walked into the change room. He glanced momentarily at Ella and Jake, seemed completely unbothered by the sight of a half naked man and an obviously irate woman, and disappeared into the cubicle three doors to their left.
‘I would really prefer it if you didn’t talk about our past,’ she said, in a fierce stage whisper. She marched past him into his change room. ‘Can you come in here, please?’
He followed her, and when he pulled the door shut behind him, automatically turning the dial to mark the room as occupied, the space was suddenly intimate. The mirrors that near covered three walls of the tiny room reflected them from nearly every angle.
Jake had the completely inappropriate realisation that now he had a really fantastic view of Ella’s butt.
She put her hands on her hips, and he dragged his eyes back to her, and not to the view so generously offered by the mirror.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said suddenly, shocking himself. Where had that come from?
Ella looked equally gobsmacked, her mouth forming a perfect O.
For a few minutes they just stood there, blinking at each other.
What was he sorry for? Ogling her? Not trying on the suit?
‘About how I left. About how I didn’t stay in touch,’ he clarified—both for himself and Ella. ‘Is that what this is about?’
‘Of course not,’ she said, still in that ridiculous whisper. Who gave a crap if a total stranger three doors down heard them? ‘Nothing has anything to do with that.’
The edge to her tone proved the opposite was true.
‘I’m not proud of myself,’ he said. ‘I thought it was better to have a clean break. Let us both start afresh.’
The explanation sounded as pathetic as he now thought it was. At the time, it had seemed the only solution. Noble, even.
But it hadn’t been about that, not at all. She’d desperately wanted him to stay. Needed him to stay—and to love her.
Both had been impossible.
‘You’ve got nothing to apologise for. I was totally, totally fine.’
He’d told himself that, too. She was strong. And she’d had her dad who loved her, and would support her.
He couldn’t have offered her either.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, because it seemed the only thing worth saying.
How to put thirteen years of absence into words? He hadn’t been noble. He’d been scared.
‘After I lost Mum,’ Ella said, ‘it hurt more than I could ever, ever describe in words. It left a hole, you know? And then you left, too...’
Her bottom lip quivered, and emotion hummed in the small room. Part of him was glad she’d dropped the act, but then this was why he’d left. This depth of emotion. This loss, this grief.
He couldn’t process it. He didn’t understand it.
Not then, and not now.
At seventeen, he couldn’t handle it. At thirty he couldn’t either. He felt useless, helpless.
So he did the only thing he could—with utterly no idea if it would help or hinder—and he reached for her.
The space was so small that with one stride he was before her, and a moment later his arms encircled her.
It should’ve been awkward, and it was, at first.
Ella gasped at his touch and stiffened. But almost instantly her body softened, and she leant into him. And then it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Against his bare chest, she felt the wetness of her cheeks.
For a really, really long time, they just stood there, Jake watching his hands rub rhythmically up and down her back in the mirror as her body shook, ever so slightly.
Then, after an age, she turned her face up to him.
‘You shouldn’t have disappeared,’ she said.
In this moment, looking down at her, her mascara smudged, and strands of her long hair rubbed loose and framing her eyes haphazardly, he agreed with her.
I should’ve kissed you.
Did she guess what he was thinking? Maybe, because something changed in their embrace. His shirtless state—minutes ago so irrelevant—now only added to the charged atmosphere. He suddenly registered the bite of her nails as they trailed down his spine.
Then she licked her lips, and he was lost.
His arms tightened, and he leant towards her. She moved too, close enough that he felt her breathing, quick and shallow, against his lips
But then she was gone.
She bumped against the mirror behind her in her urgent retreat.
‘Thank you for the apology,’ she said. ‘Appreciate it.’
Which certainly wasn’t a bad idea. His brain still felt fuzzy. His body definitely still wanted to reach for her. To kiss her.
So distance was good. Necessary.
‘So you’ll try on the suit?’ she asked.
The question was so incongruous, he had to laugh. ‘Seriously?’
Her lips curled upwards, although she still had a telltale sheen to her eyes. ‘I reckon it’s the least you can do.’
He nodded. And he knew he’d be wearing the damn thing to the launch, too.
Ella managed a brief, victorious smile. But then her expression morphed abruptly back to deadly serious.
‘This doesn’t change anything, though. I still stand by what I said in that email. Please don’t let on to anyone that we knew each other. Or even that I lived in Fremantle. Definitely don’t say anything about my...’ she took a deep breath ‘...my mum, either. Okay?’
After what had just happened—and what had happened all those years ago—he wasn’t about to deny her this. He nodded.
‘But why? Surely your friends and clients know you’re from Fremantle? And what school you went to? It wouldn’t be that hard to figure out you used to know me.’
She shook her head, the action verging on violent.
‘No. No one knows.’
‘Where you’re from?’ he asked, confused. Why would she hide that?
‘Exactly. And that’s how it’s going to stay.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
I REFUSE to pretend to be someone I’m not.
Jake’s words most unexpectedly popped into Ella’s head as she stared at herself in the mirror.
It shouldn’t have surprised her, really. Their whole conversation had crowded most of the space in her brain ever since the not-soon-enough conclusion to Jake’s personal shopping expedition.
This was why Jake was supposed to have remained at a distance, safe beyond the protective barrier of professionalism.
She’d attempted a couple of different approaches to dealing with the events of the day. The first approach had been sound in theory: the She Was Glad It Happened approach. This was based on the idea that they’d ‘cleared the air’, and now could proceed along an obstacle-free path—two adults with no unanswered questions between them.
