by Leah Ashton
Unfortunately this theory short-circuited whenever she remembered the exact moment Jake had decided to kiss her. And that she’d decided to kiss him back.
What on earth had she been thinking? This was the man that had hurt her so much. Who had abandoned her when she’d needed him the most.
Thankfully—thankfully—she’d come to her senses.
But still, she’d cried in his arms even before her hormones had taken control. When was the last time she’d let someone see her cry? She couldn’t remember.
She couldn’t even be sure why she’d cried.
So no, she definitely couldn’t be glad it had happened.
This had led neatly to her next plan of attack: Pretend It Never Happened.
Ella was confident that this was the better approach. She only had another week or so scheduled with Jake, and then she could move on with her life, exactly as it had been before he’d burst back into it.
Occasional unfortunate flashbacks to how good he’d looked without a shirt, notwithstanding.
Yes. It was a good theory.
So she’d organised impromptu drinks with a couple of girlfriends even though it was a Tuesday night. What better way to move on than a reminder of exactly how far she’d come?
I refuse to pretend to be someone I’m not.
Ella shook her head, as if she could physically dislodge the echo of Jake’s words.
She needed to focus. She had to leave in a few minutes.
She deliberately twisted her body this way and that, on the lookout for even the smallest flaw in need of correction. Her gaze travelled from her carefully straightened hair, to her midnight-blue dress and the less than extravagant curves it showcased. Her skin glowed—the result of regular spray tans—and her pedicured toes were encased in super strappy faux snakeskin heels.
Ella stepped closer to the mirror, near enough to evaluate the carefully applied liquid eyeliner, the curled and mascara-ed eyelashes, the expertly blended smokiness of her eye shadow. Her teeth were straight, and white. Her eyebrows the ideal shape. Her irises a shade of green that ‘popped’ against the undertones of auburn in her hair.
She looked—perfect.
Not perfect in a supermodel way, but perfect in the-very-best-version-of-Ella way. Picture perfect, just as her business name promised.
Normally such an assessment would make her feel good. After all, she worked damn hard to maintain this ‘look’ for every occasion. It certainly didn’t come easily for her.
However, tonight, Jake had ruined it. Tonight, for the first time since she’d transformed herself all those years ago, doubt niggled.
As she watched her lips thinned.
No. No way. She was not going to let Jake get to her.
And so she grabbed her handbag, her jacket, and headed back into the city.
Unfortunately, it was obvious, almost immediately, that the Pretend It Never Happened theory was easier said than done.
At a bar in King Street Wharf, she barely managed to follow the conversations of her friends.
‘You okay?’ Mandy asked, her blue eyes wide with concern. ‘It’s not like you to be so quiet.’
Sharon, her long black hair still managing to shine in the trendy shadows of the bar, wore a matching worried expression.
‘Of course!’ she replied, because what else could she say? She hadn’t exaggerated when she’d told Jake that no one in Sydney knew of her past.
She hadn’t lied, as such, more omitted details.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t all that difficult to do so if you conducted your social life primarily at parties, bars and nightclubs. Friendships based around shouted conversations, consumption of many cocktails and questionable dancing were necessarily maintained at a rather superficial level.
When she’d moved to Sydney, she’d been desperate for a life in stark contrast to the one she’d always known. Where she’d once been alone she wanted to be surrounded by crowds and vibrancy; where she’d once had a life full of loss and sadness, she’d searched for fun and gloss and nothing too serious.
But today she wanted more.
How could that be possible? She had everything she’d always wanted.
Rather than think about that, she headed for the bar. She thought she might have said something to her friends, but she couldn’t be absolutely sure.
The bar was crowded, three or four people deep, but she made a beeline in its direction. She needed a drink.
Normally she loved the buzz of Sydney’s night life. She loved the music, loved the dancing, loved the type of silly conversation people tended to have when they’d had more than a cocktail or two. All dressed up and out with her girlfriends, she could laugh and dance with them, or laugh and dance with total strangers. She could do anything. Forget herself. Be anyone.
Wait. Not anyone. She could be Ella.
Ella was who she wanted to be. She loved her life. Was proud of how far she’d come, and who she’d become.
A barman was speaking to her, and, judging from his expression, not for the first time. ‘What can I get you?’ he asked, his voice loud in order to be heard over the beat of the music.
Ella shook her head. She didn’t want a drink any more. She wanted to be alone.
She walked back to Sharon and Mandy, gave a half-hearted explanation for leaving, and then was gone before they had a chance to ask any questions. She wound through the crowd that packed the nightclub, picked up her jacket from the cloakroom, and then burst out into the street, the cool night air a welcome relief to her suddenly hot and terribly uncomfortable skin.
A short taxi ride later, and back in her lounge room, she went to dock her iPod, the movement automatic after years of repetition. But her hand stilled as she wrapped her fingers around the device’s hard edges.
Instead she dropped her bag to the ground and flopped herself onto her sofa. For once she wanted to be in the quiet.
She needed to think. Needed to reshuffle her thoughts, just a little. Reassure herself.
She believed, completely, in what she taught her clients. She believed everything she’d told Jake about the power of personal appearance, despite his obvious scepticism.
He wasn’t the first person in her life who’d believed that appearance didn’t matter. Far from it.
Who cares what anyone else thinks, Eleanor? We love you and anyone who doesn’t is plain silly. You’re perfect just as you are.
Yep. Just as she was. Bad hair, unfashionable clothes and all.
Her parents had meant well—but they’d been so, so misguided.
But she’d started off believing them, of course. Why wouldn’t she? Her mum with her crazy, home-made clothes, always in vibrant, textured fabrics—like lush purples, or metallic golds, or emerald greens. And then her dad, with his mad bohemian dreadlocks, strong opinions, loud voice and never-wavering love. Together they’d been a force of nature—impossible to ignore.
But then her mum was gone, and Ella realised they’d been wrong. She’d been wrong.
Because of course it mattered.
There was no point pretending she didn’t care what anyone else thought, if being herself—just as her mum had said—left her alone. Everyone needed someone.
As her dad had needed her mum. So badly that he’d never been the same since Valerie Cartwright had stepped out onto that street without looking. Ella’d always thought she’d probably been daydreaming; off in her own little fantasy world, and quite simply forgotten to check for oncoming traffic.
The end result was a husband and father left rudderless. Overcome by grief that he never, ever recovered from. To the point where Ella was convinced that even though it took four long years he truly did die from a broken heart.
And a heart that had been too broken to have space for Ella.
But with Jake long gone, he’d been all she’d had. Then he was gone too, and she’d been truly alone.
No longer was it okay to say I don’t care what anyone else thinks, because, quite frankly,
being alone sucked.
Which was why Eleanor Cartwright had re-invented herself. From a place of grief she’d created something good. Something better than before.
She’d never looked back.
At some point Ella had closed her eyes, but now she opened them, staring up at her stark white ceiling and the rice paper light shade almost directly above her head.
The silence wasn’t soothing any more. It was just...empty.
Within a minute she had her iPod in place and music on—loudly.
Loud enough to flow through to every nook and cranny of her house.
And loud enough to muffle and blur even the slightest whisper of doubt.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JAKE was sitting in the studio of a commercial radio station—not fidgeting.
Although it was taking some effort.
Through the glass walls, he could see Ella, her legs crossed elegantly, immaculate and serene in her tweed suit with oversized black buttons. If she was at all worried about how he was about to go in his very first interview for the Armada campaign, she hid it well.
If she’d been in any way impacted by their impromptu rendezvous in that change room, she hid that even better. It’d been almost a week, and her veneer of professional perfection had produced not the tiniest fissure.
It went without saying that he’d enthusiastically followed her lead.
When he caught her gaze, she smiled encouragingly, then mouthed: You’ll be fine.
He wasn’t nervous, as such.
More...tense.
Even after more than a week of preparation with Ella and with Armada’s board and marketing departments his level of interest in the task at hand had not demonstrably increased. He still didn’t like the media. He still didn’t like the idea of primping and preening and pretending.
But he was, inarguably, ready for this.
He’d been groomed, and dressed and coached within an inch of his life.
‘Today we have Jake Donner, founder of Armada Software, visiting us here on Drive 97.2FM. Listeners may remember Jake as the boy-wonder programmer who took the online world by storm in the late nineties, but who has more recently become famous as Sydney’s most mysterious billionaire bachelor.’
Jake cringed inwardly at the presenter’s choice of words. Mysterious? Really?
He was a computer geek with a low tolerance for those that pried into his private life. No mystery there!
‘Jake’s here today to talk about his company’s latest venture into the crowded smart-phone market. And I’m hoping we’ll get to learn a little more about the mystery man as well. Jake Donner—thanks for joining us today.’
Jake nodded, then realised he needed to actually talk. ‘Good morning, Nick, it’s great to be here.’
A few seconds later, given the time delay beyond the soundproof studio, Ella grinned and gave a thumbs-up sign. He was on his way.
After a few questions, none curly, Jake was getting into the swing of things. He even cracked a smile at one of the presenter’s halfway humorous jokes. He felt the tension in his back and shoulders ease, and he settled more comfortably into his chair. He even had the thought that he might ask the producer, currently sitting across from him and fiddling with various dials and buttons while the interview took place, a few questions about how all the technology worked, after the show.
This isn’t so bad.
‘Okay, Jake—enough about the phone. Let’s get onto the questions our listeners really want the answers to.’
Even this didn’t rebunch his muscles. He was ready for this. Ella had taught him strategies to deal with anything he didn’t want to answer. It was simple: Deflection, Distraction, Decoy or Denial.
‘Three years ago you applied a strict no-interview policy following the highly publicised breakup between yourself and Georgina McAvoy, who has since become one of Sydney’s most photographed socialites.’
Jake had never fully understood how it was possible to make a career out of being someone’s ex but, somehow, Georgina had managed it.
‘But here you are today, pushing the new Armada phone. And I hear you have quite an aggressive promotional schedule ahead of you. What’s changed?’
‘Well, I think it’s important to mention that there was never a formal no-interview policy.’ He shrugged. ‘I figured Georgina was doing—and continues to do—enough talking for the both of us.’
The presenter laughed.
‘But more seriously, I value my privacy, and keeping a low profile remains extremely important to me. So you can take the fact I’m here today as a clear reflection of how much I believe in this product. This phone will revolutionise smart-phone technology, and I’m prepared to step outside of my own comfort zone to communicate that to people.’
Yep. That was far more effective then Armada had no other option. Or—it’s none of anyone’s business why I choose to do anything, Nick—which would have been on the tip of his tongue a couple of weeks ago.
‘Right, right,’ the presenter said, nodding. ‘Now, I’ve got to ask this, now we’ve mentioned Georgina. Is Sydney’s most eligible bachelor seeing anyone at the moment?’
He was ready for this too. ‘No,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ll be attending the Armada phone launch tomorrow night without a plus one. And, Nick, I can’t say how much I’m looking forward to introducing this phone to the Australian public. Australia—and the world—hasn’t seen anything quite like it.’
Through the glass, Ella beamed at him, and Jake had to admit he felt a little smug.
The last time a reporter had asked him about his relationship status he’d as good as bitten their head off—and consequently ended up on the front page of the paper looking like a close relation to the devil incarnate. It was how he’d discovered his glare was more effective than he’d ever imagined.
So—this was a huge improvement. He was the one in charge. And even on message.
He shoots...he scores!
The presenter, however, looked less than impressed. He must have expected a scoop. Fireworks. Anger. Simmering silence—anything.
And Jake was not going to give him what he wanted.
He met the guy’s frustrated gaze with one that was steady and in control.
You’re getting nothing from me, mate.
But then, the presenter’s eyes gained a calculating glint.
‘I hear you moved your mother from Fremantle to a nursing home close to your estate in the Blue Mountains some months ago. Just how is she finding life in New South Wales?’
Instantly, Jake tensed. From the top of his newly styled hair to the soles of his funky distressed leather loafers.
This was the one—the one—topic that Jake had made clear was off limits. He had no doubt that this had clearly been communicated to the slimy presenter sitting no more than a metre away from him.
The presenter’s eyes darted downwards, and Jake made himself relax the fingers he hadn’t even realised he’d formed into fists.
The other man was tall, but soft. Easy pickings for a man who didn’t just hike through the mountains that surrounded his home—but climbed them.
But that, of course, was exactly what the guy wanted. By asking that question he’d just instantly cancelled all Armada advertising contracts at the radio station indefinitely—so he was betting on a newsworthy reaction. He’d like nothing more than for Jake to do exactly what he very badly wanted to do.
But Jake would not give him that pleasure.
‘I’m told she is doing very well,’ he said, managing to force the words through his teeth.
‘Told?’ the slime asked, feigning ignorance. ‘You haven’t visited her?’
Jake’s jaw clenched and unclenched. He should probably be taking slow, deep breaths or something. Or spouting some Armada-approved sound bite.
But he couldn’t do it. He had no intention of explaining anything to do with the woman whom he’d housed since he was eighteen years old, whom he’d financed through round after ro
und of treatment at Australian and international rehabilitation clinics that had promised the world—only to produce a woman who relapsed within weeks. Months if he was lucky.
The more he’d done for her, the more her resentment had grown.
Until finally, after a lifetime of self-abuse, she’d lost her mind.
Through the glass wall, Jake could see Ella stand up, and walk right up close. He expected her to be shaking her head, or glaring at him, or holding her hands up in a big STOP motion.
She was doing none of those things.
In fact, her hands were on her hips, her nostrils were flared, and her cheeks flamed pink. She looked about as furious as he felt. Like if it were possible for her to somehow teleport herself through that glass barrier, then slimy Nick the radio presenter would be in very, very serious trouble.
A sudden image of Ella, in her knee-high boots and elegant little suit, socking that guy in the nose, sprang fully formed to his mind.
It made him smile.
This unexpected turn of events clearly threw dear old Nick. ‘Jake?’ he asked, his eyes wide.
‘No comment,’ he said, utterly polite. ‘My family is off limits. No exceptions.’
A pause, and Nick’s gaze was no less calculating.
‘A source at the nursing home reports that your mother has been asking for you...’
Okay. Ella as his knight in shining armour or not, he’d reached his limit.
He couldn’t trust himself to speak, because nothing he would say would even vaguely resemble an Armada approved sound bite—or anything acceptable for a daytime radio audience. Not by a long shot.
He stood, without a word. Turned, and headed towards
the door.
The slimy piece of scum gleefully reported Jake’s progress to his audience of probably hundreds of thousands. Jake didn’t care. He wanted out of here.
But at the door, he paused. Then, very deliberately, walked back to the desk.
