The Billionaire from Her Past

by Leah Ashton

Mila chewed on her bottom lip, willing the sudden tightness in her throat away.

  ‘If you need an excuse,’ Sheri prompted, ‘go and pick up that mystery package. A new delivery card arrived today. It’s under the counter.’

  By the time Mila had made it to the post office a few days ago, Nate’s chewed delivery card in hand, her package had been sent back to the depot to be returned to the sender. Fortunately that hadn’t yet happened, and the package had been directed back to Mila.

  So she did have a reason to head out.

  And, more importantly, Sheri was right. The shop wasn’t where she needed to be.

  Mila drove to the post office, only a few blocks away. The queue was short inside, and she was handed her package within a few minutes of arriving.

  She flipped the large flat box over, curious to note the sender. She and Sheri hadn’t been able to work it out—all their outstanding orders had already arrived.

  But the handwritten name on the back made Mila go completely still.

  ‘Can I help you with anything else today, miss?’ the young man behind the counter prompted politely.

  Mila just shook her head furiously and walked briskly to her car. And then she drove to the park. To the park near the street where she’d grown up, with that giant ancient fig.

  Car parked, and the package carefully cradled in her arms, Mila walked towards the towering tree.

  The fig’s canopy was incredibly dense, stretching out so far that the grass ended some distance from its trunk, unable to grow in the heavy shade. The trunk was huge, with ropey root tentacles that stretched from its centre, large enough to sit upon and stare out across the park.

  She chose a spot where she could lean against the base of the fig, and kicked off her flip flops so she could drag her toes in the dirt. She traced the sharp cardboard edges of her package, but didn’t move to open it.

  She hadn’t recognised the sender’s writing, but she’d certainly recognised the name. Steph’s mum. With a new address from the most southern point of Western Australia, a day’s drive from Perth.

  Still, she didn’t open it.

  She’d come here so often with Steph. Exactly here, beneath this tree. This had been their place—a place where they’d met without Seb. They’d dreamed up elaborate stories for the fairies they’d imagined lived in the tree, they’d swapped homework answers, and they’d giggled about boys. They’d made plans for the future: envisaging horse-drawn carriages at their weddings to British princes—one each—the dresses they’d wear to their Year Twelve ball, and which boy they’d like to be the first to kiss them.

  They’d been so close. Picture-book best friends.

  And then Seb had kissed her.

  She’d been thirteen, and the three of them had headed to the beach during the summer holidays. Mila didn’t remember many of the details of the day—but she did remember her surprise when she’d realised Seb was actually going to kiss her. She’d had a crush on him for ever, but had never done anything about it. She hadn’t known what to read into those times when Seb’s gaze had tangled with hers, or what to do with the way she’d felt if they as much as bumped shoulders.

  She also hadn’t really known what to do when his lips had touched hers that first time. Maybe he hadn’t either. Either way, it had been a little awkward—and she’d been so embarrassed that she wasn’t better at this whole kissing thing. As soon as she’d been able to she’d scampered away—desperate to tell Steph and for her advice. After all, Steph had kissed two boys. She had experience.

  Steph had been excited for Mila, and even a little jealous—she’d had a bit of a crush on Seb, too. They’d giggled, and planned Mila’s next move—but in the end there hadn’t been one. Seb had seemed to lose his nerve, and Mila had been so busy trying to play it cool that she’d ended up being snarky and stand-offish.

  Mila remembered the day Steph had told her that Seb had kissed her. Steph had felt terrible, promising that it would never, ever happen again. Mila had been shattered. But she’d given her blessing. Maybe she’d always thought that Seb falling for her more flirtatious, more vivacious friend was inevitable. Maybe she’d never really believed that Seb could actually want to be with Mila.

  And there it was—perfectly encapsulated. The impact she’d allowed her father to have on her self-worth. At thirteen, at almost thirty, and a million times in between.

  How could she not have seen it before now?

  Mila looked at her toes, her fire-engine-red toenails now dusted with dirt. A short distance away two small boys had appeared, tossing a Frisbee between them. A breeze ruffled the old fig’s many leaves.

  Mila knew. She knew why nothing had been clear until that night when her dad had called her with news of her future half-sibling. Up until that night Mila had held on to a skerrick of faith that somewhere deep down her father did love her. But he didn’t. He didn’t love her. He didn’t care about her. He didn’t even know her.

  And in amongst the devastation of that realisation, there was freedom. No longer would she waste her love on those who didn’t deserve it. And no longer would she wait so patiently for love that would never come her way.

  She loved Seb. She knew that now. She’d loved him for ever. In different ways, but unwaveringly. She couldn’t just switch that off, and—unlike her thirteen-year-old self—she couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening.

  But at least this time she’d told him about it.

  How might her life have been different if she hadn’t run away when Seb had kissed her? Although to suggest it would’ve been different was a disservice to Steph, and to Seb.

  For all the problems that Seb had said they’d had towards the end of their marriage, Mila couldn’t wish away Steph and Seb’s relationship. For a long time they had been incredibly happy together. Mila knew that—she’d been best friend to them both.

  Steph and Seb had fitted together perfectly—for a long time. They’d had silly inside jokes, and Seb had used to have a really sweet way of tucking Steph’s long, wild hair behind her ears. It had been almost reverent, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch such beauty.

  As a threesome, they’d just worked, too. They’d laughed and partied and travelled—it had been fantastic. Maybe she’d been envious of their happiness, but she’d never coveted Seb. Seb and Steph had just gone together. They’d been meant to be together.

  Mila wondered—just a little—what would’ve happened if that night in her flat had ended differently. If Seb had said he loved her too. Would she still have wondered, somewhere deep inside, if she was some sort of consolation prize? If she could ever match up to Steph’s memory?

  A clattering noise grabbed Mila’s attention. A bright yellow Frisbee lay only a few metres from Mila’s feet, on top of one of the fig’s huge roots. One of the small boys had run up to retrieve it, but had stopped dead on seeing Mila in the shadows, suddenly shy.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Mila said, getting to her feet, placing her package carefully on a wide, shelf-like root ‘I’ll get it.’

  She picked up the Frisbee and tossed it, reasonably impressed with her rusty Frisbee-throwing technique. The boy ran off to his friend and Mila walked the few steps back to her preferred location at the base of the tree trunk.

  The sun had lowered further in the sky, illuminating different parts of the tree and its roots as light dodged through the branches. The package—with its plain brown cardboard wrapping and its small stash of colourful stamps—lay in a narrow strip of sunlight, waiting for her.

  Mila felt somewhat as she did at the end of a fabulous book—desperate to know the ending, but also hating how few pages remained. Because this package, she knew, had no sequel.

  It was from Steph.

  How many times had she wished to see Steph just one more time? To talk to her? To hug her? This package—whate
ver it might be—was as close to granting her wish as she was ever going to get.

  Finally she picked the package up and settled back into her seat against the tree. Then quickly—as fast as she could in the end—she tore off the packing tape and prised the box open with trembling fingers.

  Inside lay a letter, on top of some fabric wrapped in purple tissue paper.

  Dear Mila,

  I’m not sure if you knew, but Steph was working on a new collection before she died. With the help of some of her old colleagues we’re releasing one final Violet collection, with all profits to go to charity.

  Most of her designs were still at an early design stage—including this dress. But this was the only piece she’d named, so I thought it was important I sent it to you. After all, it’s named after you.

  I’ve enclosed the sketches, as I thought you might like to read Steph’s notes...

  Mila barely read the rest of the letter, her vision blurry with unshed tears. Instead she carefully unwrapped the dress and held it up before her. It was simple—made of a structured, slightly heavy fabric that would reach to mid-knee. It had a boat neck and a flared skirt that would move and swish as she walked. And it was red—lipstick-red, fire-engine-red. Her favourite colour.

  It was beautiful.

  Carefully, she laid it back in the box and retrieved the small, thin pile of fashion sketches. Drawn in skinny black ink, the willowy model in the sketches bore no resemblance to Mila. But beside the posing, pouting figure were Steph’s notes under a simple heading: Mila.

  And there Steph had listed all manner of words.

  Funny.

  Determined.

  Talented.

  Wise.

  Mila blinked.

  Good listener.

  Reliable.

  Creative.

  Gorgeous.

  Loyal.

  My best friend.

  Underneath, in capital letters, Steph had written: HOW DO I PUT ALL THAT IN A DRESS?

  Mila squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t make any difference. Tears fell down her cheeks, splashing onto her jeans.

  She’d spent a lot of time over the past eighteen months berating and hating herself for the way her friendship with Steph had changed. For the first time she wondered if she’d been wrong.

  Steph van Berlo and Mila Molyneux had been best friends from the age of four—through playgroup, school, university and beyond. Almost all their lives they’d been there for each other. Side by side.

  So maybe—maybe—it was unavoidable that their lives had diverged. Maybe they’d needed space to grow up without each other—to stand on their own two feet. To be their own people, to be their own women.

  And that had been okay, because Mila had known that one day they would come back together. In Perth, or London, or Paris, or San Francisco. Who cared? It hadn’t mattered.

  But that day had been supposed to come. The day when they would be Mila and Steph again. Just like the inscriptions on those cheap gold-plated pendants they’d bought each other in Year Five: Friends For Ever.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Steph’s whole life had been ahead of her.

  As had a lifetime of friendship.

  Mila missed her.

  So much.

  She stood up, turning her back to the tree, the sketches hugged carefully against her heart.

  Mila still harboured a small mountain of regret. She wished she’d never fallen out of the habit of telling Steph about every vaguely exciting event in her life. She wished, desperately, that she’d sent those emails she’d kept forgetting to write. Made those phone calls planned with the best of intentions.

  But now—thanks to a beautiful dress and some scribbly sketches—Mila realised that all of that had done nothing to minimise their friendship.

  Their friendship had changed. It had been reshaped, repositioned. But it had endured—and, given time, it would have been reinvented.

  And now Mila knew for sure that Steph had known that too.

  The two kids and their Frisbee had left, and the park was now empty again.

  ‘I love you, Steph,’ Mila said to the park, to the tree and to the sky.

  And Mila knew, more certainly than anything else in her life, that Steph had loved her too.

  * * *

  Seb had taken the afternoon off work to head to Cottesloe Beach.

  Steph had loved this beach. Most people in Perth loved this beach. And today that was evident in the sheer number of people absolutely everywhere: inside the bars and restaurants along Marine Parade, walking along the street, scattered across the pure white sand and within the crashing waves.

  This was where Seb—along with Steph’s parents—had released Steph’s ashes. So it was the obvious place to come if he wanted to feel close to Steph. And today he did—on her birthday. Twenty-nine today.

  Happy Birthday, Stephanie.

  Seb navigated the patchwork of towels and bodies on the sand to find a space for himself. He laid out his towel, then sat, his forearms resting on his bent knees, gazing out to the ocean.

  I’ve mucked things up, haven’t I, Steph?

  With Steph, and now with Mila.

  They’d had so much fun out here, the three of them. They’d used to catch the bus, sharing one big beach bag, stuffed with towels and sunscreen. Seb had always been lumped with carrying it—not that he’d really minded.

  It had never quite seemed right that a rather nerdy, weedy, computer-obsessed guy got to spend so much time with such beautiful girls. But as soon as they’d all got old enough to start noticing each other beyond who was hogging all the Play Dough it had always been Mila Seb had been drawn to...

  ‘You are so full of it, Seb!’ Mila said, turning on her heel. ‘You didn’t hear the ice cream van. What a waste of time.’

  Seb stepped in front of her, delaying her stalk from the surf club and back to the beach. ‘Just wait a sec.’

  ‘Why?’ She crossed her arms in front of herself. She was wearing the two-piece bathers she’d got for Christmas—red with lime green polka dots. Her skin was a lovely olive tan, her hair wet and slicked back after a morning of body-boarding in the ocean.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ he said.

  Mila’s eyes narrowed. Her gaze flicked over him—his bare chest, board shorts and bare feet—as if searching for whatever she thought he was hiding.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Talk to me.’

  But he hadn’t really planned what to say. ‘It’s a nice day, isn’t it?’

  Really? Surely he could do better than that.

  Mila rolled her eyes. ‘Steph is going to be annoyed we didn’t get any ice-cream.’ She went to walk away.

  ‘I like your bikini,’ he blurted out. ‘It matches your eyes.’

  She went still, her gaze dropping to her feet. ‘My eyes aren’t red,’ she said. ‘Or green.’

  ‘I meant...’ he said, scrambling. ‘I meant they complement them. Or something.’

  Mila looked up, squinting a little in the bright sun. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  For a long moment she met Seb’s gaze.

  What did he do now?

  He took too long.

  ‘Well—’ Mila began.

  But in a rush of panic—or adrenalin, or hormones—he seized the moment.

  Seized Mila, really.

  He gripped her arms, just lightly, and bent his head towards her.

  She blinked and looked stunned. But then she smiled—just a little—and that was all the encouragement he needed.

  Her lips were soft and tasted of the ocean. He’d never kissed a girl before, so he didn’t really do anything else but press his lips to hers, while his mind madly ran in circles, wondering if he should do some
thing with his tongue.

  Worried he was doing it wrong, he ended the kiss. He stepped back, releasing Mila from his grasp.

  She lifted her hand and touched her lips.

  Seb couldn’t work out her expression. Had she liked the kiss? Had he done it right?

  ‘I need to go,’ she said, very suddenly.

  Then she skirted around him and ran away—back to Steph and their towels...

  He hadn’t thought about that day in sixteen years. He’d been so embarrassed, and her rejection had stung. He’d read it all wrong.

  He’d been so sure—until that kiss—that Mila had liked him. And, from what Mila had said a few nights ago, she had. But he’d been oblivious.

  What would’ve happened if he’d known? Would he have ended up with Mila instead?

  And did that mean that Steph wouldn’t have moved to London with him, fallen in with the wrong crowd, and died?

  He’d been staring out at the waves but now he lowered his head, burying it against his knees.

  He been through this in the months after Steph’s death. He’d blamed himself a million ways—and now he’d found yet another. If he hadn’t been so stupid to not realise Mila loved him...

  No.

  He couldn’t do this. He’d dealt with this.

  I’m sorry, Steph. For being a crappy husband. For not being there for you. But not for loving you. Not for marrying you.

  He hadn’t bought the drugs.

  Steph had done that. Steph had chosen to take them.

  ‘Steph’s choices are not your responsibility.’

  He hadn’t believed Mila when she’d said that. He hadn’t been ready to believe it. But these past few weeks something had shifted...

  When he was with Mila there was a lightness to his life. A rightness. There was laughter, and silliness, and rambling conversations and connection. A connection to the present—to living every day to the best of his ability. A connection to Mila—intimacy, trust, passion. And a connection to his future...

  And that was what had scared him.

  The future was what had made him walk away. Because in the future things could go wrong. Very wrong. He could make mistakes. He could ruin everything. He could hurt Mila.