by JC Harroway
I ignore the warning bells sounding inside my head. I want to rewind. I want to go back to the start, diving from that yacht in Monaco, seeing the delight and awe on Cam’s face. But there’s no going back. I’ve had my six-week proposition, and although our differences didn’t seem to matter at the start they’re still there, bigger and uglier than before.
Cam drops his mouth to the top of my head, presses an apologetic kiss there and says, ‘Just let me know when you have time to visit the cottage.’
A wise woman would offer a non-committal smile. I shrivel, thinking about my week ahead and the week after that... I can’t commit, even to a brief visit to the cottage I so long to see in person because it’s important to him.
This is what I’ve told him from the start.
My throat burns, but I swallow, resolved to be honest, not to drag out the inevitable pain of us ending. ‘I will, but it won’t be for a while—I’m flying to London the day after tomorrow.’
Cam says nothing. His feet stop shuffling around the dance floor. The air around us hisses with awkward tension.
He leans back so I’m forced to lift my head from his chest and look up. ‘But you’ve only just returned to Sydney.’ He presses his lips together, disappointed. ‘Do you absolutely have to go again? Don’t you have people all over the world, people who can do everything for you?’
I feel weighed down by sadness. I wanted to do this in a thoughtful way, perhaps over coffee. But Cam’s invested. Hell, I’m invested, and the time for thoughtful is long gone. ‘I do have people, but this is my life, my job—you know that. Nothing’s changed.’
Liar. Everything’s changed...except me.
His expression hardens, his jaw tense.
I feel trapped, his arms, which only seconds ago were comforting, now feel like chains. ‘Why am I defending myself, Cam? It’s not a feeling I like.’
He rubs one palm down his face, hurt and defeat lurking in his expression, and my stomach lurches with nausea. ‘I’m not trying to make you defensive. I just... Look, you don’t need to explain your actions or defend them, never with me.’ His hands find my waist and he tugs me close again, as if trying to re-create the intimacy of earlier. ‘I’ll just miss you, that’s all.’ His voice is low, heartfelt, torture to my ears, because I believe him. I want to be able to return the sentiment but it’s as if my tongue is stuck in my throat.
He presses a kiss to my forehead and whispers, ‘I’ll wait. Come and visit the cottage any time you can.’
I don’t want to hurt him so I say nothing, simply nod, foreboding churning in my head. Wonderful, considerate Cam... I can’t make any promises. Nor can I admit that it’s business as usual for me. Or exactly where this relationship is on my priority list. But I must. This is the moment I’ve been dreading. This conversation proves I’ve allowed this to go on too long, that I’ve been selfish.
I look up, my heart pounding. I see hope and passion and understanding in his expressive eyes. And he must see the opposite in mine.
His body stiffens.
I lock my knees, my legs fully absorbed with keeping me upright. I know what he wants. He showed me earlier when he made love to me. He wants some fairy-tale, happy-ever-after future for us. But I’m a realist. I know my limitations. I know my strengths. And I know Cam and what he deserves.
‘I don’t want this to end,’ he says, his mouth a grim line, as if he’s already anticipated my refusal.
Perceptive.
I look away. I never wanted to hurt him, but it’s pointless taking this any further. ‘Cam, we agreed this was temporary.’
My throat is so crushed, I can’t breathe.
‘I... I have feelings for you and I think you have them for me too.’
I do, I do, my beautiful, caring Cam. How could I not?
I shake my head as if I can shake out his words from my memory. ‘I can’t... I told you. I’m no good at relationships.’
‘Why, because you had one bad experience?’
Another shake.
‘Why do you have to be good at it? Why can’t you just give me a chance and see how this goes?’
The lure of his words, so simple in theory, makes my head spin. ‘Because I’ll fail and we’ll both get hurt. Why put ourselves through that?’
‘Just because your marriage failed doesn’t mean we will. He tried to change you and I’d never do that. Why should I suffer because of his actions?’
I step out of his arms, his touch now claustrophobic. ‘Aren’t you doing that right now? Trying to change me? Suggesting I ditch my family barbecue so I don’t have to face my father, encouraging me to delegate more work so I can be around more to play...girlfriend?’ I snort. ‘Even the word is ridiculous. I’m thirty-six. I’m not cut out for the commitment of a relationship.’ I lower my voice. There are people all around us. Happy, relaxed, smiling people.
I move away and he reaches for my hand. ‘Where are you going? We need to talk about this.’
‘We do,’ I say with a sigh I feel to the tips of my toes. But this is more about me than it is about him, and if I have to tell him that, I’m going to need Dutch courage. ‘I’m going to get a drink. We can talk more privately.’ I head for the bar, which is relatively quiet now that the after-dinner dancing is in full swing.
I’m almost there, my mind racing with suitable let-downs that sound trite and hurtful and make me feel sick to my stomach, when I spy a woman I’ve met before, the M Club founder and entrepreneur Imogen Carmichael. The usually composed blonde seems flustered. I’m stalling, sidestepping my own impending disaster, but it will only take a few minutes to say hello and check she’s okay.
‘Imogen.’ I snag her attention and she smiles, a flash of relief on her face. I’m aware that Cam will be right behind me, that we need to finish this, but something has the normally unflappable Imogen nervous. And it will give me a few precious minutes to gather my wits and compose myself for what I need to say to Cam. Otherwise I’m at risk of caving, of throwing myself into his arms and agreeing to try...
‘Are you okay?’
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she says, her eyes darting around the ballroom. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t stop and chat. I have an appointment. It was good to see you again, Orla. I hope we can catch up properly in New York next month at the Christmas Gala.’
‘Yes, I’d like that.’ I watch her leave, and then I continue to the bar, where Cam is waiting with two glasses of the Macallan.
‘Was that Imogen Carmichael?’ he asks, his body language wary and distant, as if he’s sorry he lifted the lid on any discussion of a future for us. But it’s too late now. We’ve come this far.
I swallow, my head pounding and my chest hollow and aching. ‘Yes. Have you met her?’
‘No.’
One-syllable answers...
I didn’t want it to be like this—awkward and full of recrimination. But then, what did I expect, just because my heart is made of stone?
‘You’d like her—she runs several charities,’ I say. ‘I’ll introduce you sometime.’
He hands me my drink, his eyes glittering, all friendliness gone. ‘When? Next time you’re in Sydney long enough? Next time we bump into each other at an M Club function? And will we just pretend none of this ever happened?’
I have no answer, but I say, ‘I don’t know when. Look, Cam, I didn’t want things to go this way. I... I heard what you said about trying, and I want you to know I’m flattered that you think we could be...more. But you knew from the start—’
‘I get it, you don’t do relationships.’
I ignore him, the reasons almost crushing my chest as I verbalise them, forcing them out. ‘You know my hours. My commitments. I clock up tens of thousands of air miles. I’m hardly ever home in Sydney. I’m just not relationship material. And you’d soon grow to resent me for it. It’s already started.’
> ‘I don’t resent you,’ he bites out, and I shrink, shame at how cowardly I’m behaving blotting out the other feelings like panic and grief that have no place, because this is what I wanted all along.
‘You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met—smart, inspiring, accomplished. I celebrate you.’ He sighs, runs his hand through his hair. ‘As long as you work the way you do because it makes you happy and not because you’re still trying to prove you don’t need your father’s, or anyone else’s, approval—including mine.’
‘I know you think that’s what motivates me, and maybe once...in the beginning... But this isn’t about my father. It’s about me not being right for a relationship, not being right for you. Look, you’ll find someone you have more things in common with, someone with time for a relationship, someone your own age.’ I wince because I can hear what’s just emerged from my mouth and I couldn’t sound more patronising if I tried.
Fury flits across Cam’s face. He swallows the Macallan in a single, knocked-back swallow and then places his empty glass on the bar. ‘I’ve never cared about our age gap and the fact you’re bringing it up now, when you’ve nowhere else to run, tells me what a bullshit excuse it is, and you know it.’
He steps closer, one hand finding my hip, his fingers flexing in a way that reminds me of when he’s turned on and about to undress me. But I can’t succumb to the touch my body craves so badly; even now I feel my resolve wobbling. It would be so easy to forget this fight, like the ones that have gone before, to mend what’s broken the best way we know how. With sex. But it’s not just sex any more and I can’t risk another dose of the searing intimacy we share.
My eyes burn and I blink hard. The longer we draw out the goodbye, the worse it will feel. For both of us. Because we’ve both been stupid. Both allowed feelings to creep into what should have been a simple transaction of pleasure. I can’t toy with him, now I know what he wants, know that his feelings are involved. I should never have toyed with him in the first place.
‘Look, my job is my priority. I thought you understood that.’ The words scratch at my throat like tears, but I hold myself in check, wound too tightly to surrender to the emotion that will make me weak enough to confess that yes, a part of me wants to believe in a future for Cam and me.
‘Oh, that’s crystal clear, believe me.’
‘That’s a low blow. Just because you were handed your fortune instead of earning it, like I’ve had to, it’s not fair to make me feel bad for making a living while you fritter away an inheritance you don’t even appreciate.’ As soon as the words are out I want to suck them back in.
He’s so angry, his eyes glow, his beautiful mouth flat. ‘Well, it’s good to know how you really feel.’
My chest collapses, squashed by the weight of my regret. I make a move to touch him, but before I make contact he says, ‘I can see you’re not prepared to give us, to give me, a chance after everything we’ve shared.’
I gape, because I’m stunned at his insight, his maturity, his quiet delivery after I’ve verbally slapped him in the face. I’ve been blind or simply hiding because I’m too scared to be emotionally vulnerable.
‘You know, Orla, your father isn’t worthy of the amazing woman you are. You’re ten times the human being he is. You’re probably smarter than him, a daughter to be proud of, whose successes should be celebrated.’
‘I know that.’
‘Do you? Because you seem to need a daily reminder.’ He touches my diamond stud with one gentle fingertip, and I want to curl into a ball.
‘Every day you push and strive and work to the point of near collapse, to prove yourself to a man who’ll probably never see you, the real you. I might not be worthy of you either, but at least I see you. And I want you, I want us to have something real like I thought we’ve had these past weeks, but you can’t even give me one single chance.’
I want to tell him he’s wrong, that I want to give him everything, that I already have, but until five minutes ago it would have been a lie. ‘Cam, I—’
He stands tall, slides his empty glass away on the bar. ‘Perhaps I was right about you all along. We are too different. Because I refuse to dance to my father’s tune, to be his puppet. You showed me I don’t have to see the money as a bond, that I can use it for good, to make a difference. You said it yourself, Orla. It’s how we live our lives that defines us. How do you want to live? If you’re happy making money every second of every day, then that’s fine by me, but do it for yourself. Not for him. I wanted you in my life because you’re enough for me just as you are, but now I see that’s never going to happen because you need to work out what is enough for you. And I see now that that isn’t me.’
I sway towards him, my stomach in my throat and his whispered name ringing in my ears. But I’m frozen by the choices I’ve made. Trapped, when all along I believed the illusion I was free to live on my terms.
Cam hands me his phone, his face now devoid of emotions. ‘Text my driver when you’re ready to leave.’
He turns on his heel and heads for the exit.
I stop him. ‘Wait—where are you going?’
He pauses. ‘I’ll walk home.’
I watch him leave, my eyes burning into him, but he never once looks back.
CHAPTER TEN
Orla
I PARK MY Mini Cooper in the garage of my parents’ Point Piper mansion and head into the house, my stomach hollow and my muscles clenched, ready for a fight. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen my family, but as I step out onto the terrace, donning my sunglasses against the glare of another fantastic Sydney day, I want to switch off the sun and hide. Not from my family, although gatherings these days are usually fraught with competitive undercurrents and entrenched dysfunctional dynamics I could do without, but from myself. From the decisions I’ve made. The mess. The knowledge that the mistakes I made before are minuscule in comparison to this one—losing Cam.
Holding on to the torrent of emotions inside, I wave to my mother, who’s in the infinity pool with my nephew, and head for the barbecue, where, typically, the males of my family congregate, as if grilling a steak requires testosterone. Before I even arrive I can sense an argument brewing between my brother, Liam, and my father.
I sigh, every bone in my body aching with self-inflicted grief. What am I doing here? I could have made any number of excuses—I have tons of emails to catch up on, six weeks’ worth of laundry to organise...damn, even airing my own long-neglected penthouse would be preferable to this, although I’m mostly here for my mother’s sake. But what I really want to do is lick my wounds while I try to work out if I’ve just sabotaged the best thing that ever happened to me.
My hollow stomach gripes again—ever since I arrived home last night after the gala I’ve wanted to throw up and it gives me a sick sense of satisfaction. I got what I wanted and it hurts like hell. It’s over, the end not neat as I’d hoped, but then when is anything ever neat when matters of the heart are involved?
Something inside my chest lurches.
It’s grief, just grief.
It will pass.
I force my face to conceal everything I’m feeling and greet my brother, accepting his kiss on the cheek. I pour myself a drink and take a tiny sip of the iced water, but even that gets stuck in my throat. I put it down and tune in to the argument to take my mind off Cam and the gaping hole he’s left in my life, although this is the very drama I was dreading.
Cam was right. Why am I putting myself through this? I’m a grown-ass woman, not a dutiful child. And today there’s only room inside my battle-sore body for one fight: staving off tears.
If I weren’t afraid of bursting into those unheard-of tears, I’d join my mother in the pool, because I’m too heartsick to deal with family drama, but perhaps Liam needs my support.
‘Have I interrupted a fight?’ I say, watching my father stab at a steak on the grill
with barbecue tongs.
My brother is uncharacteristically annoyed. ‘More of an ongoing discussion of how badly I’m running the ship,’ says Liam. ‘You know, sis, you did well to bail when you did.’ He stares at the back of my father’s head as if daring him to contradict this in front of me.
I’m shocked speechless. This is the first time I’ve heard of any discontent between my father and his golden boy, not that the fault lies with Liam.
I try to keep the bitterness from erupting, from saying something I’ll regret, but then it hits me.
I really don’t care.
I’m thirty-six. I’ve just lost a man with whom I suspect I’ve fallen in love. I have bigger problems than causing a scene at a family barbecue. Massive problems. Insurmountable problems...
What have I done?
I focus on my brother. ‘Well, I wasn’t given a choice. As I recall, my services were no longer required.’ Sympathy for Liam wells up inside me—so he’s not good enough either, in our father’s eyes. ‘Is this about Jensen’s?’
I have no desire to be the source of tension between these two men, but really, where does my father get off with his expectations and constant criticism? I shouldn’t need to impress this man, and shame, hotter than the November sun, licks at me that I even tried. I’m his daughter. His pride should be automatic. His love unconditional. Like Cam’s...
Cam—the only person whose opinion matters.
The pangs of longing twisting my stomach into knots grow stronger.
Liam’s clearly more pissed than I’ve ever seen him, because he ignores my question and puts down his beer at the nearby table.
‘You know, Dad, Orla bested us because she’s just better. Perhaps you should have thought of that when you were succession planning.’
Liam turns away from our father in disgust and squeezes my shoulder. ‘You look great, sis. It’s been years since I’ve seen you look this relaxed. Whatever you’ve been doing these past few weeks suits you. If you want my advice, you should keep it up.’
