style="font-size:15px;"> His eyes dart, some of the anger leaving him, as if he’s warring with some internal demons.
The race is about to start, so I’m aware my timing sucks. But is there ever a good time to feel exposed? Don’t I feel the same way every time he pushes me to talk about my father or brings me to account over my workaholic tendencies? Every time we’ve been intimate this past week, as if with each searing look he peels away another layer of my armour? Every time I peer into the future and see a terrifying glimpse of a life I thought I was long past craving?
I lean up against the rail, pretending to watch the race I’m no longer interested in. I feel his struggle in the tense air between us, and regret makes my posture deflate. I want to close the gap. To touch him again. To offer physical comfort if he won’t accept my emotional support. He’s there, right beside me, but may as well be miles away.
‘You’re right.’ His sigh carries in the dry air, my hearing highly attuned to the strain and defeat in his voice. ‘The inheritance was from my—’ he makes a fist and then relaxes it as quickly ‘—my father.’
I hold my breath, desperate to hear what he’s finally decided to tell me, but feeling every blade of his pain. It’s my penance for pushing him, for caring this much, for breaking my own rules.
‘I didn’t want it. Why would I? From a man I never knew? A man who considered my existence irrelevant, who held little score in the values of integrity and family commitment.’
A man so unlike him.
He turns to face me then, both of us deaf to the starter gun and the roar of the excited crowds as we hold each other’s eye contact with brittle and fragile force.
‘I’m sorry, Cam. I understand. I can see how you might harbour resentment for your childhood, but your anger won’t make a difference to what’s done. There are other ways to compensate.’
He presses his lips together, but I see in his eyes that he’s heard. He’s a smart man; he’s probably told himself the same thing a thousand times.
I plough on. ‘Perhaps he was sorry. Ashamed. Perhaps leaving you that money was his way of apologising. The only way he knew how to reach out to you after having left like he did.’
I’m shocked speechless by the venomous expression souring his face. ‘Well, neither of us knew him, did we? Maybe he just wants to control me from the grave. To disrupt my life, which by the way was pretty near perfect before all of this, and dictate how I live. Just because money was the most important thing in his life. I’m not him.’
‘Of course you’re not him. You’re wonderful. I’m just trying to point out that there are other things you can do with your money.’
‘His money. You know, Orla, you more than anyone should understand what it’s like to have a manipulative parent.’
I ignore his reference. I’ve laid him bare and he’s lashing out again. And, of course, he’s right. My father has done his fair share of damage. My shoulders slump. Am I still jumping through my father’s hoops? Is that what drives me still? Yes, maybe in the beginning…but now, when I’m more successful than ever, more even than he is?
But this isn’t about me.
‘Why are you so convinced your father wanted to control you? Why isn’t it just a gift? A way to make amends?’
‘Gifts are yours to do with as you please. They’re not conditional. They don’t chain you.’
I think about my earrings, the gift designed to send me away, quietly and without a fuss, from a role that was mine by rights. A gift I wear to remind myself that we don’t always receive what we deserve, and that not everyone, even those who should do, sees the real us.
‘I know that.’ My voice is small, because Cam’s touched a nerve.
‘Without conditions I could do what I like with it, but he put a clause in the will which prevents me from giving more than twenty-five per cent away. I couldn’t even donate the entire sum to the hospice that nursed my mother through her last days. Even from the grave, he still cares more about that money than he does about me or his ex-wife and mother to his only son.’
His smile is so vengeful, my stomach turns. ‘I’d stake my life on the fact that he would detest what I’m doing with his billions,’ he says. ‘Frittering it away with a cavalier attitude, as you called it.’
A brittle silence settles between us. He’s right. Neither of us knows his father’s intent.
I grow hot under Cam’s focus. I want to rewind, to start over, to hold him until I’ve chased away the distress I’ve put in his eyes. But how do I repair the damage? We’re not a real couple. We only have a few weeks of shared history to fall back on, most of that superficial and impersonal, at my insistence. Why would he seek comfort from me of all people? And I shouldn’t offer it, not after admitting that my feelings are dangerously ensnared.
But…
I glance down at the racetrack. The race is over. ‘I’m sorry, it looks like Contempt of Court lost.’ I turn back to face him, seeing him, understanding him in a whole new light. ‘You’re right though—it’s a perfect name.’ A two-fingered gesture to a man he can’t confront any other way.
All the energy drains from my body. I’ve messed up. I should have known Cam would never do anything frivolous or erratic. He’s the most thoughtful and considerate human being I know. This is what happens when I forget my rules. This is what I hoped to avoid by keeping things purely physical. This feeling of failure. That I can’t do this. That relationships just aren’t my strength.
I should stick to what I know.
‘Do you want to get out of here?’ I want to touch him, to show him my regret for both his situation and for drawing out his secret pain. I want to get back to where we were this morning. Restore my own equilibrium and his in the only way I can allow: physically.
But not here.
His struggle to let go of the things I’ve dragged up passes over his face, but he finally nods and I gather my bag and hat.
The journey is tense, quiet, stomach-churning. Back at the M Club in Dubai’s downtown, I assume we’re heading for our room, but without comment Cam takes my hand and leads me to the basement club, which is alive with the insistent beat of some dance track. The last thing I want to do is dance, to pretend that everything between us is okay. But perhaps that’s exactly what I need to do. Pretend. Pretend this is still about no-strings pleasure.
I follow him, weaving through the crowds of clubbers.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ says Cam, his voice hard, all that lovely deep and sexy resonance rubbed away. ‘I’ve reserved one of the private rooms.’
I nod, my heart heavy, but I follow him to the club’s perimeter, where discreet private booths are located. The interior is decorated in signature M Club black—a womblike space, a fully stocked bar, a wide and sumptuous sofa, an adjustable PA system so the volume of the thumping music can be altered to personal taste or allow conversation, and a wall of one-way glass, to ensure absolute privacy, even as the occupants feel part of the club’s vibrant atmosphere with a view of the dance floor.
Cam
