Page 32 of Return of the Outback Billionaire

It was a measure of his preoccupation with the photograph that he hadn’t sensed Bridie’s approach. She spoke lightly, with an undercurrent of anxiousness in her voice. Her eyes held the same wariness, along with a plea for him to be okay with her exposing them for all to see.

‘You said there was a picture of me in the exhibition. You said nothing about hanging a picture of us.’

‘I thought—’

‘Wrong, Bridie. You thought wrong. I do not give my permission for you to show this here. I have not given my permission, do you understand?’

‘Mr Blake—’

That was his name. He turned towards the gallery owner and made his position perfectly clear. ‘Cover it up or take it down. Those are your choices.’

‘Judah—’

‘Bridie.’ One word, with a world of warning behind it. ‘I’m offering you a very simple solution, because I like to think I’m a very reasonable man.’

Her jaw firmed, as if she wanted to disagree with him. ‘It’s dust and rain and life and growth. It’s joy. It’s the best photo here.’

‘It’s personal.’ Couldn’t she see how vulnerable he looked? Didn’t she realise how private that moment of welcome and renewal had been to him? How he’d let his guard down just once and let her—and only her—see his weakness? ‘There is no other place on this earth that I can be me, except for out there. And you want me to share that with strangers?’

He couldn’t.

She was asking too much.

‘Mr Blake, Bridie, much as I love a good scandal, I really do recommend you set your differences aside for the next hour or two and concentrate on selling art. Red dot on the wall here, see? We can take this picture down tomorrow and when asked, I can say it’s at the request of the buyer that it no longer be shown and that this is why collectors should come along to see new works on opening night. This particular piece is not part of any marketing material. It’s not catalogued online. One night and gone, and for anyone here tonight it will be nothing but a faint memory. Unless we make a production out of removing it, and then it’ll be a story.’

He hated it when other people sounded entirely reasonable and he still didn’t want to agree with them.

‘I’m taking silence as consent.’ Gallery owner Sara smiled encouragingly at them both. ‘Drinks all round. For this, I’ll even break into my private stash. Anyone for a whisky?’

‘Okay,’ said Bridie swiftly, and come to think of it her face did look kind of pale beneath all her skilfully applied make-up.

He wondered if he looked thunderous. More like a storm about to break than the smiling man in the pictures.

Bridie turned to him. ‘Judah, I’m sorry. I am. I never dreamed you’d react this way to a picture of us in the rain. I had no idea.’

Neither had he.

‘Don’t do anything rash.’

‘Avoid split-second decisions.’

‘Give yourself time to adjust.’

Once again he’d done none of that and Bridie had paid the price. ‘I’m sorry.’ He was. ‘I’m not a hero. I can’t be that exposed.’

She glanced at the photograph and shook her head as if to clear it. ‘I wish I could see what you see when you look at that photo. To me, it’s everything I want home and happiness to be, and it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful like that. You’re free.’

‘Are there any more like it? From that day?’

‘Many, many. The cameras took a photo every thirty seconds. It caught everything.’ Her chest rose with the strength of the breath she took. ‘You’re welcome to see them. I can destroy them. I did ask.’ Her eyes pleaded with him to agree with her. ‘You knew you were standing in the frame.

‘I’d never show them,’ she added. ‘And some of them crossed a line and became way too personal, I know that. I just—I didn’t think this one did. I did offer to show it to you on the plane. I knew I should have made you look.’

‘My bad.’ She was right. He’d agreed without knowing what he was agreeing to, and that was on him. ‘Spur-of-the-moment reaction.’ God knew he’d been warned about them. ‘I’m coming good.’

He still couldn’t bring himself to look at the photo again.

‘And here we are.’ Sara spared him an answer by way of shoving a silver tray with three crystal tumblers full of Scotch under their noses. ‘All but one of the works have sold, and the night is still young. A toast.’ She raised the last glass. ‘To a remarkable new talent and a sell-out exhibition, I’m sure.’

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