Page 28 of The Proposition (The Billionaires Club)

‘Cam?’

‘Yes, Orla.’

‘Have you ever been in a serious relationship?’ She takes a sip of wine and watches my face from over the rim of her glass. This is payback for my bout of curiosity earlier. But I couldn’t stay silent any longer. She works practically twenty-four-seven. Her travel schedule is punishing—I know she’s allowed me to add a few days here and there for extras, but what’s the point of visiting all these countries if you’re too busy to enjoy what they have to offer? What’s the point of earning the kind of money she makes when she’s never in one place long enough to spend any of it?

I allow her foot to sink back below the surface of the water and reach for a sponge and a bottle of body wash. ‘Not really. I’ve had girlfriends off and on. But I’m in no hurry to settle down.’

‘So you’ve never been in love, then? Never met your perfect woman?’ With any other woman I’d assume she was fishing. But not Orla. She’s made it clear she’s done the marriage thing. Done it and failed. Effectively crossed it off her list.

‘Not sure I believe in love—I watched it all but destroy my mother, so, like you, I’m pretty sceptical.’

Her smile is small, her eyes searching. ‘See—I told you we’re perfect for each other.’

Yeah, perfect but temporary. The clock is ticking on our arrangement. By the time we reach Sydney I need to have some sort of definitive plan outside of using our sexual relationship to help me forget, because going back to pretending the inheritance doesn’t exist isn’t an option and spending it will take three lifetimes...

Orla sobers, her eyes searching. ‘What happened with your parents?’ Her voice is low, whispered, as if I’m already giving off an injured-animal vibe.

I suck in a deep breath and stand, moving behind her to slide the soapy sponge over her shoulders and the back of her neck, which is exposed, her hair piled up in a messy topknot.

I’m literally hiding, but I need cover. Talking about my mother, the grief and anger when I think about how she pined for my father, still tightens my throat so I feel like I can’t breathe.

‘My father left her for greener pastures. I was three.’

I hear her gasp, but I ignore it and slide the sponge around first to her clavicle and the top of her breast, and then I sweep it down one arm.

When I reach the back of her hand with the sponge she grips my fingers, squeezing. She’s silent for a beat or two and I think I’m out of the woods. No such luck.

‘That must have been really hard on her. And you.’

‘Not really. I don’t remember him ever being there.’

She releases my hand, as if she can sense my discomfort. It’s hard to feel her touch, something I associate only with pleasure, and think about the worst parts of my past in the same heartbeat.

‘Was it another woman?’ she asks.

I really want to distract her, to drag her from the bath and make her forget her inquisitiveness, pleasure her into silence. But she’s relaxed, and she deserves some answers after my days of vagueness, hedging and changing the subject.

‘No—he remarried eventually, but money was his mistress. He bought a tech company at the right time, invested heavily and got lucky, making lots of what he loved—money. And, as you know, money makes money.’ I sigh, my anguish over his last will and testament undoing what an evening with Orla had accomplished. ‘At the end of the day he loved money more than he loved his wife and kid.’

‘Did your mother remarry? Did you have a stepfather? You talked about how the drumming helping you through your teens.’

‘No. It was just the two of us.’ My answer sounds harsh, echoing around the tiled room. But further explanation sticks in my throat. Does she really want details? Is she truly longing to hear that my mother worked two jobs to make sure I was fed? That she pawned her wedding ring to buy me my first bike? That she never stopped loving a man who chose the pursuit of wealth over her, so much so that she never once chased him for a single cent towards raising me?

As if sensing the rage building inside me, coiling my muscles to snapping point, she doesn’t press for more details. ‘Well, she raised a fine man in you. Are you still close to her?’

‘She died a year ago. Cancer.’ I deflate. What is the point of harbouring hatred for a man when they’re both gone? What’s the point of my regret? It won’t bring either of them back—him so I can toss his damned money back in his face and her so I can try to convince her he wasn’t worth her love.

‘I’m sorry,’ whispers Orla.

I’ve stopped washing her, too caught up in useless emotions. I move around to the other side of the bath, performing the same moves with the sponge down the opposite arm. But now she’s probed, the words come a little easier. ‘To that day I think she still loved him. That’s why I can never forgive him.’

‘I don’t blame you—it must have been very hard for you to watch. Hard for you to grow up without a father. I’m so sorry to hear about your mother, Cam.’ This time when she grips my hand she tugs me forward and sits up in the bath, so I have to slap on a mask to hide the resurgence of resentment from my face.

‘You know, it’s not the same, but my father was pretty absent too. He worked long hours, and even when he was home he never seemed interested in me, what I’d done at school or that I’d passed a piano exam or joined the school choir.’ She laughs, a humourless snort. ‘He always made time for my brother’s sporting events though. Funny, that.’

We stare, fragile threads of memories and the emotions they bring connecting us.

‘Have you told your father that you feel that he wasn’t there for you growing up?’ she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

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