Page 141 of Talking Dirty with the Billionaire Boss

I nod.

“That’s it,” she says. “I’ve told you everything now. And I’m so sorry for what I did, with the award and the card. I really regret it. But the thing is, Elizabeth doesn’t know why you won’t go to the awards dinner. She thinks it might be something to do with your dad, but some instinct tells me it’s about your mum. Am I right?”

I lean forward, my elbows on my knees. I was always going to have to tell her at some point. It might as well be now.

“Yeah,” I say in a low voice. “As Elizabeth told you, my mother fell pregnant with me by mistake, after she hooked up with my dad when he was over there on his big OE.” Most Kiwis have an Overseas Experience when they’re in their late teens or early twenties. “She fell for him big time, but it was just a fling for him. He had no intention of staying in Scotland. She was very angry with him for that. When she fell pregnant, she wanted to terminate the pregnancy, but she was Catholic, and her parents were very old school and forbade her from doing it.”

“Thank God,” Sidnie says.

“There were times when I was young that I wished she had,” I say in a harsh voice. “She resented me—hated me, even. And she did everything she could to make my life a misery. As early as I can remember, so we’re talking, what, three, four years old? She would lock me in a cupboard for hours if I made any small transgression.”

Sidnie pales. “Jesus.”

“She’d send me to bed without dinner. When I started school, she’d never give me any lunch or money to buy any. She showed me no love at all, no affection. She beat me regularly, with her hands, a wooden spoon, an umbrella, whatever she had to hand. When it was my birthday, she never bought me anything. She’d lock me up and say it served me right for thinking I was special that day.”

“That’s why you don’t like birthdays,” she whispers.

I nod. “And if I came home from school and said I’d won award for spelling or maths or something, she’d beat me and say it was wrong to boast and I was an evil child.”

“Oh Mack, I’m so sorry. Is that why you won’t accept the award?”

“I can’t stand up in front of people and admit I’ve done something I’m proud of, Sid. I just can’t. I hear her voice every day, even now.”

Sidnie’s eyes glisten, but I’m too far down the road to stop.

“She went out with several guys after Dad left, and eventually she got pregnant again, with Jamie. The guy was out of the picture by the time she had him. She’d put on her headphones, take drugs, and leave Jamie crying for hours. Once he was weaned, I used to sneak in and carry him out, and feed him mashed bits of food I could find.”

“What about her parents, did they know what she was doing?”

“They knew. They just didn’t care. They had five other children, who all had several kids. I was just one of fifteen grandchildren, too many lives to look after and not enough money to go around. My grandfather died a year after Jamie was born. My grandmother lost her marbles after that. Not that she had that many to begin with. She went into a home, and my mother never visited, as far as I know.”

I flop back on the bed again and look up at the ceiling. “When Jamie was five, Mum met a new guy. Jock, he was called. It would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking sad. He moved in with us. He was obnoxious—loud, often drunk, and abusive. I was nine by then. Getting smart. Sometimes he’d smack me around, but mostly I knew how to keep out of his way. But Jamie was just a kid. Noisy, wanting attention, wanting affection. Jock was so cruel to him. I’d do my best to protect him—trying to keep him quiet and out of sight, but of course when you’re in the same house you can’t do that all the time. So Jock would beat him. He was often covered in bruises.”

“Didn’t the authorities notice?” Sidnie asks, horrified. “Didn’t the school?”

“We lived in the roughest part of Glasgow. Every other kid there went to school with bruises. I hope it’s better now. But back then, the stories about foster care were horrific. It made you get clever at hiding the bruises, even at that age. But it got worse.”

“Oh no. How?”

I cover my face with my hands for a moment, then let my arms fall back tiredly. “Jock starting abusing Jamie sexually.”

“Oh Mack, no.”

“He tried it with me, but I fought him hard enough to make it too much effort for him. But Jamie was only seven at that point. Too tiny, too thin and small and weak, to put up any resistance. I tried to stop it, but Jock would lock the bedroom door. I thought about telling the police or the school, but I was worried they’d separate us and put us in different homes. Seriously, Sid, some of the stories… I thought we’d be out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

“So what happened?”

“I was getting pretty good with computers by then—I used them at school and at the local library. I knew Dad’s name—she’d told me that much. So I started looking for him. It took a while. Do you know how many Tipene Harts there are in New Zealand? There’s one in practically every town, and I didn’t know where he came from. I had a Facebook account, and I messaged every one of them that came up. Some of them got back to me, some didn’t. Most of those that did said they’d never been to the UK. And then one day, I found him.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah. Now, I think how lucky I was that he either didn’t reply or tell me to fuck off. What guy wants to know he’s fathered a kid twelve years ago after a quick fuck with someone who didn’t mean anything? But he messaged me back and said that yes, he’d been with Iona McManus when he was in Scotland twelve years ago, and that probably meant he was my father.”

“That’s amazing.”

“I told him everything. About Jock, and Jamie, and how terrible it was there. I told him I hated her, because I did. I still do.” My voice is flat. “Every year, she sends me a birthday card. I told Nadine several years ago to throw them in the bin, which is what she does now. I don’t want anything to do with that bitch.”

Sidnie lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “I’m so sorry.”

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