The Dare Collection November 2019. Anne Marsh
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hours to work.’ I stroke the dog’s silky head as I formulate my answer, because for once it doesn’t come easily. Cam wants the real answer, not the throwaway flippant version that rolls off the tongue.
No, it’s not a crime to be driven. But that’s not what he’s asking. He wants to know the motivation behind my success beyond wealth and status and security, and that’s harder to define or admit, especially when examining too closely what pushes me to be where I am brings up painful emotions.
‘I’ve always worked hard, just like you.’ I turn his hand over and rub at the calluses across his palm. He looks up from our hands, answering my smile with a watery one of his own.
He wants more. And, while it’s not what we’re about, I can’t help but give him a piece of myself I don’t normally share. With anyone. He’s given me so much—his time, his generosity, his joie de vivre. It’s as if his energy is contagious.
‘When I joined my father’s firm after university I felt like I’d found my niche. The work was exciting and everything I wanted in a career, but it was never about the money. I was lucky. I’ve always had a privileged life. But my father is old school. When he talked about succession planning I felt confident I’d be the next CEO. I’m the eldest. I worked hard for him for five years.’
I look away, watch the dogs roam and sniff, the remembered betrayal tightening my throat. ‘When he overlooked me in favour of my younger brother I realised I had no choice but to leave and start my own firm from scratch. Ever since then, I’ve put in the hours, but the difference is I’m doing it for myself.’
It sounds so shallow, so single-minded, that a new wave of defensiveness courses though me, although he’s in no way attacking, just asking in his gentle, insightful way. But I rear back from the vulnerable place I’ve exposed with my confession, bringing my motivations back to general rather than personal drivers. ‘And it’s a competitive field—I didn’t get to the top without working harder and longer than anyone else.’ I shrug. ‘Some sacrifices are inevitable.’
He nods, his mouth a flat line, and even though he’s still I sense the tension coiling in him. His thumb resumes its hypnotic swiping. ‘You mentioned you’re divorced. Was your marriage one of those sacrifices?’ There’s no censure in his expression, but his eyes are hard and the reminder of my failure forces heat to my face.
‘For my part, I rushed into that marriage without loving Mark. For his part, Mark thought he was fully evolved, but at the end of the day he didn’t want a wife who worked as much as he did, and I can’t say I blame him. I guess he expected I’d change after the honeymoon. Perhaps he wanted his shirts laundered and a prop on his arm to make him look good.’
‘Don’t you know? Didn’t you ask?’
I swallow hard, admitting, not for the first time, that my emotional distance, a trait I learned from a lifetime of trying to meet my father’s standards, likely contributed to the breakdown of my marriage. ‘No, I guess I wasn’t any good at being the kind of wife he needed.’
Cam’s fingers flex into mine in silent support. ‘Couldn’t he launder his own shirts?’
I shrug and laugh at the image of my ex working a washing machine or an iron. ‘He’s happily remarried now.’ I swallow hard, old bitterness foul-tasting. Perhaps if I hadn’t been so caught up in proving my worth to my father, in trying to project an image of having it all, I might have evaluated my relationship with Mark more thoroughly. ‘I’m happy with my decision. He’s happier married to someone else. And I learned a valuable lesson—I’m good at what I do. That’s nothing to be apologetic for.’
‘Absolutely not. Mark sounds like an asshole who didn’t know what he had, if you don’t mind my saying.’ He smiles that secret smile he uses in the bedroom, the one that makes me forget I’m older than him.
‘Thanks, but I played my part. I’m sure I wasn’t easy to be married to. You said yourself, I’m always working.’
He shakes his head. ‘You’re not working now, and it sounds like he had expectations you had no desire to fulfil—good on you. You’re a person, not a puppet. No one likes to feel they’re being controlled.’ He’s more animated now, his eyes ablaze with defiance, as if my confession has pricked some wound inside him. Easygoing, carefree Cam has his own demons.
Who doesn’t?
‘You were probably that way when he met you, right?’
I nod.
‘So he was arrogant enough to want to change you, to squeeze you into some mould, to try to make you perform to his expectations.’
‘I guess, although I have to take my share of the responsibility—I’m pretty stubborn. As you’ve witnessed, I push myself hard, without compromise, something I learned from my upbringing. And at the end of the day, marriages—the ones that last—are about compromise. I guess Mark and I both failed. If you know anything about me already, it’s that failure doesn’t sit well with me, which is why I’m single. That’s why what we’re doing suits me perfectly—we get all the good bits of a relationship like spending time together, having fun, amazing sex, without all the heavy stuff.’
‘Lucky me,’ he says with a wink, and I know he’s letting me off the hook. That my confession is enough to satisfy his curiosity about the woman he’s sharing a bed with, for now.
‘Lucky me, too.’ I look down at our hands, moved by his solid, refreshing presence in my life, albeit temporarily. I want him to know that I appreciate him and everything he does to enrich our time together, even if I’m not always present in the moment.
‘Thanks for this. The dogs. For taking the time to organise everything—the clothes, the opera, the skiing.’
‘Wait until you see what I have planned for Dubai.’ He winks.
‘I’m serious, Cam—thanks for bringing me here. You were right. It was just what I needed.’ I bend down to stroke the coat of the sleeping beagle cross, wishing I could take her home, to a home I’m hardly ever at myself.
‘Want to go back to the hotel and remind ourselves how clever we are to have come up with such a perfect situation?’ I ask, shying away from pressing him for his own secrets, telling myself that, despite my confession, this is still about sex.
‘Absolutely. Sounds like the next best plan short of adopting all these dogs and transporting them home to Sydney in the jet.’ He grins and tugs me to my feet, slipping his hand into the pocket over my ass as we head inside, a trail of dogs in pursuit.
I laugh nervously. Knowing Cam, he just might do something that awesome.
Cam
I LOOSEN THE bow tie around my throat and roll up my shirtsleeves. I went all out tonight with the full tux. For Orla. I reserved the M Club box at the Zurich Opera House, and just as I predicted she looked sensational in the green beaded gown, so I felt compelled to play my part, even if it meant dressing like a trussed-up penguin.
I pour a glass of chilled white wine and loosen the top few buttons of my shirt, tempted to strip off completely and join her in the bath. But she looks beat. Perhaps I’m pushing the after-work agenda too hard. Now I understand why she’s as driven as she is, everything makes sense. She pushes herself, almost as if she still has something to prove to her traditional father and perhaps even her ex-husband. Neither of whom seem to have any concept of her true worth.
She made light of it but she’s proud. I understand the emotion. Her failed marriage bothers her, not for the man himself, but in the sense that she sees it as a black mark on her track record, perhaps even uses it as a reason to avoid getting involved in another relationship.
Not that I should care outside of the fact some asshole might have hurt her, although