The Dare Collection November 2019. Anne Marsh
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me come in?’ I expect to find a list of statistics for today’s thoroughbreds, but instead I see pictures of a shabby-looking cottage, the paint peeling, the steel roof warped and the veranda partially collapsed where the boards have rotted.
‘What’s this?’ I flick through the pictures. The views are enviable, but the house is a mess.
Cam shrugs, his expression wary. ‘A cottage. I bought it a while ago. Before the money. To renovate.’
It can’t be larger than a hundred square metres. And the ceilings are low. ‘Do you plan to live here? You’ll be constantly bumping your head.’ He’s already told me he owns a Point Piper penthouse with harbour views back in Sydney.
At my confused expression, he takes the phone from me and scrolls through the pictures, as if showing off a prized possession. ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps. It’s in an amazing location. Look at the views.’
I nod. He’s right—this cottage commands an enviable spot on Sydney’s North Shore.
‘My mother grew up close by. After she moved away, we’d go back to her favourite spots for picnics or to the beach. She always admired this cottage, and when the elderly owner passed away I purchased it. For her.’ His face falls and he tucks the phone into his breast pocket. ‘She died before I could make a dent in the work it needs.’
My heart clenches, the urge to hold him and chase away the defeat in his eyes intense. ‘But you’re going to finish it anyway? Earn yourself a few splinters and build up a sweat?’
He grins because I understand him. It’s almost a tribute. My chest burns with empathy. I touch his arm, wanting to do more, but too afraid of the feelings I’ve battled all day.
‘Yeah, once I’m back in Sydney. Mum was right—it could be perfect.’
I take his hand and lead us back to the sofa, where I tug him down at my side. ‘How much work have you done?’
His enthusiasm falters. ‘Not that much. I bought it before the inheritance with my savings. It made Mum’s last weeks happier to think of me one day living in the cottage she admired from afar.’
My throat aches for his loss, the desire to be there for him building until I confess something I rarely allow myself to think, let alone say aloud. ‘You know, I often wonder what it would be like to live somewhere like that.’
Surprise flitters across his face. ‘You do…?’ A small, almost delighted smile kicks up his mouth.
‘Yeah. How peaceful it would be to wake up to the sound of the sea every morning. To step outside before the sun is fully up and drink coffee on a quaint old veranda like that, taste the salt in the air. Simple. Everything I need. To be…content, I guess.’
His silence and the frown that steals his smile and draws his thick eyebrows down over his eyes make me feel self-conscious. He stares, as if seeing me for the first time.
My face grows hot. I’ve revealed something from deep inside, a place I hardly ever delve. I want to stuff the telling words back inside my mouth. Instead I stand, collect my bag and the wide-brimmed hat that matches my outfit, and breathe my emotions back under control. What is he doing to me? Where did that insane and impractical confession come from? I have a perfectly adequate penthouse in Sydney with its own enviable views. Not that I spend much time there.
I wait for him to join me near the door, my shoulders tense as if I’m anticipating his next words.
‘You know, you could live like that, Orla. There’s nothing to stop you.’ His words are predictable, his tone mild, but the subtext is loaded with the unspoken. If I were that content woman, then perhaps there’d be a chance for us, or perhaps that’s just what I want to hear because maybe the appeal of that cottage, that life, is that it would include Cam.
But I can’t want that, to be his woman. It’s a dead-end fantasy.
‘I know.’ My clipped tone closes down this alarming conversation, but I soften it to say, ‘You should finish the cottage, Cam. I can tell it’s going to be beautiful. Shall we go?’
He accepts my change of subject, although there’s an undercurrent of unease between us on the journey to the racecourse in another of the sleek sports cars Cam loves. It’s as if we’re both wearing armour on top of our clothes. As if we need protection from each other, when prior to today everything was easy and open.
We park in the VIP car park and enter the grandstand, which is over a mile long and houses not only the immaculate racetrack, but also a trackside hotel and entertainment venue. I’m relatively well-known among Dubai’s business community, so I introduce Cam to some clients and local dignitaries. I’m deep in conversation with a former client who wants to talk shop when I sense Cam’s edginess. The unfamiliar taste of guilt makes me wince as I try to fight my first reaction to become defensive. I’m not used to having to explain my actions to anyone. But I’m supposed to be off the clock. This is supposed to be a social event.
He’s right; I never stop. I’m never off the clock. My stomach twists, a strange mix of resentment for the life I chose and longing for something more. I shoot him an apologetic look and wrap up my consultation as politely as I can, reassuring the sheikh I’ll see him before I leave Dubai.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say when I’ve escaped. ‘He’s a very good customer and he prefers to work with the top dog, not the very competent minions.’
Cam’s expression is free of judgement, but I hear the censure from inside my own head. Don’t you want more than work?
‘I’m not surprised. She’s beautiful and talented—it’s almost a shame there’s only one of her…’ He smiles, and I slip into the comfort of his arms, because I’m less sure of my life plan than I was yesterday.
We head to our private suite with a terrace overlooking the racetrack. It’s a perfect day for the races, although I’m glad for the air-conditioning of our suite. As it’s the first race of the season, the grandstand is packed with spectators. We can’t bet, but our waiter informs us there are several competitions running for correctly guessing the place-getters. I choose the three horses with names that appeal the most—Desert Haze, Buyer Beware and Human Condition—knowing nothing about their pedigrees, owners or trainers, but Cam seems more interested in the pre-race action at the edge of the track.
‘There he is.’ He hands me a pair of binoculars and points in the general direction of the milling jockeys and horses.
‘Who?’
‘My horse—number seven.’ He slips his arm around my waist and tugs me close, his enthusiasm a distraction I need.
I focus in on the thoroughbred—a magnificent chestnut stallion—the jockey bedecked in red and gold. ‘Did you place an offshore bet?’ Of course Cam would find a way to offload some cash in a country where gambling is illegal.
‘No.’ He sounds so pleased with himself, I take a good hard look at his face, which is wreathed in smug excitement. ‘I bought him. He’s mine. Contempt of Court—isn’t he perfect?’
Unease dries my mouth as I take another look at Cam’s latest purchase. It doesn’t matter. I should let it go. I don’t want to spoil our evening, but really? A racehorse?
‘How long have you owned him?’ I hedge, hoping to discover it’s a lifelong dream of his or a regular hobby. But the hair rising at the back of my neck tells me I’m unlikely to be comforted by his answer.
‘A week. When I knew Dubai was on your itinerary, I put out some feelers. He was already registered for the race, the name is perfect, so I offered the owner a number he couldn’t refuse.’ He takes two glasses of champagne from our waiter and hands me one, clinking his glass to mine with a grin.
I stare, a shudder passing through me at how much a thoroughbred already registered for one of the world’s richest races must have cost. It’s none of my business, he’s hardly bankrupting himself, and I’ll damage the fragile mood