The Dare Collection November 2019. Anne Marsh
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sees the disapproval I’m trying, and clearly failing, to hide. ‘I bought him because I could—the name was an added bonus. And I knew you wouldn’t approve.’
‘You’re right, I’m…cautious with my money, but it’s not that I don’t approve.’
‘What, then? We’re here to enjoy the races. Having a horse in the race will add to my enjoyment. I’m just making the most of this moment in a way I can afford.’
The unspoken is there again, hanging in the air between us like a swarm of irritable wasps. A dig, a rejoinder, aimed my way. What’s the point of having it all if you don’t take the time to enjoy it?
‘So what will you do with him? He’s not a homeless dog. Do you plan on shipping him back to Australia too, like the car?’ I can imagine why he’s struggling with his father’s legacy, since the money came from a man who abandoned him, but can’t he see that the excesses won’t help him deal with his anger and resentment? I can no longer ignore the two sides of Cam’s personality and the inconsistencies that tell me he’s hurting, despite his live-for-the-moment attitude and his hedonistic pursuits.
‘I told you, the car was a gift for my cousin. And I haven’t thought what I’ll do with him beyond today.’ Another shrug, but his body is tense, defensive. ‘He’ll pay his way, I guess, or I’ll sell him.’
‘So why buy a racehorse for a single race if it’s not a particular hobby of yours or a dream to fulfil?’ I can’t let this go. The dog food was cute, the drum kit for the boy heartbreaking but understandable, given what he’s hinted at about his own spartan upbringing with his single-parent mother. But this? It’s deeper than lavishly throwing around money.
‘Why does this bother you so much? I can afford to buy ten racehorses if I want them. I’m living the high life.’
I ignore the jibe I could interpret as some sort of comparison. ‘Are you? Or are you running from something?’ I sigh and touch his arm to show him that, although I’m crossing a line here, I’m doing so because I care. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to upset you, I just… I can’t stand by and watch you struggle with your inheritance. There are ways I can help.’
I see the look on his face, an expression I’ve never seen before on easygoing, laid-back Cam—cold, hard anger. ‘Well, thank you for the unsolicited financial advice but I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m not some schoolboy with a winning lottery ticket.’
‘No, but you don’t care about the money either, do you? It’s because it’s his, isn’t it? Your father’s?’ I’m walking a fine line here, but I ache for him. ‘That’s why you’re blowing it with private planes and racehorses and fast cars. You’re not at peace with it.’
He’s still angry, malice glittering in his beautiful, expressive eyes. A desecration. ‘What makes you think I’m struggling? I’m having the time of my life, aren’t I? World-class luxury, every hedonistic pursuit known to man, and a beautiful woman on tap, for whenever I want a good fuck.’
My hand curls into a fist and I’m tempted to slap him, but he’s clearly hurting, lashing out. I’ve backed him into a corner and he’s fighting for his life. I step closer, when I’m certain he expected his harsh words to drive me away. ‘One minute you’re passionate about the underdog, tipping the hotel staff, making some kid’s drumming dream come true, even taking time to play with abandoned dogs, and the next you’re blowing millions of dollars with a cavalier attitude. We’re all complex beings, but this,’ I wave a hand at the racehorses, ‘isn’t you.’
His eyes dart, some of the anger leaving him, as if he’s warring with some internal demons.
The race is about to start, so I’m aware my timing sucks. But is there ever a good time to feel exposed? Don’t I feel the same way every time he pushes me to talk about my father or brings me to account over my workaholic tendencies? Every time we’ve been intimate this past week, as if with each searing look he peels away another layer of my armour? Every time I peer into the future and see a terrifying glimpse of a life I thought I was long past craving?
I lean up against the rail, pretending to watch the race I’m no longer interested in. I feel his struggle in the tense air between us, and regret makes my posture deflate. I want to close the gap. To touch him again. To offer physical comfort if he won’t accept my emotional support. He’s there, right beside me, but may as well be miles away.
‘You’re right.’ His sigh carries in the dry air, my hearing highly attuned to the strain and defeat in his voice. ‘The inheritance was from my—’ he makes a fist and then relaxes it as quickly ‘—my father.’
I hold my breath, desperate to hear what he’s finally decided to tell me, but feeling every blade of his pain. It’s my penance for pushing him, for caring this much, for breaking my own rules.
‘I didn’t want it. Why would I? From a man I never knew? A man who considered my existence irrelevant, who held little score in the values of integrity and family commitment.’
A man so unlike him.
He turns to face me then, both of us deaf to the starter gun and the roar of the excited crowds as we hold each other’s eye contact with brittle and fragile force.
‘I’m sorry, Cam. I understand. I can see how you might harbour resentment for your childhood, but your anger won’t make a difference to what’s done. There are other ways to compensate.’
He presses his lips together, but I see in his eyes that he’s heard. He’s a smart man; he’s probably told himself the same thing a thousand times.
I plough on. ‘Perhaps he was sorry. Ashamed. Perhaps leaving you that money was his way of apologising. The only way he knew how to reach out to you after having left like he did.’
I’m shocked speechless by the venomous expression souring his face. ‘Well, neither of us knew him, did we? Maybe he just wants to control me from the grave. To disrupt my life, which by the way was pretty near perfect before all of this, and dictate how I live. Just because money was the most important thing in his life. I’m not him.’
‘Of course you’re not him. You’re wonderful. I’m just trying to point out that there are other things you can do with your money.’
‘His money. You know, Orla, you more than anyone should understand what it’s like to have a manipulative parent.’
I ignore his reference. I’ve laid him bare and he’s lashing out again. And, of course, he’s right. My father has done his fair share of damage. My shoulders slump. Am I still jumping through my father’s hoops? Is that what drives me still? Yes, maybe in the beginning…but now, when I’m more successful than ever, more even than he is?
But this isn’t about me.
‘Why are you so convinced your father wanted to control you? Why isn’t it just a gift? A way to make amends?’
‘Gifts are yours to do with as you please. They’re not conditional. They don’t chain you.’
I think about my earrings, the gift designed to send me away, quietly and without a fuss, from a role that was mine by rights. A gift I wear to remind myself that we don’t always receive what we deserve, and that not everyone, even those who should do, sees the real us.
‘I know that.’ My voice is small, because Cam’s touched a nerve.
‘Without conditions I could do what I like with it, but he put a clause in the will which prevents me from giving more than twenty-five per cent away. I couldn’t even donate the entire sum to the hospice that nursed my mother through her last days. Even from the grave, he still cares more about that money than he does about me or his ex-wife and mother to his only son.’
His smile is so vengeful, my stomach turns. ‘I’d stake my life on the fact that he would detest what I’m doing with his billions,’ he says. ‘Frittering it away with a cavalier attitude, as