by Abby Green
‘Yes.’ She walked.
He swore. ‘You deliberately sabotage yourself.’
After a minuscule pause she kept walking.
‘You do,’ he said, seemingly just getting into the swing of getting at her. ‘You spend over an hour getting ready for one of your parties and less than five minutes getting ready for an audition that could change your life. It’s like you don’t really want it.’
She whirled to face him. ‘Of course I want it.’
‘No, you don’t! You’re never late to work at the café and yet you’re late almost every time to a casting call. Tell me,’ he said snidely. ‘What do you believe in, Bella? Fairies?’ He bent to pick up her dress from the floor, his acidity eating an even bigger hole in her heart. ‘Do you really think you’ve got some fairy godmother who’s going to make it all happen for you?’
‘Of course not.’ She turned back and started walking to the door again.
‘Then what do you believe in?’
She said nothing, kept walking. It didn’t seem like the moment to mention luck.
‘Why don’t you try believing in yourself?’ he called after her. ‘If you don’t believe in your abilities, why should anyone else?’
She couldn’t not face that. He was in the middle of the room, shaking his head at her. ‘Instead you blame anything you can. Your family isn’t supportive, you haven’t had formal acting training, you haven’t had that “lucky” break. But it’s not about luck, it’s about making the decision to do it and then persevering, putting in that hard work.’
Her anger rose another notch. ‘I work damn hard.’
‘I know, but not at—’
‘But nothing,’ she snapped. ‘You don’t know the first thing about acting, about going to casting call after casting call. It’s not about learning the lines and spouting them automaton fashion. There is luck involved. Who’s your competition? What look are they after? You have to be in the right place at the right time with the right product. I haven’t yet.’
‘Then you keep going,’ he lectured, her dress hanging from his hands. ‘You research. You find out what they want and you give it to them as professionally as you can. You believe and work and eventually it’ll happen.’
‘You make it all sound so easy,’ she said bitterly. ‘Like it’s some computer program.’
‘I know it’s not easy. But you have to believe in yourself. You have to have the passion for it.’
‘I do have the passion!’ She was yelling now. ‘God, Owen, what do you want?’
‘This isn’t about what I want!’ he yelled back. ‘This is about you and you’re not the person you can be yet. You’re floating along the edges too scared to dive right in. I don’t think you even know what it is you do want. It’s much easier to skate along and blame it all on everyone or anything else.’
‘Well, what about you?’ The viciousness of his attack forced her into fight mode. Red-hot anger ran through her veins, releasing the words from her. ‘You’re not exactly living life to the full either, are you, Mr Workaholic? And as for this Mr Don’t-Get-Near-Me-Because-I’m-Selfish routine … What sort of a rubbish excuse is that, Owen? You’re not selfish. Doling out money proves you’re not selfish,’ she shouted, losing her grip entirely. ‘What you are is scared!’
His face whitened, his jaw locked, but she hardly noticed. She was on way too much of a roll now.
‘You say you don’t want labels, but you’re the one trying to squeeze us into the smallest compartment possible. Sex is all it is, huh? Well, how convenient for you. You can just keep your distance and don’t have to invest anything remotely risky like emotion or take responsibility. What is it you’re afraid of, Owen?’ Scathing, she flung him the answer. ‘Failing at something for once in your life? Hell, I fail at things all the time, but at least I have the guts to get back up and give it another go.’
She spat her fury and hurt. ‘So don’t you dare lecture me about hovering on life’s edges. You’re the one not facing up to what’s really going on here. You’re the coward!’
Breathless, she stopped, realising what she’d said and all she’d revealed—the degree to which she was involved, how much she wanted more, how she wanted him to accept that there was more … but, oh, my Lord, maybe there really wasn’t anything more in this for him? Of course there wasn’t—she wasn’t anything like the kind of woman he’d really want. She turned, more desperate to get out of there than ever before.
‘Who’s the coward now?’ he roared after her. ‘Who’s the one throwing the accusations and then walking out without giving me a chance to respond?’
She whirled back, bleeding inside. ‘Well, what’s the point in my staying just to hear you deny everything and say nothing?’ Bitterly, she glared at him.
His hands were fisted in her dress, rumpling it so bad it would have to go back to the dry-cleaners again. His face was still pale and a picture of savage tension. He met her glare with one of his own—just as bitter, just as furious. But his jaw was clamped and as she stared she could see his muscles flex down tighter.
He had no answer to that and she didn’t want to hear it anyway. She stalked out of the apartment and slammed the door as hard as she could. It was all so easy for him. He was nothing but killer instinct. Nothing but what he wanted now, now, now. All ‘I want that, I’m going to do that …’ and off he went and had and did with no regard to consequences. It would serve him right to suffer the consequences for once.
Because she was. She couldn’t compartmentalise this the way he wanted to—this thing was all too big, for her anyway.
She fumed all the way to the audition and barely noticed the competition. She was too busy stewing over the argument. Too busy trying to stay mad and not recognise the extent of the break in her heart.
They had to call her name twice.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BELLA spent that night alone in the spare room, most of it awake, plotting her way out of there. She was mortified at what Owen had said and what she’d said—and spent hours deciding on the truth of it all. This was just sex for him, and his efforts to help her out—the dress, the website, the way he cooked her dinner—was simply him. He’d stop and help an old lady cross the street—that didn’t mean he was on his way to falling in love with her.
She was such a fool. And that was the point, wasn’t it? She was such a klutz he couldn’t help himself trying to help her. Because that was the kind of guy he was. And now she’d humiliated herself completely by insisting that there was more to it. Of course he hadn’t been able to reply—he hadn’t wanted to hurt her, and he’d already spelt it out as plainly as he could: sex, that was all there was to it.
‘How’d it go?’
Damn. She’d hoped he’d have gone downstairs to work already this morning. Instead he was sitting at the table. She felt her cheeks warm at the sight of it. Truthfully, she’d forgotten about the audition the minute she’d walked out of it. Somehow the lines had come to her. She must have come across like an automaton. Ah, well, chalk another one up to experience.
‘Don’t ask.’
He looked moody. ‘I’m sorry I was so grumpy.’
‘I’m sorry I was so ungrateful.’ She inched closer. ‘I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Owen.’ Oh, God, this was awkward.
‘It’s nothing.’ He shook his head. ‘No trouble.’
That was right—not for him. ‘Please let me pay back what I owe you.’
His expression tightened more. ‘It’s just money, Bella. It doesn’t matter.’
‘It matters to me.’ She hated being in his debt like this. Hated that all she had to offer in return was her heart, and he’d never want that.
‘OK.’ He paused, stared hard at the table. ‘But only if you stay. I’d like you to stay.’ He paused. ‘Just until you get yourself sorted.’
There it was, the caveat. She’d been right—he couldn’t hold back the offer of assistance, but nor could he offer anything else. Now sh
e felt too awkward to say yes, too awkward to say no.
‘OK.’ Her reply came out on a heavy sigh. She couldn’t see that getting herself sorted was going to happen any time soon, but she’d be out of here regardless. She took a deep breath and tackled the most awkward bit of all. ‘I’ll tell you as soon as I know.’ A few days to be certain, then she’d leave. She refused to think about what would happen if she was pregnant—that was altogether too scary.
He looked back at her, looking as sombre as she’d sounded. She knew he knew what she was referring to. And she knew how badly he didn’t want it.
The next two days dragged for Owen. He’d wanted to back off, but only seemed to be digging himself in deeper. He kept reliving that argument. She’d touched a nerve and he’d flared up at her, but he hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true—had he? He couldn’t help the sickening feeling that he’d thrown something precious away before he’d even realised he had it.
Worse, he had the feeling she’d been the one hitting truth on the head at the end there. He couldn’t face it—couldn’t face her, until he knew whether she was pregnant or not. He couldn’t think until he knew. It was like waiting for a jury to return its verdict—were they going to get a life sentence? Either way there’d be guilt and bitterness. And it was worse than Liz—this time he was to blame. It hadn’t been Bella’s fault at all. The sooner it was all over, the better.
And yet he missed her. How he missed her. He practically had to lock himself into his bedroom to stop from going into hers. His arms ached with emptiness. Sleep was utterly elusive—and so was she. She worked long hours at the café and hid in her room the rest of the time. He spent more time in the offices downstairs to give them both some space.
But truly finding space was impossible while she was staying with him. And he wasn’t ready to ask her to leave yet. He still wanted her with a passion that was tearing him up inside and, more than that, he wanted to make things right. He decided a trip away was the answer. Just a couple of days. Regain perspective and work out what the hell he was going to do if she was pregnant.
She hadn’t mentioned it again. Whereas by now Liz had chosen names and been practically putting the baby on the list for the most exclusive schools. Bella was making no demands—making a point of it, in fact. She’d backed right off and had shut down her expressive face. He hated that too—he wished he knew what she was thinking and wanted to know if she was OK.
Owen had withdrawn from her. He was working later, not coming into the café any more. Bella munched on her small bowl of muesli and watched him pack his laptop into his case.
‘How long are you gone for?’
‘I’m not sure yet. Couple of days maybe, I don’t know.’
She nodded.
‘You’ve got the security code?’
She nodded again. She’d take the opportunity to find herself a new flat. She could move into a flat-share with some students. There’d be plenty of cheap ones out in the suburbs. That was her plan. This was the end of the end. She knew it. He knew it.
He glanced into the contents of her bowl and his cheeky smile appeared. She hadn’t seen it for a while and it made her heart ache.
‘You’re supposed to eat that stuff in the morning, you know.’
She managed a wry grin back. ‘Better late than never.’
Both their grins faded.
Owen listened to the flight announcements, took another sip of his coffee, gripped his bag that little bit tighter. He should have checked in by now. If he didn’t check in within the next minute or so he’d miss his flight. He looked into his cup—he still had half of it to go. It would be a shame to throw away good airport coffee.
Bella hadn’t said anything. She’d known he was running away—he could see the reflection of his eyes in hers and knew she saw the truth of it there. But still she was making no demands.
And wasn’t that what he thought he always wanted? No demands? For fear he wouldn’t be able to meet them? Because he wasn’t willing to provide the emotional support someone else needed? Damn it, Bella didn’t seem to want any kind of support. And suddenly it was all he wanted to do. He wanted to know if she was OK, if she was scared or secretly excited or desperately unhappy. He wanted to help her deal with however she was feeling. And he wanted her to help him too.
His heart jerked. Maybe she didn’t demand because she simply didn’t care. He knew that for a lie. He saw it in her eyes. Every time she’d taken him into her she’d been loving him. Just sex? What a joke.
This time, he couldn’t walk away. This time, he didn’t want to.
The taxi seemed to take for ever. Driving alongside the water, the lights reflected on it. The aeroplanes looked as if they were going to end up in the sea if they didn’t slam the brakes on damn fast. Was that him? Headed for a drowning if he didn’t skid to a halt soon?
The apartment was in darkness and for an awful moment he thought she’d gone. Then he saw the large lump on the floor. He flicked on the lights. She was huddled in her beanbag. He took in her pale face, her eyes large and bruised and startled.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ He put his bag on the table.
She blinked, clearly gathering her wits. ‘What happened?’
‘Last-minute change of plan.’ He paused, inventing a non-excuse. ‘I managed to get out of it.’
‘Oh.’
He could see her biting back other questions and felt bad because of it. He wanted to answer her, wanted to communicate—a little at least.
He stripped off his jacket, wondering why the hell he was so buttoned up in a suit. It had all been for the show of it. He went to the bench in search of wine.
‘I’m not pregnant.’ Her voice was low, matter-of-fact. It took a few moments to register what she’d actually told him.
Not pregnant. No baby.
He was glad he was against the bench because he needed its strength for a second. He’d never expected to feel it as a blow. Never expected to feel disappointment. Only now was he seeing it in his mind, her body rounded with a baby, and then holding a child, his child. The ache that opened up in him was terrifying.
‘When did you find out?’ He managed to sound almost normal as he poured a large glass of red.
‘Just tonight.’
He nodded, took a big sip. ‘You’re feeling OK?’
‘Oh, sure. Fine.’ She mirrored his nod.
He searched her pale features again and knew she was faking it. She looked miserable. He saw the half-eaten cake of chocolate beside her. For a mad moment he wanted to sweep her into his arms and tell her not to be sad, that they’d make babies together any time she wanted to. She just had to say the word.
But he didn’t. He took a breath, another sip of wine and a long minute to regain sanity. He still felt lousy. Why—when this was what he wanted, right? No encumbrances.
‘Want to watch a movie?’ He walked over to her, touched her shoulder gently. Instantly felt a bit better. ‘You can choose.’
‘I already have.’
Then he noticed the blinking of the screen—black and white. Casablanca. Again.
‘Need anything else—ice cream? Wine?’
‘Yes, please.’
What she really wanted was a hug. What she really wanted was to know his reaction. At least he wasn’t doing back-flips and saying, ‘Thank God, what a relief.’ She didn’t know if she could handle that. Because even though she’d been fighting for independence for so long, the thought of a baby had intrigued her—because it would be his. She’d even lain awake and wondered whether their child would have his brilliant blue eyes or her pale ones. But he wasn’t giving anything away.
She decided to find out. She took the wine he offered, and was surprised to see her hand wasn’t shaking. ‘With your attitude to marriage there’s no need to ask. I know you’re relieved.’
‘I …’
‘It’s OK, Owen. You don’t have to hide it.’
He looked away from her, as if
what she’d said had hurt. ‘I haven’t got what they need.’ His voice was low. ‘Children deserve more than an emotionally absent father.’
She frowned. Emotionally absent? Owen wasn’t absent—he was more real, more vital than anyone she’d ever met. She could see the trouble inside him on his face—something was stirring in him and she didn’t think it was altogether because of her. But what? And she remembered what he’d said—what his ex had said—that he was selfish. Why had the woman thought that? What had happened? When it was obvious he was generous, not just financially but in more ways than he’d admit. Suddenly Bella wanted him to see that.
‘Who waters your garden, Owen?’
He frowned.
‘Your plants upstairs,’ she explained.
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Everything.’ She smiled. ‘That’s noticing, that’s remembering, that’s caring.’ She paused. ‘That’s all that children need.’
He was shaking his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They also need to be wanted.’
Her suspicions solidified as she heard his desolate hollowness. And even though the thought of the answer terrified her, she couldn’t stop from asking the question. ‘Have you been through this before, Owen?’
Owen owed her honesty. Then she’d see the person he really was, and this whole ending thing wouldn’t be nearly so bad—she’d be out of his place in no time. Because no woman would understand the way he’d reacted—especially not one who liked kids so much she actually worked with them. It would be over, and he could move on. ‘You know I had that girlfriend, right?’
‘The one who said you were selfish.’
‘Right.’ He grinned without mirth. ‘Around the time I was selling the company she told me she was pregnant.’
Bella nodded.
He looked away from her, not coping with the hint of sympathy he saw in her eyes. ‘I wasn’t remotely keen. I felt nothing. I felt worse than nothing.’ He took a breath and said it. ‘I didn’t want it. How terrible is that? Not to want your own flesh and blood?’ He’d felt trapped. He still felt guilty about that.