by Leah Ashton
‘Speaking,’ she told her father’s personal assistant.
For a moment—a long moment—she considered hanging up. It was exactly what her sisters would do. But then Blaine Spencer wouldn’t bother calling them, would he? He knew which daughter put up with his lies and broken promises.
‘Just put my dad on,’ said Mila.
This one. This gutless, hopeful, stupid daughter.
‘La-la!’
‘Mila,’ she corrected, as she did every time. ‘I’m not three, Dad.’
The age she’d been when he’d left.
‘You still are to me, darling girl!’
Every muscle in her body tightened just that little bit more.
‘Any chance you could call me yourself, one time?’ she asked, not bothering to hide her frustration. ‘You know—find my name in your contacts, push the call button. It’s not difficult.’
‘Now, don’t be like that, Mila, you know how hard I work.’
There it was: The Justification. Mila always capitalised it in her mind.
Why didn’t you call for
But you said you’d come to
And then The Justification.
You know how hard I work.
Or its many variations.
You can’t just pass up opportunities in this industry.
Work has been crazy!
This director is a hard-ass. I’m working fourteen-hour days...
But always: You know I love you, right?
Right.
‘So you’ve been working hard for the past three months, then?’
She’d done the calculations. In fact, this was pretty good for him. Normally his calls were biannual. Maybe that was why she hadn’t hung up on him.
‘I have, indeed,’ he said, either missing or ignoring Mila’s sarcasm.
To be honest, Mila didn’t know him well enough to say which. Maybe that was the problem—she clung to the possibility that he was just thoughtless, not a selfish waste of a father who knew exactly how much pain he caused.
‘I’ve just landed in Sydney for the premiere of my latest.’
He always expected Mila to know everything about him.
‘Latest what, Dad?’
‘Movie,’ he said, all incredulous.
Mila rolled her eyes.
‘Tsunami. The director’s from Perth, so the Australian premiere is over there tomorrow night. I’m doing a few cast interviews in Sydney today, then hopping on a plane tonight. You won’t believe it, but I’m booked on a late flight because Serena has no concept of how far away bloody Perth is...’
Blaine Spencer just kept on talking, but Mila wasn’t paying attention any more. ‘Wait—Dad. You’re coming here?’
‘Seriously, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d booked us a hotel in Melbourne instead of Perth. All the capital cities are the same to her—’ He finally registered that Mila had spoken. ‘Yes,’ he said, as if seeing his daughter for the first time in six years was something totally normal to drop obliquely into conversation. ‘Just for the night,’ he clarified, because bothering to extend his stay to visit with his daughter would never occur to him.
‘Okay...’ Mila said—just to say something.
‘If you want to catch up you’ll have to come to the premiere,’ he said. ‘I’m doing radio interviews tomorrow morning and then I’ll have to sleep most of the day. You know I can never sleep on a plane.’
She didn’t. She didn’t know him at all.
‘So if I can’t make it to the premiere I won’t see you?’
‘No. Sorry, darling. Can’t stay this time.’
Here it comes.
‘Pre-production has already started on my next. Got to get to work!’
It took Mila another long moment to respond. All the words she wanted to say—to spew at him—teetered on her tongue.
There was nothing unusual about this phone call. The last-minute nature of his invitation, the way he’d somehow shifted the responsibility for them seeing each other onto her, his total lack of awareness or consideration for her own plans for the weekend. Or for her life, really.
No, nothing unusual.
If—somehow—Blaine got Ivy’s phone number, or April’s, and either woman allowed the conversation to continue beyond the time it took to hang up on him, Mila knew how her sisters would respond to what was hardly an invitation.
With a no. A very clear, very definite, I’d-rather-scrub-the-toilet-than-waste-my-time-on-you no.
They would each be furious with Mila for even considering seeing him. For even answering this phone call.
The little tinkling sound of the doorbell drew Mila’s attention away from her father for a moment.
It was Seb. Of course.
He gestured that he’d wait outside, but Mila held up a hand so he’d stay. This wouldn’t take long.
‘Just get Serena to email me the details,’ she said.
‘So you’ll come?’
And there it was. The reason why she had always been going to go to her father’s premiere. That slightest of suggestions that maybe her dad had been worried she’d refuse to see him. The hint that he was genuine about this—that he really did want to see his youngest daughter.
After all, why else would he invite her?
Ugh, she should know better.
But she just couldn’t stop herself:
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Mila began, but her dad had already handed his phone back to his assistant. Such typical casual thoughtlessness made her shake her head, but smile despite herself.
‘Who was that?’ Seb asked as he approached the counter.
Behind them, Mila heard the familiar creak and bang of the workshop’s back door that heralded Sheri’s arrival.
‘Dad,’ Mila said simply. She’d considered lying to Seb—broken families and deadbeat parents were certainly not de rigueur for their superficial conversations of late. But then—it was Seb.
Even so, her lips formed a perfectly straight line as she waited for his reaction. Would he be angry that she still spoke to her Dad? The way that Ivy and April were?
Seb knew the whole story. He’d experienced the fall-out of typical Blaine Spencer incidents, he’d listened to many Mila rants, and once—on that terrible sixteenth birthday—let her heavy tears and Gothic eyeliner soak into his T-shirt as she’d clung to him and Steph.
So maybe she’d see pity. Pity for the woman who—at almost thirty—wasn’t all that further along in her emotional development than her sixteen-year-old self. At least, not when it came to her father.
He’d be right to be angry, or to pity her. Or both.
Hell. Mila was angry with herself. If she was her own friend she’d definitely pity herself, too. I mean...how pathetic! Keeping that little hopeful wretched flame burning for a dad who doesn’t deserve it...
‘You ready to go?’ he said instead. ‘I’m starving.’
Then he smiled. And in that smile there was understanding and acknowledgement of all Seb knew about her relationship with Blaine Spencer. But there was no judgement, no anger. Certainly no pity. Just support and a gorgeous, heavenly Sebastian Fyfe smile.
It was exactly what she needed.
As was a lunch, spent window shopping as they walked and ate their Brazilian choripán hot dogs, talking about absolutely nothing important.
Until they arrived back at the rear entrance to Mila’s shop, where a handful of her students were already chattering loudly inside.
‘I’m coming with you,’ he said, firmly and abruptly. ‘I have no idea where you’re meeting him, or what your plans are, but I’m coming. At least until I’m sure that idiot actually turns up to see the daughter he
doesn’t deserve.’
Mila blinked. ‘You are?’
‘I am. Text me the details once the selfish moron’s assistant sends them.’
Mila found herself laughing rather than arguing—and then Sebastian was walking away, before she had a chance to say anything anyway. Although any argument would have rung hollow. Seb had known she needed him tomorrow night, even if she hadn’t.
And right now she didn’t care about anything else that might or might not be complicating things between them. She was just glad Seb was here.
* * *
‘Ivy has instructed me to convey her disapproval,’ April said as she opened her front door. ‘However, Nate has just vomited all over her, so she’s taking him to the doctor instead of telling you personally.’
‘Is he okay?’ Mila asked as she followed April down her hallway. Her sister lived with her husband in an airy, modern home close to Cottesloe Beach, with heaps of windows and moody, muted artwork on the walls.
‘Ivy thinks so. She suspects he’s eaten one of the older kid’s crayons at playgroup, given his vomit is blue, but she’s just making sure.’
‘Gross,’ Mila said.
‘I can’t wait,’ said April, deadpan.
She and Evan were actively trying for a baby. April even said it like that—‘We’re actively trying’—if anyone was dense enough to ask that intensely personal question. April said it made it sound as if they were having sex hanging from a chandelier.
They actually did have a chandelier—a modern version—and it was under all its sparkling refracted daylight that April had laid out a selection of evening gowns on her dining table.
‘Just to be clear,’ she said, ‘I disapprove as well. He’ll make you cry, and he’s not worth it.’
That wasn’t entirely accurate. Mila hadn’t wasted her tears on her father for at least a decade. But she understood what April meant.
‘I thought you’d be angrier,’ Mila said.
April shrugged. ‘You were wise to tell me via text. I got to be angry at you via Evan.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For Evan? Or for going to see Dad?’
‘For Evan,’ Mila clarified. ‘Not for Dad. I have to see him. I can’t not.’
April tilted her head. Her long blonde hair was piled up in high bun. ‘Hmm...I’ve been there. You’ll grow out of it.’
Mila’s jaw clenched, but there was no point in arguing. Although she was less than two years younger than April, and five years younger than Ivy, they both definitely suffered from an ingrained belief that they knew best when it came to Mila’s life. The fact that they both resented similar behaviour from their mother when it came to their lives was utterly lost on them.
Fortunately their mother had long ago given up advising Mila on anything. They’d become much closer since Irene Molyneux had let go of her ill-fitting dreams for her youngest daughter and accepted that Mila would be creating art with earth’s natural materials—not mining them.
April was rattling off the names of dress designers, not that any of them were meaningful to Mila. Her eye was drawn to the darkest fabric—a deep, deep navy—a welcome contrast amongst the frothy pastels.
It fitted well, and Mila felt good as she twisted and turned in front of the mirror in April’s spare room.
Her sister poked her head inside the door. ‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ she breathed, and Mila smiled. ‘Can I post a photo to—?’
‘No,’ Mila said, and laughed.
* * *
Seb hadn’t been upstairs to Mila’s apartment before. It was nice. Small—a single open-plan living area—with the kitchen positioned in front of a large window that overlooked the tree-lined street. Mila had muttered something about making himself at home as she’d raced up the stairs ahead of him, her hair still damp around her shoulders and a bathrobe knotted at her waist.
He walked over to the kitchen, running a hand aimlessly along the pale granite countertop. Mila had obviously renovated. The kitchen was simple but modern, sitting comfortably amongst the original wide timber floorboards, tall skirtings and ornate cornices. The wall the apartment shared with his own shop was exposed—a mix of red brick and mortar and patches of artfully remaining patches of plaster—as it was on the floor below. From the ceiling hung a simple black industrial light fitting, and the living area was furnished with mid-century low-line pieces in a style that had recently become fashionable again. But, knowing Mila, the rich tan leather couch and the elegant, spindly dining suite would be the real deal, not replicas. Seb could just imagine Mila busily searching for treasures in some dusty old antique furniture store.
It was almost dark outside, the street light outside the kitchen window already softly lit. He checked his watch.
‘We’re going to be late,’ Mila said, behind him.
Seb pivoted to face her—and whatever he’d been about to say froze on his lips.
Somehow he hadn’t thought ahead to this part—to the reality of escorting Mila to her father’s film premiere. His focus had been on just being there, and nothing else—certainly not on what Mila would wear, or how she might look. Or that it might suddenly—shockingly—as he stood in her kitchen in a charcoal suit, feel like a date.
She wore a dress of navy blue, in some soft, draping material that wrapped around her waist and the curve of her breasts, leaving her shoulders bare and falling straight from her hips. Her hair was different—smooth and sleek and pushed back from her face—so that all the focus was on her brilliant blue eyes and the ruby-red of her lips.
Those brilliant blue eyes met his gaze, steady and sure. ‘It’s April’s,’ she said, her hand casually smoothing the fabric against her hip. ‘I thought it looked all right.’
‘An understatement,’ he said, and he didn’t miss the hint of a blush that warmed her cheeks, although she didn’t look away.
‘Thanks,’ she said, very matter-of-fact.
Mila was equally businesslike as she located her clutch bag and he ordered a taxi. And as she marched down the steps ahead of him and locked up the shop. Then all the way to the small theatre near the beach which had apparently inspired the film—thankfully without any history of apocalyptic tsunamis—and as they approached the red carpet.
It was there that she went still. That her confident stride and chatter spluttered away to nothing.
Parked along the street was a van for each of the local television stations. A large crowd had gathered behind the cameras to watch the arrivals. Blaine Spencer might not be an A-lister, but the large posters flanking the entrance revealed that the movie’s star was an up-and-coming Australian actress—famous enough that even Seb had heard of her.
Automatically Seb reached for Mila, aiming to put his hand at her elbow, but she shook him off.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, very firmly.
They hadn’t quite reached the bright lights that lit the red carpet, but Seb could still see well enough to read Mila’s expression.
Was she fine? Mila had always been good at relaying her father’s latest example of uselessness when they were teenagers. But, looking back now, he realised she’d done so with a large truckload of bravado—she’d been simply telling a story. It was only that one time, when Blaine hadn’t turned up at her sixteenth birthday party, that she’d shown any emotion.
He remembered how awkward he’d felt as she’d sobbed into his shoulder, sure he was being of no help at all, but also certain that he wasn’t going anywhere.
He didn’t feel all that different now.
Mila raised an eyebrow. ‘Really,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to blubber all over you again. Don’t panic.’
His lip quirked upwards. He was not surprised she’d referenced the same memory. ‘My shoulder remains available if needed. Both of them, actually.’
‘Not
ed,’ she said, smiling now. ‘But I’m not an angsty teenager any more. I’m an adult with possibly the most selfishly unreliable parent in history. I know what I’m doing.’
He opened his mouth—before snapping it shut again.
‘Then why am I doing it?’ she said, reading his mind. ‘I suspect when I work that out I’ll finally stop answering his calls.’
Seb nodded, even though he didn’t really understand. ‘So, let’s do this?’
Mila’s smile had fallen away, and something had shifted in her strong, determined gaze. But still, ever Mila, she straightened her shoulders, and he watched her take a long, deep breath.
‘Let’s go,’ she said.
* * *
Without Ivy, April or her mother by her side, not one of the photographers or reporters along the red carpet recognised Mila as a Molyneux. That suited her just fine—she’d never had any aspirations to embrace the quasi-celebrity that her family name might give her.
Ivy’s job meant she had no choice but to network with the rich and famous, and April had always loved that scene—and in recent years had certainly grown her status as a society darling. Both would’ve been at home on the red carpet, would’ve known exactly what to say, how to smile, how to pose for photographs.
Although, her father wasn’t famous enough that even if an enterprising paparazzo had recognised her it would have mattered.
Her mother had never spoken much about Blaine. Mila knew they’d had a whirlwind romance and a turbulent relationship, and that it had been somewhat of a scandal at the time—the billionaire mining heiress and the Hollywood heartthrob. But that had been more than thirty-five years ago. Old news. Plus none of them—not her mother nor her sisters—had ever breathed a word about their fractured relationship with their father to the media. To anyone, really.
Even at that sixteenth birthday party, when against her own judgement she’d agreed to an elaborate, expensive celebration inviting everyone she knew—and many she didn’t—the only guests who’d known of her devastation at her father’s absence had been Seb and Stephanie.
And even then she hadn’t been stupid enough to tell anyone that her father was coming. Even then she’d suspected he’d let her down.