* * *
It was a good question. For the second time Emily hesitated—was this a good idea? Should they go and sit together in a secluded corner? After a dance that had nearly caused her to spontaneously combust. Yes, yelled her hormones. But it wasn’t only her hormones. It was so long since she had felt attractive, that someone was genuinely interested in her, and the knowledge fizzed adrenalin through her body. Howard had been the master of the understated barb, had an uncanny ability to undermine her confidence, and she’d been on tenterhooks the entire time she was with him. Had despised herself for craving his approval but had found herself desperately seeking it nonetheless.
Tonight for the first time since she had fallen pregnant, lost her baby, gone through the pain of discovering Howard’s infidelity and the strain and misery of the divorce, for the first time in month upon month she felt a little lighter.
So perhaps in the here and now she should take a few moments of light with this drop-dead gorgeous stranger. Perhaps she could harness the confidence boost into networking successfully. Perhaps she would even feel better if she explained the situation to someone not involved, someone she wouldn’t see again after tonight.
‘After you,’ she said now and followed him towards the table, allowed her eyes to linger on the breadth of his back, the width of his shoulders, the sheer compact muscular strength of him impossible to ignore.
Once seated she sipped from the glass of champagne he’d taken from a passing waiter.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Tell me what the problem is?’
Emily co
nsidered. No way was she telling Luca the whole story. Her grief, the pain, the misery and humiliation were still too raw to share with anyone, let alone a complete stranger who had no reason to give a damn.
‘The problem is I married a man who has a huge amount of clout in the magazine and entertainment industry. Our divorce was a bit acrimonious and as a result people are choosing not to employ me, or are ignoring my emails.’
‘Who is your ex?’
‘Howard McAllister.’
Luca raised his eyebrows. ‘I have heard of him. He did a phenomenally successful TV series. My sister loved it.’
‘That’s him. He has also won numerous photography awards, is in talks with Hollywood about a film and is feted and adored by all and sundry. Hence I am not flavour of the month.’
His frown held a fierceness. ‘That does not seem fair. Could you not call people out on this?’
‘There is no point. No one has come straight out and said that’s why there is no available work for me. They have other plausible reasons: I’ve been off the scene for too long, my skills aren’t quite the fit they need for a particular project, blah blah blah.’
‘Could your parents help? You said they are famous—are they part of the fashion industry?’
‘I’d rather not get a job just because they demand it for me.’ That was matter of principle. All her life she’d loathed being courted or feted simply because of her parents’ fame and status—no way would she use that. Emily had vowed from a young age that she would stand on her own two feet, come what may. At some point she had realised that she wasn’t necessary to her parents, that they didn’t love her in the same way other parents loved their children.
They didn’t abuse or dislike her, indeed they were quite fond of her, but both would have been perfectly happy if she had never been born, a reminder of their disastrous brief romance. Marigold Turner didn’t have a maternal bone in her body; her primary concern was the pursuit of love and keeping her looks. Her father’s priority was his second family, the five children he lived with, the product of a successful union.
So Emily had decided to accept her place in the pecking order, but had also vowed to make her own way in life, find her own niche, without using her parents’ fame or wealth. ‘Using them seems just as wrong as people not giving me a job because I’m Howard’s ex-wife.’
‘That is not so. Are you a good photographer? I am assuming you are, given you worked with Ava on a number of shoots.’
Emily opened her mouth to assert that she was good, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead an image of Howard flitted across her mind; his voice rang in her head, belittling her portfolio as ‘good if you can count that sort of thing as real photography’. Gritting her teeth, she pushed the memory away. Her photography, her career, was one thing she did have, the one area of her life where she could hold her own and her head high. She might never reach the pinnacle of her profession, or transition to serious photography, never have Howard’s stature, but, ‘I’m good. I worked on shoots for Theme, Star’s Market and Genie, all top fashion magazines.’
‘Then use what influence you have, use your parents. If you are being discriminated against you should use every weapon you have. All you are doing is fighting fire with fire.’
‘Perhaps. But all my life I have been known as the daughter of Marigold Turner and Rajiv Khatri. I will not use my name or their status—I want to stand on my own two feet.’
His whole body stilled. ‘Your father is Rajiv Khatri, the Bollywood actor?’ An expression she couldn’t interpret flitted over his face and she frowned. Usually people were more interested in the fact she was Marigold Turner’s daughter.
‘Yes. He’s a superstar in India, though not that many European people have heard of him.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Obviously you have?’
‘Yes.’
She waited but that appeared to be it. Though she sensed he wasn’t being rude, just distracted.
‘How? Have you seen one of his films?’
‘No.’ As if realising how abrupt he’d been he shrugged. ‘Sorry. It is not a very interesting story. As you may know, I founded a chocolate company, Palazzi di Cioccolato. A year ago I found a new source for cocoa beans. On the Indian island of Jalpura.’