‘It’s been over between you and Julian for months.’

It was a slap in the face and Grace willed herself not to crumble. ‘Who told you that? Him? Because last time I looked, we’d been living together for five years.’

Olivia wrapped her robe tightly around herself and squared up to her mother. Grace could smell the musky scent of sex on her teenage daughter’s face and stepped away, repulsed by the thought of where it came from.

‘Do you know why I care about him?’ said Olivia.

‘Because he’s a world-famous artist?’ said Grace, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Because you’re spoilt and vicious and you want the one person you know you can’t have, like some sick, sad power trip?’ She didn’t recognise herself in the hard, harsh words coming out of her mouth.

‘Because he cares about me,’ said Olivia, her voice level. ‘Because he gives me attention. Which is more than you’ve ever given me. You’ve always been flying off around the world helping orphans, empowering poor people, running photography clubs for fucking peasants. What about us, Mum? What about your children? And I don’t mean lecturing us on our moral well-being. Be careful. Don’t have sex. Take the pill,’ she mocked. ‘You’ve been so busy being a do-gooder, trying to save the world, when really you should be looking at how to save your own life. Look at you. You’ve got a boyfriend that doesn’t love you. Children you hardly know . . .’

‘Is that what you think?’ She could barely see now through the glaze of tears. It was like a knife through her heart. Forget Julian, he barely seemed to matter any more. But after everything she had done for her kids, her daughter’s words were shattering.

‘Yes,’ said Olivia simply. ‘That’s what I think.’

‘Then you’d better just go,’ said Grace, too weak to fight any longer.

‘No,’ said Olivia quietly, lifting her chin. ‘This is my flat. You go.’

Looking at her daughter, the pit of Grace’s stomach welled up with love, sorrow, disappointment. She stumbled back into the corridor, out of the door, taking the flight of steps down two by two and out on to the street, gasping for air as she sank down onto the cold concrete pavement. Desperately she tipped her handbag out on the ground, scrabbling for her mobile phone, her fingers shaking as they stabbed the numbers.

‘Be there,’ she whispered to herself as she held the phone to her ear. ‘Please, please be there . . . Alex, is that you?’

‘Grace?’ came the familiar voice. ‘What’s wrong? Tell me.’

‘I need you, Alex,’ she sobbed. ‘Come quickly. Please, just come and get me.’

71

Few people liked going to parties by themselves, but it was something that had never particularly bothered Sasha Sinclair. She was attractive, funny and a master networker; after nearly twenty years on the party circuit, she usually knew at least half a dozen people at any gathering. Today, however, that was a distinct disadvantage. Normally a party like Amelia Hambro’s fortieth, held in the gardens of Inner Temple Inns of Court along London’s Embankment, would have been an ideal opportunity for Sasha to flirt, make contacts and exchange gossip. The trouble was, today the gossip was about her. Word was out about the Assad bid for Rivera and everyone was whispering about Sasha: was she leaving the company – and if so, was she jumping or was she being pushed? For the first time, Sasha had no desire to talk to anyone. She felt adrift, dislocated. Everywhere she looked, happy couples were laughing, talking about their holiday plans for Tuscany or Provence, their children at expensive prep schools: normal everyday life. The truth was Randall had been right when he said she had been consumed by her ambition. If she lost her place in the fashion world, she genuinely wouldn’t know how to behave. Of course there were thousands of things she could do with fifty million pounds in the bank and two decades’ worth of experience in the fashion industry. But right now she couldn’t think of any of them – she didn’t want any of them. What Sasha Sinclair wanted was her life back.

‘I thought it was you.’

She had been sheltering from the furtive glances and the whispered gossip under a lime tree a little way from the party. She spun round and opened her eyes wide.

‘Philip Bettany!’ she exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

She leant in to kiss him, wincing inwardly. She had always regretted treating Philip so badly. He was a good man and a good friend, but she had pushed him aside in favour of her ambition and her feelings for an unsuitable married man. He was still looking good. His hair was peppered with grey at the temples, and his skin looked sun-worn, but at forty-seven he was still the most handsome man at the party.

‘I didn’t even know you were in the country,’ said Sasha. ‘The last I heard you were in Hong Kong.’

‘I was in Sydney for eight years. I moved back two months ago, escaping the Aussie winter.’

He smiled. It was a warm, genuine smile although there was no reason for him to be so happy to see her. Sasha remembered the final days of their relationship: Philip’s marriage proposal, her plan to oust him from the company, his quiet, dignified exit. How could she have been so selfish, so brutal? Looking at him now, she wondered what it was that hadn’t worked. Certainly, she could have shown more grace.

‘So who are you here with?’ asked Philip.

‘Just me. I was only popping my head in,’ she said. ‘I try not to dwell too much on fortieths, with mine being just around the corner.’

‘Forty? Try having fifty out there.’ He laughed. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t bring my walking stick today.’

‘I think you’re looking great, Phil,’ she said, blushing slightly and rushing on to cover her embarrassment.‘So tell me everything. What were you doing in Sydney?’

‘CFO of a car manufacturing company. Not as sexy as evening dresses.’

‘But you always loved cars, didn’t you?’ She glanced down at his left hand. ‘Married? Kids?’

‘Both.’

Tags: Tasmina Perry Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net