Memoirs of a Millionaire's Mistress

Bathroom ritual complete, she climbed into bed…

The next thing Didi was aware of was daylight and her mother watching her with tears misting her grey eyes. Her complexion was smooth as ever, and only her mum’s hair could look as if it had been salon-done first thing in the morning—even if it had a few more streaks of silver than the last time she’d seen her.

Her own eyes filled. ‘Mum.’

‘Didi. Is everything all right? You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you?’

‘No. I should have let you know I was coming, but it was…kind of sudden.’ She pushed up, ran a hand over her own tousled hair. ‘I had thought I might see you and Dad on Saturday night.’

‘Saturday night, dear?’

‘You didn’t get my invitation?’

‘We just got back from the airport a short time ago. We’ve been up to Hayman Island for a couple of weeks. What invitation? Oh, Didi…’ Her voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes widened. ‘Not…’

Didi waved a hand. Clearly her mother thought she’d been fool enough to fall in love and be dumped again. ‘No, Mum. Nothing like that.’ She swung her legs over the bed, optimism flooding through her as she realised her parents hadn’t come to her special night because they hadn’t known. ‘The gallery opening. I was commissioned—extremely generously—to do the focal piece of artwork for a new gallery supporting local artists. Did Veronica tell you?’

‘She mentioned something about your work. And that you were living with a man.’ Only a glint of disapproval in her eyes. ‘At a very exclusive address.’

Ah, that made it okay, then, Didi thought, resentment burning beneath her breast. A man like Cameron Black with his money and power would always be welcome here.

Not to her, he wouldn’t. Because she wouldn’t let him be.

‘We’ve been waiting for you to tell us,’ her mother said. She brushed a hand over Didi’s hair.

A simple gesture. Only a mother’s love could trigger the emotion that washed over Didi, threatening to drown her. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to know…’

Her mum smiled. ‘Of course we want to know. You cut us out of your life, Didi.’

‘No.’ She shook her head, reached for her mother and was enveloped by the warm familiarity of her slender yet sturdy shoulders. Shoulders she desperately needed, she realised. ‘I’m sorry we argued. I needed to find my own niche.’

‘We know you did, dear. We’ll talk about that later, with your father. Right now I’m more concerned with what’s brought you home after all this time.’ She leaned back, her grey eyes searching Didi’s and pinpointing it with dead accuracy. ‘He did, didn’t he? The man who gave you the chance you’ve been waiting for.’

‘Oh, Mum. I made a mistake.’ Again. She snapped a handful of tissues from the box on the bedside table. ‘This time I really think my life’s over.’

Her mum straightened, held Didi at arm’s length and drilled her with that familiar don’t-be-ridiculous-Didi look. ‘That’s nonsense. It’s just started. You’ve finally achieved what you wanted. How much did you say he paid you?’

Didi smiled through her tears, this time not taking her mother’s glare so literally. ‘I didn’t. But it’s enough to live on comfortably for a bit while I work on more commissions. I’ve got orders for more and…’

‘The world’s opening up for you.’

She nodded, amazed at her mother’s support. She’d taken such different impressions with her when she’d left. Hugged them to her for years.

‘Tell you what, why don’t you have a shower, dress and come down to the kitchen?’ her mum said. ‘We’ll all have brunch. Rosita should be in shortly.’

‘Rosita still works for you?’ she said, wiping her nose.

‘She does. I’ll have her whip up one of those omelettes you always liked.’

‘I can’t get over the fact that you’re taking this new career in art so well,’ Didi said, between mouthfuls of fluffy egg mixture. ‘You never showed any interest.’

‘That’s unfair, Didi.’ Her mother sliced her toast into neat little squares. ‘We were worried you wouldn’t get anywhere and you’d be devastated; you were always so intense. So serious.’

‘Your words were art was a nice little hobby but what was I going to do for a real job?’

Her father’s hazel eyes met hers over the table. ‘We were worried you wouldn’t get where you wanted. We wanted you to have something to fall back on. Not many people can make a living as artists. You wouldn’t discuss it, as I recall,’ her father continued. ‘The moment I mentioned university it was as if I’d suggested life imprisonment.’