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‘I know.’ My clipped tone closes down this alarming conversation, but I soften it to say, ‘You should finish the cottage, Cam. I can tell it’s going to be beautiful. Shall we go?’
He accepts my change of subject, although there’s an undercurrent of unease between us on the journey to the racecourse in another of the sleek sports cars Cam loves. It’s as if we’re both wearing armour on top of our clothes. As if we need protection from each other, when prior to today everything was easy and open.
We park in the VIP car park and enter the grandstand, which is over a mile long and houses not only the immaculate racetrack, but also a trackside hotel and entertainment venue. I’m relatively well-known among Dubai’s business community, so I introduce Cam to some clients and local dignitaries. I’m deep in conversation with a former client who wants to talk shop when I sense Cam’s edginess. The unfamiliar taste of guilt makes me wince as I try to fight my first reaction to become defensive. I’m not used to having to explain my actions to anyone. But I’m supposed to be off the clock. This is supposed to be a social event.
He’s right; I never stop. I’m never off the clock. My stomach twists, a strange mix of resentment for the life I chose and longing for something more. I shoot him an apologetic look and wrap up my consultation as politely as I can, reassuring the sheikh I’ll see him before I leave Dubai.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say when I’ve escaped. ‘He’s a very good customer and he prefers to work with the top dog, not the very competent minions.’
Cam’s expression is free of judgement, but I hear the censure from inside my own head. Don’t you want more than work?
‘I’m not surprised. She’s beautiful and talented—it’s almost a shame there’s only one of her...’ He smiles, and I slip into the comfort of his arms, because I’m less sure of my life plan than I was yesterday.
We head to our private suite with a terrace overlooking the racetrack. It’s a perfect day for the races, although I’m glad for the air-conditioning of our suite. As it’s the first race of the season, the grandstand is packed with spectators. We can’t bet, but our waiter informs us there are several competitions running for correctly guessing the place-getters. I choose the three horses with names that appeal the most—Desert Haze, Buyer Beware and Human Condition—knowing nothing about their pedigrees, owners or trainers, but Cam seems more interested in the pre-race action at the edge of the track.
‘There he is.’ He hands me a pair of binoculars and points in the general direction of the milling jockeys and horses.
‘Who?’
‘My horse—number seven.’ He slips his arm around my waist and tugs me close, his enthusiasm a distraction I need.
I focus in on the thoroughbred—a magnificent chestnut stallion—the jockey bedecked in red and gold. ‘Did you place an offshore bet?’ Of course Cam would find a way to offload some cash in a country where gambling is illegal.
‘No.’ He sounds so pleased with himself, I take a good hard look at his face, which
is wreathed in smug excitement. ‘I bought him. He’s mine. Contempt of Court—isn’t he perfect?’
Unease dries my mouth as I take another look at Cam’s latest purchase. It doesn’t matter. I should let it go. I don’t want to spoil our evening, but really? A racehorse?
‘How long have you owned him?’ I hedge, hoping to discover it’s a lifelong dream of his or a regular hobby. But the hair rising at the back of my neck tells me I’m unlikely to be comforted by his answer.
‘A week. When I knew Dubai was on your itinerary, I put out some feelers. He was already registered for the race, the name is perfect, so I offered the owner a number he couldn’t refuse.’ He takes two glasses of champagne from our waiter and hands me one, clinking his glass to mine with a grin.
I stare, a shudder passing through me at how much a thoroughbred already registered for one of the world’s richest races must have cost. It’s none of my business, he’s hardly bankrupting himself, and I’ll damage the fragile mood between us, but I can’t stay silent. On the surface he’s enjoying his inheritance, yes, but deep down it’s because he doesn’t care about the money, which makes sense if it’s from his father.
‘So you bought an expensive racehorse just for his name?’
He sees the disapproval I’m trying, and clearly failing, to hide. ‘I bought him because I could—the name was an added bonus. And I knew you wouldn’t approve.’
‘You’re right, I’m...cautious with my money, but it’s not that I don’t approve.’
‘What, then? We’re here to enjoy the races. Having a horse in the race will add to my enjoyment. I’m just making the most of this moment in a way I can afford.’
The unspoken is there again, hanging in the air between us like a swarm of irritable wasps. A dig, a rejoinder, aimed my way. What’s the point of having it all if you don’t take the time to enjoy it?
‘So what will you do with him? He’s not a homeless dog. Do you plan on shipping him back to Australia too, like the car?’ I can imagine why he’s struggling with his father’s legacy, since the money came from a man who abandoned him, but can’t he see that the excesses won’t help him deal with his anger and resentment? I can no longer ignore the two sides of Cam’s personality and the inconsistencies that tell me he’s hurting, despite his live-for-the-moment attitude and his hedonistic pursuits.
‘I told you, the car was a gift for my cousin. And I haven’t thought what I’ll do with him beyond today.’ Another shrug, but his body is tense, defensive. ‘He’ll pay his way, I guess, or I’ll sell him.’
‘So why buy a racehorse for a single race if it’s not a particular hobby of yours or a dream to fulfil?’ I can’t let this go. The dog food was cute, the drum kit for the boy heartbreaking but understandable, given what he’s hinted at about his own spartan upbringing with his single-parent mother. But this? It’s deeper than lavishly throwing around money.
‘Why does this bother you so much? I can afford to buy ten racehorses if I want them. I’m living the high life.’
I ignore the jibe I could interpret as some sort of comparison. ‘Are you? Or are you running from something?’ I sigh and touch his arm to show him that, although I’m crossing a line here, I’m doing so because I care. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to upset you, I just... I can’t stand by and watch you struggle with your inheritance. There are ways I can help.’
I see the look on his face, an expression I’ve never seen before on easygoing, laid-back Cam—cold, hard anger. ‘Well, thank you for the unsolicited financial advice but I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m not some schoolboy with a winning lottery ticket.’
‘No, but you don’t care about the money either, do you? It’s because it’s his, isn’t it? Your father’s?’ I’m walking a fine line here, but I ache for him. ‘That’s why you’re blowing it with private planes and racehorses and fast cars. You’re not at peace with it.’
