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I don’t want to hurt him so I say nothing, simply nod, foreboding churning in my head. Wonderful, considerate Cam... I can’t make any promises. Nor can I admit that it’s business as usual for me. Or exactly where this relationship is on my priority list. But I must. This is the moment I’ve been dreading. This conversation proves I’ve allowed this to go on too long, that I’ve been selfish.
I look up, my heart pounding. I see hope and passion and understanding in his expressive eyes. And he must see the opposite in mine.
His body stiffens.
I lock my knees, my legs fully absorbed with keeping me upright. I know what he wants. He showed me earlier when he made love to me. He wants some fairy-tale, happy-ever-after future for us. But I’m a realist. I know my limitations. I know my strengths. And I know Cam and what he deserves.
‘I don’t want this to end,’ he says, his mouth a grim line, as if he’s already anticipated my refusal.
Perceptive.
I look away. I never wanted to hurt him, but it’s pointless taking this any further. ‘Cam, we agreed this was temporary.’
My throat is so crushed, I can’t breathe.
‘I... I have feelings for you and I think you have them for me too.’
I do, I do, my beautiful, caring Cam. How could I not?
I shake my head as if I can shake out his words from my memory. ‘I can’t... I told you. I’m no good at relationships.’
‘Why, because you had one bad experience?’
Another shake.
‘Why do you have to be good at it? Why can’t you just give me a chance and see how this goes?’
The lure of his words, so simple in theory, makes my head spin. ‘Because I’ll fail and we’ll both get hurt. Why put ourselves through that?’
‘Just because your marriage failed doesn’t mean we will. He tried to change you and I’d never do that. Why should I suffer because of his actions?’
I step out of his arms, his touch now claustrophobic. ‘Aren’t you doing that right now? Trying to change me? Suggesting I ditch my family barbecue so I don’t have to face my father, encouraging me to delegate more work so I can be around more to play...girlfriend?’ I snort. ‘Even the word is ridiculous. I’m thirty-six. I’m not cut out for the commitment of a relationship.’ I lower my voice. There are people all around us. Happy, relaxed, smiling people.
I move away and he reaches for my hand. ‘Where are you going? We need to talk about this.’
‘We do,’ I say with a sigh I feel to the tips of my toes. But this is more about me than it is about him, and if I have to tell him that, I’m going to need Dutch courage. ‘I’m going to get a drink. We can talk more privately.’ I head for the bar, which is relatively quiet now that the after-dinner dancing is in full swing.
I’m almost there, my mind racing with suitable let-downs that sound trite and hurtful and make me feel sick to my stomach, when I spy a woman I’ve met before, the M Club founder and entrepreneur Imogen Carmichael. The usually composed blonde seems flustered. I’m stalling, sidestepping my own impending disaster, but it will only take a few minutes to say hello and check she’s okay.
‘Imogen.’ I snag her attention and she smiles, a flash of relief on her face. I’m aware that Cam will be right behind me, that we need to finish this, but something has the normally unflappable Imogen nervous. And it will give me a few precious minutes to gather my wits and compose myself for what I need to say to Cam. Otherwise I’m at risk of caving, of throwing myself into his arms and agreeing to try...
‘Are you okay?’
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she says, her eyes darting around the ballroom. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t stop and chat. I have an appointment. It was good to see you again, Orla. I hope we can catch up properly in New York next month at the Christmas Gala.’
‘Yes, I’d like that.’ I watch her leave, and then I continue to the bar, where Cam is waiting with two glasses of the Macallan.
‘Was that Imogen Carmichael?’ he asks, his body language wary and distant, as if he’s sorry he lifted the lid on any discussion of a future for us. But it’s too late now. We’ve come this far.
I swallow, my head pounding and my chest hollow and aching. ‘Yes. Have you met her?’
‘No.’
One-syllable answers...
I didn’t want it to be like this—awkward and full of recrimination. But then, what did I expect, just because my heart is made of stone?
‘You’d like her—she runs several charities,’ I say. ‘I’ll introduce you sometime.’
