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Her words zing with anger, despite the fact we’re talking about events that transpired a long time ago.
‘Then there was the time I tried to fundraise for a charity that buys groceries for families on food stamps. My mom honestly threatened to disown me.’ Her smile is just a tight imitation.
‘I’d like to say I’m surprised,’ I say, eventually. ‘But that kind of attitude is pretty prevalent.’
‘Yeah, only amongst the very, very wealthy.’
‘Not everyone feels that way.’
‘A lot do.’ She shrugs. ‘And I hate it.’
‘I can tell.’
She looks at me appraisingly for several beats. ‘Can I tell you something? In confidence?’
It annoys me that she even needs to check. ‘Of course.’
‘When I first built The Billionaires’ Club, I used to get a perverse kind of pleasure from taking money from the super rich and funnelling it to support a cause most of them would be embarrassed to be associated with.’
‘So the club was spite?’ I murmur, a smile on my lips because it’s so ridiculously badass I can’t help loving that.
‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘It was five per cent spite.’ And then she laughs, such a contrast to the mood of a moment ago that my insides glow with warmth.
‘I think most of our membership is actually pretty c
ool. Sure, there are a few people who wouldn’t know a social conscience if it grew legs and bit them on their jewelled rears,’ she says with a flick of her brow. ‘But I’ve been bowled over by some really amazing offers from some club members over the years. Chance wouldn’t be what it is without the club. I can never resent the members for that.’
‘Tell me about the charity.’
‘What do you want to know?’
I don’t really want to admit how little I know about it. I gather it’s something to do with children, underprivileged children, but that’s about it.
‘Why start your own charity rather than working for one that’s already up and running?’
‘Control,’ she answers, simply and passionately. ‘And contacts. I have access to what the charity needs and I can cut out a lot of middlemen. Plus, I like to know that there’s no top-heavy administrative board or whatever. I run everything. It’s my baby, my project.’
Her passion is overwhelming.
‘Why children?’ I prompt conversationally, but her face tightens, her eyes flashing away from me. She reaches for her beer, and I know she’s using it to buy time. I wait with the appearance of patience as she sips her drink. But I’m not letting her move on.
‘Imogen?’
She’s upset. Her features are strained, her eyes showing a depth of emotion that I didn’t expect.
Still, I don’t let it go.
‘You must care a great deal to have poured so much energy into it.’
‘Yes.’ A whisper, barely.
There’s more here. A story she’s not telling me and, for some reason, it feels vitally important that I know it.
‘Why?’
‘It’s important,’ she says quietly, simply, turning to face me once more, her eyes showing a profound pain.
‘Lots of things are important. Why this?’
