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‘There are almost sixteen million kids in America living in abject poverty, and that’s with an incredibly low poverty line. I founded Chance for them. Because everyone deserves a chance and it’s by no means guaranteed that everyone will get one. Our luck in life is predetermined at birth. Not just by wealth, by lots of factors, but financial security is a cornerstone of success. And there are sixteen million kids here, in the States, who struggle to get enough food to survive. Forget about books and sports, holidays, the safety of a good home and the comfort of parents who aren’t worried about how they’re going to keep the lights on.’
Her voice cracks and the passion she feels overwhelms me and makes me feel like a selfish git, all at once.
‘This is a developed country, the envy of the world, and we have this vulnerable subset of society doing it so tough. I met a girl at an event last month who cried because I gave her a double pass to see a movie. She’s never been to the cinema before.’ She swallows, her eyes filling with tears. I feel as if a cement block has been dropped right onto my heart. I didn’t expect this. And I hate seeing her upset. I hate even more that I’ve done this to her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbles, beating me to the apology I want to offer. ‘I just get so frustrated. The Billionaires’ Club enables me to pour a fortune into the charity every year, but it still never feels like enough.’
‘I bet you’re making a huge difference,’ I contradict gently.
‘Maybe. I just want more, and I want it now.’
I pull her closer, into my arms, and press a kiss to her eyelid, tasting her salty tears, wishing them gone.
‘I had this friend,’ she says quietly against my chest. ‘Abbey.’
I’m still, waiting for her to go on. It’s started to snow, lightly, so the contrast in temperatures out of the spa and in is marked.
‘She died, when I was a teenager.’
‘I’m sorry.’
I feel her expression shift and I suspect it’s a grimace. ‘We were really tight, growing up. She lived just a block away and we spent almost every weekend together.’ Her voice is grim, despite what sounds like happy memories. ‘And then, when I was fifteen, the news broke that her dad had been charged with a federal crime—embezzlement. He’d set up a Ponzi scheme and taken people for billions. It wasn’t Abbey’s fault, but her whole life went down the drain. Her mom left, hooked up with some Swiss athlete and moved to Europe, her dad was locked up.’
‘Shit. The poor thing.’
‘I did what I could.’ She lifts her face to mine, and I can tell she’s back in the past, more than a decade ago, but the pain is just as real as if it were happening now. ‘I had a credit card I maxed to cover what I could. I snuck her into our pool house to live. We did that for three months and no one ever knew. Then my dad found her.’ Fury lashes her face, her look one of utter rage. ‘And called social services. I was forbidden to see Abbey ever again. My credit card was cut up.’
Her tears are back; my heart breaks for her, and her friend.
‘She was like a sister to me, I thought she was like a daughter to them, but when she needed help, they wouldn’t do a damned thing because they were so ashamed of what Abbey’s dad had done.’
‘Jesus.’
‘She ended up in foster care, but it wasn’t pretty.’ She swallows, turning away from me, focussing on a high rise across the street. It glows like a candle on this black New York night. ‘In fact, it was downright awful. Her first foster father turned out to be a victim of her dad’s scheme. He used to hit her.’
My stomach drops. ‘I hope she pressed charges.’
‘No.’ It’s a pained sound. ‘She died.’
‘He killed her?’ My own fury is intense.
‘He might as well have. She was miserable. She drank a big bottle of his vodka then went to watch the sunrise over Malibu. She was found at the bottom of the cliffs a day later.’ A small sob escapes her and she covers it by reaching for her beer. My heart is breaking for Abbey, but also for Imogen, who comes across as so incredibly cool and professional but is, actually, very soft-hearted.
‘My parents didn’t let me go to the funeral. I think they were actually glad she was dead. They’d been worried about what kind of scandal she might drag me into.’ The fury is back and I infinitely prefer it to her grief. ‘I hated them after that. I mean, they’re my parents, so I love them too, but I don’t respect them, and I don’t like them, and I hate what they stand for—or, rather, what they were too afraid to stand for.’
‘I can understand why you feel that way.’
‘Three years after founding Chance, The New York Times ran a profile about me. It was very flattering, full of praise for what I was doing. That was the first time my parents publicly acknowledged my work. After that, they started to donate, and even got their hoity-toity friends—the same ones who helped ruin Abbey’s life—to hold benefits to raise money. You have no idea how it stung to take that cash.’
‘Why did you?’
She fixes me with a look that is simple and sad, a surrender to pragmatism. ‘Because that money could stop twenty kids from doing what Abbey did. We fund counsellors for at-risk kids—not just in-person sessions and drop-in clinics, but twenty-four-hour phone banks. The charity needs every penny it can get—I will never not accept donations, even from people who are so hypocritical it makes me sick.’
I lift a hand, running a finger over her cheek, studying her, somehow committing her and this to memory, because in the back of my mind I’m aware of the ticking of a time bomb, counting down to my future, our lives beyond this.
‘I’m sorry about your friend.’
Her expression shifts to one of sadness, and then wistfulness. ‘Me too.’ She sighs, sips her beer. ‘I wish I could have done more.’
