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Sometimes she still wasn’t sure why. It was as though at some point someone had handed out a rule book when she hadn’t been there and no one had bothered to send it to her. No matter how hard she tried she hadn’t been able to figure out how to play her part right, and the harder she’d tried, the more clingy and insecure she’d become.
Both Steve and Miles had been good, solid, ordinary blokes, and both had ended the relationship, citing the whole “it’s not you, it’s me” argument, having met someone else. Steve had explained that when he’d met his new love there had been a spark that had been lacking with Gabby. Miles had used terminology such as ‘fizzled out’. Gabby was no fool and she could spot a pattern—in the context of relationship fireworks, she was a damp squib. So she had decided to leave the display and opt for singledom.
‘So I’ve put relationships on hold.’ Until maybe someday when that rule book arrived.
‘So for you a fun fling would be out of the question on principle?’
Well, didn’t that make her sound boring? And suddenly for a minute, as the sun glinted on the water and the sound of the oars swished in her ears, she wished she could throw caution to the wind and be the sort of person who could kick back and enjoy herself.
‘It’s not a principle. It just doesn’t work for me.’ Her mum had seen parenting as a short-term, temporary thing. Had worshipped at the altar of fun. ‘Short-term makes me feel like I’m not up to scratch. Not good enough to be permanent.’
Even as she said the words she regretted them—better to be judged boring than pathetic.
‘Not me personally,’ she added. ‘I mean in general.’
The slight quirk of his eyebrow indicated doubt. ‘But surely that is only if the fling isn’t on equal terms? If you want it to be more permanent and the other person doesn’t then, yes, I get that. But if you both agree you want something temporary then that isn’t a judgement on either of you.’
‘I guess I just don’t do temporary.’ There had been way too much of that in her life. Temporary stints with her mother, temporary stays with her grandparents. The fear of going into temporary care. As far as she was concerned, temporary sucked, and it smacked of not being good enough. After all, she hadn’t been good enough for her mum to change her lifestyle.
‘Whoa! Slow down, Gabby.’
Huh?
‘Oh.’ Belatedly she realised that she was moving them along at breakneck speed. Worse, there was a boat headed towards them and she seemed to have rowed straight on to a collision course. ‘Sorry.’
Zander steered and she rowed and, to her relief, the two crafts squeaked past each other without mishap.
‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ But it was time to get back on track. ‘Anyway, it’s going to be really hard to get anyone to believe either of us is up for a fun fling, let alone your family. So we need to get down to the nitty-gritty detail.’ She glanced round the boat. ‘I need to take notes, so perhaps we should stop at a riverside pub and see if we can find a secluded corner...’
CHAPTER FIVE
TWENTY MINUTES LATER Zander handed Gabby the orange juice she’d requested and seated himself opposite her in the shade of a willow tree in a corner of the pub garden.
‘Right...’
As she pushed a stray tendril of glossy hair away she looked endearingly pretty, and he squashed the urge to lean over and tuck another escaped strand behind her ear.
‘First, tell me about this charity event.’
‘Its aim is to raise funds for a dyslexia awareness charity, and help promote the need for early recognition in schools.’
‘I see.’ But both her frown and her tone indicated surprise. ‘I assumed that it would be connected to Claudia?’
Zander shook his head. ‘I donate privately to a cancer charity and I have set up a medical scholarship in Claudia’s name.’
Of course he had considered hosting fundraisers in Claudia’s memory, but in truth he’d bottled it. Unable to face the sympathy, the need to relive those last months of her life, the complexities of his emotions around his marriage and her death.
‘So why dyslexia?’
‘Because, whilst it isn’t a life-threatening illness, its impact can be devastating.’
Her hazel eyes surveyed him. ‘That sounds like a knowledge born of experience.’
‘It is. I’m dyslexic. I was diagnosed very late, and for a long time I believed I was stupid.’
His stomach hollowed in memory of the awful gnaw in its pit as his childhood self had stared at the jumble of shapes in front of him, desperately trying to rearrange them, to work out what they meant. Of the shameful, humiliating knowledge that around him everyone else could do it. Could see it. Could manage it. Could read and write. But he couldn’t.
