Читать книгу The Dare Collection: March 2018 - Nicola Marsh - Страница 29

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Abby

I USUALLY LOOKED forward to my day at TAFE once a week, a day to take a break from the manic pace of Le Miel and absorb the theory behind creating pastries.

I loved the lectures, the note taking, the practical sessions. The sight of my notebooks covered in scrawl. The sharing of recipes with fellow students. The questions fired at the visiting chefs.

I loved it all. But today I was distracted, seriously distracted. And I blamed a tall, tattooed nightclub owner with a penchant for pastry and me.

Last night had been incredible. A laid-back evening filled with laughs and loving. Making love, that was. I’d never be foolish enough to confuse it with any other type of love.

During our beachside date, Tanner had been more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. He had a softer side to him that was just as appealing as the harder edges. I liked seeing his different facets, like peeling back the layers of an onion and discovering more intricacies beneath.

He’d come back to my place after our beachside picnic and we hadn’t left the bed for hours, before falling asleep in each other’s arms. When he’d left at five this morning, he’d seemed different. Almost reluctant to depart. More tender somehow.

It had freaked me out a little. I couldn’t let Tanner derail my plans. I’d already given up so much of myself in the past and now that my divorce had come through and I was finally free, I needed to move forward. To do what was right for me.

As much as we burned up the sheets and the many ways I craved him, having anything beyond short term with Tanner would be a recipe for disaster.

I knew what would happen. I’d end up getting emotionally invested, wanting to do whatever it took to keep my man happy and end up resenting him, ensuring one of us would walk away. And I’d be catapulted back to twelve months ago, picking up the pieces of my life while struggling to heal, while cursing my lack of a backbone.

After coming so far, I couldn’t do that to myself. I wouldn’t.

Determined to forget the possible complications with Tanner and focus on today’s lectures, I hoisted my backpack higher and headed for the imposing wrought-iron front gates, mentally reciting the day’s timetable.

Deep in thought, I stumbled over a crack in the footpath.

And almost slammed into my mother.

‘Hello, Abigail.’ She helped me straighten, her expression half fearful, half expectant, as she released me. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine,’ I responded by rote, stunned to see her here, torn between wanting to hug her and throttle her.

I’d missed her so much. Had she missed me at all?

A tsunami of mixed emotions swamped me: anger, sadness, hope, regret. A potent combination that made my hands shake and I clenched and unclenched them a few times to get a grip.

I’d envisaged the first meeting with Mum or Dad so many times late at night, when I’d been cradling a Chardonnay and trying to ignore the insistent little voice in my head that recited how much my parents didn’t give a damn. In those thoughts, I’d imagined Mum hugging me, squeezing me so tight like she’d never let go. Maybe even Dad apologising and begging for forgiveness.

But there’d been no hug from Mum. No sign that this was anything but an orchestrated encounter for who knew what purpose.

‘You look tired,’ she said, studying my face, her intense scrutiny not bothering me like it once had.

How many times had I heard her berate me?

‘Abigail, you need to use more moisturiser on your frown lines.’

‘Abigail, sunscreen is an important part of your beauty regimen. You don’t want to wrinkle before fifty, do you?’

‘Abigail, those dark circles under your eyes could do with a thicker concealer.’

‘Abigail, that shade of coral lipstick makes you look too pale. Try a vivid pink.’

I’d tolerated her beauty advice because it was her thing, like I accepted her criticisms of everything from my wardrobe to my haircut. She was my mother and it’d been easier to acquiesce than cause dissension and ultimately get the silent treatment. I’d hated when she’d ignored me.

Ironic, as she’d given me the ultimate silent treatment over the last twelve months.

If she’d been trying to teach me a lesson, it hadn’t worked. The only thing I’d learned was that I should’ve escaped my parents’ shadows and started living my own life a long time ago. And that I couldn’t trust those closest to me, despite how much I loved them.

Hoping the emotion clogging my throat wouldn’t make my voice shaky, I said, ‘I’m busy, so maybe we can catch up another time?’

She wrinkled her nose, considering she couldn’t wrinkle her perfectly smooth Botoxed brow. ‘You don’t have to be busy, you know. Working at that pastry place, going to school here once a week.’ She waved her hand at the TAFE, then in front of her nose, like the place stank. ‘It’s beneath you.’

Ice trickled through my veins. This definitely wasn’t how I’d envisaged our first meeting after a year. There were no kind words, no professions of missing me, no hugs.

Instead, it was the same old. Mum telling me what I should and shouldn’t be doing.

I crossed my arms across my middle, desperate to quell the hollow ache that her indifference elicited. ‘How do you know where I work?’

Not that I particularly cared what the answer was. They’d obviously wanted to keep an eye on me, to ensure I hadn’t entered prostitution or anything similarly nefarious that would bring disrepute on the precious Prendigast name.

‘You know your father likes to keep tabs on everyone.’ She patted my arm, the briefest touch that conveyed nothing but condescension. ‘We care—’

‘Cut the crap, Mum. If you cared, you would’ve tried to contact me over the last year. To at least pretend you loved me more than keeping up appearances. To show you were worried about me rather than your reputation.’ My voice had risen and several students glanced our way, so I blew out a calming breath. ‘Look, arguing is pointless. I need to get to class so—’

‘Come home,’ she said, her expression dour as she stared at me with distaste. Heaven forbid a Prendigast showed real emotion. ‘It’s not too late. You can salvage your marriage to that poor boy Bardley, resume the life you should have, repair our name—’

‘You don’t get it,’ I said, mentally counting to ten to quell the rising anger making my hands shake. ‘I’m happy. I’m leading the life I want, not the life you want me to.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped, bitterness twisting her mouth. ‘You’re behaving like a child. You’ve had your fun for a year, time to grow up.’

I stared at the woman who’d given birth to me, with her powder-blue designer suit, perfectly streaked blond hair, immaculate make-up and a handbag that would pay my rent for two years.

My mother.

Who wouldn’t know the meaning of the word if it jumped up and bit her on her surgically tightened ass.

A few moments ago, I’d been filled with hope that she’d sought me out to offer a smidgeon of understanding, that she’d finally understood my rationale for walking away from my old life and wanted to embrace me with acceptance.

What a crock.

Bone-deep disappointment shook me to my core. I loved my parents; all I expected was to be loved in return. But this wasn’t love. And if I was completely honest with myself, had they ever loved me at all?

Love wasn’t controlling and dominant and angry. Love didn’t expect me to acquiesce and bow down to the heavy weight of expectations. Love didn’t leave me alone for twelve long months, without making the slightest overture to heal a rift.

The ache in my stomach spread into my chest, reaching outward until I could hardly breathe. I needed to escape, to get away from her obvious disapproval.

There was no love here, only judgement, and I couldn’t tolerate it a moment longer.

‘Bye, Mum. Don’t contact me again.’

How I managed to get the words out without breaking down I’d never know, but I did, sounding surprisingly calm when I was a screaming mess inside. A seething mass of emotion that threatened to spurt out of my eyes in a torrent.

My mother drew herself up, squaring her shoulders for a fight that would never come. Because I was done. ‘Abigail! Don’t you dare walk away from me.’

So I did just that, without looking back.