Save the Last Dance (31 page)

They left the dressing room, and Alice went over to an abstract-looking chair to retrieve her handbag.

‘Leave it,' Coreen said. ‘We'll need both hands once we get downstairs.'

Good idea. She hadn't been quite sure how she was going to manage a clutch bag without looking as if she was clutching
onto
it. And, compared to the dress, it looked a little—well, downmarket.

‘Showtime!' Coreen grinned at her, her bright red lips making her look like a Varga girl.

Showtime. Cameron's show. And, after all the work she'd done, hers too.

There was the last-minute snag—right there. It was her show, and it was time to step up and become the leading lady rather than just the understudy.

 

The exterior of the new Orion Solutions building was floodlit—the stark white lights throwing the carved stonework into relief, making it seem as if the columns rose into the sky and just kept going. Low box hedges framed the clipped squares of grass where only recently mere rubble had been, and as they arrived the guests marvelled at the transformation the indomitable Cameron Hunter had wrought. It was truly magical, they said. How amazing that this wonderful building had been under their noses all this time and nobody had ever paid it the slightest bit of attention.

They milled inside, continuing to exclaim at every little thing: the wonderful black and white marble floors, those darling Art Deco glass lights on the ceiling, and oh,
look
at that original dark wood!

Old Hollywood glamour.

The theme had been whole-heartedly embraced by those lucky enough to get an invite. Fabrics shimmered and swished, jewels sparkled, and everyone had an air of quiet self-importance. Some of the men had top hats and canes like Fred Astaire. One man had even gone to the trouble of putting
on spats—although the general consensus was that they made him look more like a mobster than anything else.

The chatter increased as the guests wandered through the entrance hall into the atrium, and there everyone took a breath, a moment, and fell silent for a few seconds. Then they all started talking again, this time louder and more emphatically.

The lighting was deliberately low, and tiny white spotlights glinted in the glass roof like stars that had swooped down to see what all the excitement was about. Creamy white flowers were everywhere. At one end of the long rectangular courtyard was a wide stage, with chairs arranged in rows in front of it, and at the other end a large space for dancing and a forty-piece jazz band complete with a singer in a long white dress and an orchid tucked behind one ear.

But no one was dancing yet. That would come later—after the fashion show. For now an army of waiters offered trays full of colourful cocktails, and the topic of discussion became whether it really
was
better to have a martini ‘shaken' and what exactly was
in
a Sidecar.

In the centre of the atrium was the fountain, flowing with water that fizzed and bubbled like champagne. It was surrounded by a thick black border in the marble tiles, marking out a square, and at each corner of the square stood a towering potted tree, leaves delicately draping themselves downwards as if reaching for the spray of the fountain. And there, standing under one of those trees, was Cameron Hunter, as calm and poised as everyone expected him to be. The perfect host. He greeted his guests warmly, remembering all their names, making them all feel welcome as he ushered them in to his little corner of the universe.

Cameron, however, was feeling far from calm or poised,
but he was—as always—doing an excessively good job of hiding the fact lest anyone suspect, lest anyone
judge
.

He turned, a smooth smile on his face, at the sound of his name. Only a microscopic twitch of an eyelid gave him away as he saw who had spoken.

‘Daniel Fitzroy.' He omitted to say how pleased he was to see the man who'd made his schooldays a living nightmare, because it really wasn't true.

‘Cameron.' The man grabbed his hand and shook it warmly. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me—us.' He flicked a glance at the woman standing next to him, a small brunette with sharp eyes and an obvious bump under her stretchy black dress. ‘We're really thrilled to be here.'

This was what he'd wanted—to see and hear Daniel Fitzroy bowing down before him, smiling like a weasel and pretending the past hadn't happened because he was so desperate to impress him. Cameron had always known that when this day finally came he'd have won. The memory of all those beatings would be erased and he'd be free.

And then, as if the universe had decided that granting his every desire tonight wasn't enough, and it was going to go ahead and grant his every thought as well, there she was.

Jessica.

Strolling towards him, resplendent in a long, deep pink dress with a bow that reminded him of a scene in a Marilyn Monroe movie—the one where she sang about diamonds. And Jessica hadn't scrimped on
those
either.

Why was she here? How had she got in? He definitely hadn't added her name to the guest list. But, then again, she was Jessica Fernly-Jones, and she never needed an invite to turn up to anything.

Despite the fact he hadn't seen her in weeks, and she'd not
been happy when he'd left her standing in her swish apartment with a scowl on her face and an ‘ordinary' white diamond in her hand, she seemed perfectly at ease. She sauntered up to him and placed a soft kiss on his cheek before turning to smile at Fitzroy and his wife.

Cameron made the introductions. Everyone smiled at each other.

But, to his credit, Fitzroy's tongue stayed in his mouth, and he gave his little wife an affectionate squeeze. Bizarrely, that pleased Cameron. The small, serious woman at his side didn't deserve to be made to feel second-class, whatever he thought of her husband.

‘Actually,' Fitzroy said in a low voice, pulling him to one side, ‘could I have a word with you?' And he drew Cameron a few feet away, behind the potted tree and out of view of the guests spilling in through the doors.

 

The fashion show was due to start in fifteen minutes, and backstage was bedlam. Models were running around in their underwear, clothing rails filled every available space, and the clouds of hairspray necessary for some of the elaborate retro styles were starting to make Alice cough.

Even with all their friends from the market to help dress everyone and take care of the clothes it was madness. Alice took a moment to rest against a table and wonder why—for the thousandth time—she'd ever got suckered into doing all of this. She hadn't even managed to get out from backstage to see how the rest of the party was going. She was having to rely on reports from Stephanie, Cameron's PA, who actually seemed to be thriving in all the high-stress excitement.

Suddenly a hand clapped on her shoulder, and she jerked to a standing position.

‘We've got an emergency,' Coreen said, a deathly serious look on her face.

It had to be at least the fifth time she'd made such an announcement this evening.

Coreen must have read her thoughts, because she added, ‘No—this time it's a real emergency! One of the models, Amber—you know, the one with the hair?'

As far as Alice was aware none of their models was bald, but she let it slide.

‘Well, she's throwing up in the toilets. Blaming it on a rice salad she ate at lunchtime. Boy, she does
not
look good! There's no way she can do the runway.'

Alice frowned. ‘Can we give her dresses to some of the other models—share them out?'

Coreen shook her head. ‘The changes are too quick. We'll have gaps in the show if we wait for them, and that will look unprofessional.'

Alice frowned even harder and put her thinking cap on. Everything was silent for a few seconds.

Hang on a minute. Coreen
lived
for drama. Why wasn't she relishing the moment, wringing her hands and gnashing her teeth? She turned to Coreen, who was still standing patiently next to her.

‘You've got a plan, haven't you?'

A bright smile lit Coreen's face. ‘I
have
got a plan!'

‘And the plan is…?'

A manicured finger poked her in the chest. ‘You. My plan is
you.
'

 

Cameron had followed Fitzroy behind the potted tree, too taken aback by the thought of Fitzroy wanting something
from him to say anything. Now they were effectively in private Fitzroy shuffled a little, and couldn't meet Cameron's eyes.

‘Actually, I wanted to apologise to you.' He glanced up, then returned to looking at the floor. ‘I should have done it sooner, but…well, I just didn't. Perhaps I'm a coward.'

Yep. Pretty much what Cameron had always thought.

But Fitzroy suddenly squared his shoulders and looked Cameron in the eye—something Cameron didn't think he'd ever done before, not even when he'd been punching seven bells out of him.

‘I want to apologise for the way I treated you at school. Back then…let's just say I had issues at home, and I dealt with it by taking it out on people like you—easy targets.' A genuine look of remorse clouded his features. ‘Not that you were ever the soft touch I'd taken you for. You just refused to cower, no matter how hard I tried. In the end it just made me all the more determined to try. Not the right way to handle it, I know. But I'm afraid I just wasn't brought up to know any better. It was the only example I had.'

Cameron had come across Mr Fitzroy Senior over the last couple of years. He was a big cheese in banking, and Cameron wouldn't have liked even to work for the old goat, let alone be related to him. He bullied everyone he came into contact with. Being his son had to be a nightmare. From what he'd witnessed, nothing was ever good enough for that man.

He was suddenly reminded of his laser eye surgery—how everything had gradually come into focus, how he'd felt he was seeing everything in a new light afterwards. He looked at Daniel Fitzroy now and no longer saw an arrogant enemy too powerful to prevail against. Now he just saw the remnants of a boy who hadn't had the inner strength to cope with a vin
dictive father. How had he never seen how weak, how deserving of pity Daniel Fitzroy had always been?

And how had he never realised how similar he and the other man had been on the inside? How they'd both been damaged by their fathers' low opinions of them, even if they'd worn that pain very differently on the outside.

‘I'm not that person any more, Cameron. I've changed.' He stole a look at his wife, who was deep in conversation with Jessica. ‘And I want you to know that I am truly sorry.'

Cameron stood there, blinking at the man, the hot coals of the anger he'd been stoking for almost twenty years now smoking and hissing. He couldn't pretend he hadn't heard what the man had said, although part of him wished he could. Then he'd be able to go on hating, letting the furnace drive him forward. But Daniel Fitzroy had just made a genuine apology, and Cameron was not a man to ignore courage and integrity—even when it appeared in the most unlikely of places.

He reached out and shook Daniel's hand.

The other man breathed out a long sigh of relief and signalled with a quick glance at his wife that the deed was done. Silent communication. Unfortunately it gave Jessica an excuse to walk over with the woman, and she looped her arm in his and leaned into him, her large blue eyes wide and blinking—a little trick he knew she thought men found appealing, and once upon a time he had.

He honestly didn't object to talking to Daniel and his wife for the next ten minutes or so. The only drawback was that Jessica seemed to be attached to his arm as if she had octopus suckers, and he couldn't shake her loose without creating a scene.

Daniel's wife was obviously very much in love with him.
She looked adoringly at him as he spoke, her arm in his, her free hand rubbing the top of her bump almost constantly.

Cameron got the oddest feeling. He looked at the man Daniel had become and, while he wasn't sure they would ever be friends, he acknowledged how much he'd grown. He might not be the power-player his father was, but in Cameron's eyes it took guts to humble yourself before your greatest enemy.

In comparison, Cameron felt a little two-dimensional.

Where was his
own
adoring wife? His
own
promise of new life for the future? Nowhere. Because he'd dedicated his life to proving to the Daniel Fitzroys of this world that he was every bit their equal. And, for some totally unfathomable reason, he'd decided the best way to go about it was to amass as much money as he could and gallivant about town with useless creatures like the one currently affixed to his left arm.

Fitzroy hadn't let the past define him as Cameron had done. All these years he'd been fighting ghosts, fighting the shadows of bullies who had moved on with their lives, become men with lives and families. And now the anger was gone he realised there was a huge gaping hole in his life. The abscess had been drained, removing the fiery pain, and now there was nothing left but an ugly-looking hole. What was more, he had no idea how he was going to fill it.