Page 60

“He’s not my favorite person at the moment.”
“Why? What has he done?”
I lean back in my chair and turn my fork over in my fingers. “It doesn’t matter.”
“He doesn’t approve of you having dinner with me.” It’s a statement. She’s obviously guessed from the way he was so rude to her in my office.
“No.”
She doesn’t look upset, just curious. “He seems young to have a son your age.”
“He was only nineteen when I was born. I think I was an accident.” My lips twist.
Her brown eyes survey me thoughtfully. “Tell me about your mum.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Were they happy together?”
“They had two kids.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I shrug. “I guess they were. He never cheated, as far as I know.”
“So that’s your definition of happiness—whether the guy cheats or not?”
I just give her a sardonic look.
“What was your mum like?” she asks.
I look away then, picturing my mother. “Tall. Blonde. Beautiful. Elegant. Reserved. In control. Some would say cold. I don’t remember her ever giving me a hug. I was closer to the nanny than I was to either of my parents.” My feelings about my mother confuse me. Her death hit me hard, even though I wouldn’t have said we were close. “I want to say I don’t miss her, but I do, and that frustrates me.” I stop talking then, feeling as if I’ve said too much. Scarlett’s brows have drawntogether. “What was your mum like?” I ask, wanting to draw the attention away from myself.
“The complete opposite. Maori. Curvy. Warm. Friendly. She belonged to everyone, in a way, not just to me.” She sips her champagne. “Do you know why our fathers were such bitter enemies?”
“No. He won’t tell me. I know they went to school together. But something happened when they were about eighteen, I think. I know they had a physical fight and had to be broken up by a teacher. Both of them were suspended for it.”
“I didn’t know that,” she says softly.
“That’s about all I know. Kingi’s dad, Rangi, joked about it once. He was a couple of years above them. Dad got angry and told him to shut the fuck up, which was weird in itself because he never spoke like that to his friends.”
“Strange.” She looks down at her dinner.
For some reason, something to do with her expression, I get a prickle of warning. “Do you know something about their relationship?”
She scoops up a forkful of risotto. “No.” She eats it, her gaze flicking up to mine. I don’t think she’s telling the truth, but I can’t just accuse her of lying. “So,” she says, “when’s your birthday?”
“Fourteenth of October.”
“So you’re a Libra.”
That makes me laugh as I cut into my chicken. “I thought you weren’t into astrology?”
“Only for fun.”
“What does it tell you about me?”
She thinks as she chews. “Mmm.” She swallows. “You’re charming. Intellectual.”