Page 40 of Lights, Camera, Love

A heavy sigh expands my chest. ‘It’s okay,’ I say softly.

I look over to Kye, who is only hearing one side of this conversation; his confusion is palpable.

‘I believe that you didn’t know I wanted my father’s identity kept secret,’ I add for Kye’s benefit.

A little line forms on his brow, and he reaches over to set his palm on my thigh.

‘Is there anything I can do to make it better?’ Austin asks me.

It’s not a question I expected from him.

As I think about it now, however, a run of formerly held-back words breaks free.

‘You can agree to break up with me,’ I say.

‘Publicly. This taste I’ve had of media interest in these past few months is not working for me.

I know it’s not great timing for the film, but what do you think? Could we cool off our public romance?’

Kye glances at me as Austin lets out a breath. ‘I’d have to talk to Kye about it,’ he replies. ‘There’s a lot of shit attached to this movie already, so we’d have to play it right.’

‘Yeah, I’m really sorry about that, too,’ I say guiltily. ‘About totally losing it with Buzz in front of everyone, I mean.’

‘Meh, that’s the least of my problems right now,’ Austin mutters.

Gosh. If he’s talking about his falling out with Kye, it’s really hit him hard.

I don’t like being the cause of that. But at no time during this conversation has Austin implied that he still has a crush on me or wants to see me.

I know that Kye kissed his wife—which wasn’t his fault, as far as I’m concerned; Austin was the one who gave him the drugs—but that was years ago, and this situation is completely different.

I just don’t get it. If Austin isn’t even interested in getting to know me better, then why is he so upset about me dating Kye?

A crisp white tablecloth and twenty-seven years. That’s all there is sitting between me and the fifty-one-year-old man I’m facing. Even though he’s a complete stranger, I know the features of his face better than my own—not because he’s my father, but because most of the world does.

When Gabriel Dean wandered into the private members’ restaurant on the top floor of a city skyscraper—he chose the venue—I was expecting to find it nearly impossible to look him in the face.

Weirdly, though, it’s been the opposite.

Close to a minute has gone by since he sat down across from me, and I’ve unabashedly raked my gaze over his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, the faint wrinkles spidering across his brow, the unusual creases in his earlobes—searching for any small, quirky detail that only someone close to him would notice …

something that sparks a feeling of connection between us.

There’s nothing.

He’s just a movie star off a billboard to me.

What’s more, he’s a movie star who can hardly meet my eye. He’s already fidgeted with his place setting so much that he’s practically redecorated the table. For the third time, he fastens one of his suede jacket buttons and undoes it again.

‘Thank you for meeting me,’ he finally grunts. ‘I do appreciate it.’

The trademark nasal timbre is so familiar; it’s the same voice I’ve heard giving three Academy Awards acceptance speeches. But there’s a formality to his tone that makes me sit on my hands so I don’t chew my nails.

When I manage to find my own voice, it comes out frail and thin. ‘Why did you want to meet?’

His frowning eyes slip to the silver fork he’s straightening. ‘Well, that question could take a while to answer.’

I stare at him. ‘About twenty-seven years?’

Finally, Gabriel’s eyes lift to mine. His startled expression makes him look like a caged animal. It’s a small piece of comfort to know he’s finding this even harder than I am.

His fingers quiver around his water glass as he begins to speak.

‘There is so much I have to make up for, and obviously, it’s not going to happen in a single lunch.

But why don’t we start with me answering your question: why did I want to see you?

’ He tilts his gaze to the ornate chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, his brow tight with concentration.

I feel like I could be watching one of two things: a seasoned actor giving the performance of his career, or a man genuinely trying to figure out why he wanted to see his child. I can’t decide which it is. Both ideas send buckets of ice through my veins.

Before he can continue, a sharply dressed waiter swoops in to take our order, and while neither of us has looked at the menu, we don’t send the young man away.

Right now, the presence of a third person feels like a lifeline.

Despite working at the most exclusive members’ club in town, where he must see celebrities all the time, the waiter’s eyes bug out of his head when he recognises his world-famous guest. Gabriel passes him the fake, measured smile of a celebrated thespian and I try not to gag.

Gabriel waits for me to order first, and I quickly choose the spaghetti marinara and a glass of pinot grigio.

He orders a pepperoni pizza and a Peroni, surprising me.

I would’ve pictured him as the type who’d ask for the twelve-hour slow-cooked lamb, with all sorts of substitutes and adjustments, and a glass of aged Sangiovese.

The waiter dashes away, and my father scrapes a hand down his jaw. ‘Where were we?’ he asks, throwing me a brisk, tight-lipped smile.

‘You were telling me why we’re here,’ I say, folding my arms. My fingers bite into the silky white shirt covering my forearms.

‘Evie,’ he says gently, my name on his lips piercing my chest, ‘did your mother ever explain to you why I left?’

At first, I say nothing. Then, I tilt forward. ‘ Why I left implies that you were there in the first place. So I don’t really understand the question.’

I hate this conversation already. Cold and argumentative is so not my vibe.

‘I’m guessing from that answer that she didn’t tell you,’ Gabriel replies.

His I-know-something-you-don’t tone hits a nerve. ‘Tell me what?’ I mutter under my breath. ‘What’s there to tell me? She said that she fell pregnant with me, and when she told you about it, you chose to abandon us both. Is there something I missed?’

He shakes his head; the skin over his knuckles tightens as he grips his fork. ‘Unbelievable,’ he mutters.

‘Yes, it is,’ I agree.

Gabriel takes a deep breath and glances over his shoulder, making sure no one’s listening.

He leans forward, fixing his crystal-blue eyes on me.

‘Your mother was seeing several men when she and I were dating. Did she tell you that? I’m guessing that part was edited out, but let’s just say she was a rather promiscuous woman back then. ’

A boulder grows in my throat at the words that I could’ve just as easily used myself to describe Mum. She’s a rather promiscuous woman now.

‘I’m not saying that I wasn’t the same,’ he continues, and I decide to try to listen to what he’s telling me without being so shut off.

‘We were both young then, and newly famous, and temptation was around every corner for both of us. I was no more faithful to your mother than she was to me when we were seeing each other. But the fact is, when she became pregnant, I wasn’t sure the baby was mine.

She was already making plans; she wanted us to get married and raise our child together, and I won’t lie, Evie, I was terrified.

I wasn’t ready to be a father, and I was just starting to receive some very big film offers.

So, with all that in mind, I asked her for a paternity test. I had to be sure before going down that road. ’

Sharp breaths of confusion pierce my lungs. I had no idea about any of this.

‘She said no , Evie,’ Gabriel says, his brows pulled together.

‘Your mother outright refused the test. So, I spoke to my lawyer and found out that I could petition the courts to order her to take it.’ He continues on about the lengths my mother apparently went to avoid it all, but all I hear is a man who took every step he could to get out of being my dad.

Tears rise to my eyes, but I clench the muscles in my face to stop them from spilling out.

‘But then, before she could be forced to do the test,’ Gabriel says, ‘your mother packed up her things while I was away working overseas and flew back to Australia. Which I believe she did just to spite me.’

His lips clamp shut, and an awful silence settles between us. A waiter flits past carrying a platter of something swimming in garlicky butter, the smell making my stomach churn.

‘If any of that’s true, why didn’t you follow her to Australia?’ I demand shakily. ‘You could have taken out a court order here.’

‘I couldn’t find her.’ His voice cracks on the words.

‘Your mother and I were living in the States when we met; I didn’t know her family or have any contact details for them.

This was before social media and Facebook.

I tried to search for her. I called my Australian contacts, but they all came up short.

If she did any acting over here, she must have used a different name. ’

She didn’t. She had to give up acting as soon as she moved back.

The waiter returns with our drinks. While he sets them down, I turn my head and blink away tears.

I can’t seem to reconcile the fact that this man, who has caused so much pain in my life, is saying these things about my mother—the dating around, the stubborn refusal to do the test, the impulsive decision to escape to Australia without leaving a forwarding address.

But I can’t deny it; they do sound like her.

Still, there must have been other avenues Gabriel could have taken to try to find me if he believed there was a possibility he was my father.