‘Anyway,’ she said briskly. ‘I think that’s quite enough about me. What about you? The business press sings your praises almost weekly. You’re said to have the Midas touch when it comes to wine and sales and things, and you’re good at fixing sinks and fetching lunch. You pursue excellence, too.’
‘But not at the expense of all else.’ He had friends. He didn’t fear failure. Not professionally, at least. On a personal level, it was a different matter altogether. He’d failed his wife and son so badly the guilt and regret still burned through him like boiling oil. But he learned from his mistakes. It wouldn’t happen again. Ever.
‘You think it’s a flaw,’ she said, a touch defensively.
‘Don’t you?’
‘No. Why on earth would it be? Why wouldn’t you want to be and do the best you can? Besides, the pursuit of perfection keeps me on an even keel and I like feeling good about myself.’
Was it the only thing that made her feel good about herself? That didn’t sound healthy, but then, what did he know? He was hardly a role model in matters of self-worth. He’d spent a decade wreaking havoc across Europe trying to find his. Thanks to his unforgivable role in the deaths of Arturo and Calysta, it still remained elusive.
‘But you are not alone in thinking it’s a problem,’ she continued, refocusing his attention before it tumbled down that rabbit hole of pain and guilt. ‘I once went to a therapist who suggested the same thing.’
‘Why did you need a therapist?’
‘I didn’t. My mother arranged it and I was in too bad a place to summon up the energy to refuse. My engagement had ended and I was wallowing in a vat of self-doubt and despondency.’
‘But not heartbreak?’ he said, astonished to hear she’d been engaged when by her own admission she didn’t even have friends.
‘Well, yes, that too, obviously.’
‘What happened?’
‘We discovered we weren’t suited. My expectations of him were too high apparently, which again I don’t see as a problem, even if he did. I mean, what’s wrong with wanting and expecting things from people, including the best?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Quite.’
‘As long as what you want and expect isn’t beyond what they can give, of course.’
Orla didn’t seem to have a response to that. As he swung the Land Rover off the road and onto a bumpy track, Duarte glanced over to see she was looking at him shrewdly, a faint frown creasing her forehead. The memory of their conversation about attraction, the moment she’d asked him if he was speaking from experience in particular, flew into his head and his chest tightened as if gripped by a vice. She was astute. All this talk about therapy and relationship expectations was making him uneasy. If she decided to turn the conversation back to him, asking the kind of questions he’d been asking her, probing into the deeply personal, the roiling of his stomach would get worse and that was hardly the plan for today.
So it was a good thing, then, that, as he pulled up beneath the wide-spreading branches of an acacia tree, they’d reached their destination.
‘We’re here.’