‘But it’s easier for you to take those risks,’ she said, although he could see he was getting through, because the colour had come back into her cheeks. ‘You’re good at it. You know when a risk is worth taking and ho
w to survive the punishment.’
‘Precisely, so next time you must let me help. Not bottle up your fear.’
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and read the text from Selene. Then smiled.
Problem solved.
Clicking on the link Selene had sent through, he passed the phone to his wife. ‘Your new fabric supplier Rohana has a message for you.’
He watched over Alison’s shoulder as the message played. An excited woman, gesticulating madly at the screen, told Alison how pleased they were to be working with her on the collection and how they couldn’t wait to send the first batch of materials.
Alison sniffed as she passed him back the phone. ‘I don’t believe it. You fixed a problem I’ve been wrestling with for weeks in a two-minute phone call.’ Her grin was tentative but there, which was all he cared about. They had weathered this storm, just like the last one. She would do the show, despite her misgivings, and it would be a triumph, because just like the Dharavi Collective she was brilliant at what she did, even if she was the last one to believe it.
He nodded. ‘Of course.’
She choked out a laugh. ‘I guess being married to a twenty-eight-year-old billionaire has it uses,’ she said. ‘Even if I keep tripping over his enormous ego.’
He laughed. Slinging an arm around her shoulder, he placed a kiss on the top of her head, to resist the powerful urge to kiss the teasing smile off her lips. Because that would be bound to start something they would not be able to finish.
‘Actually I’m not that precocious,’ he murmured. ‘I turned twenty-nine while we were in Paris.’
He only realised his mistake when she whipped round and stared at him, her eyes huge with shock.
‘It was your birthday while we were in Paris? Why didn’t you say something? We should have celebrated. I should have bought you a present. Baked you a cake. Something. Perhaps we could celebrate it now?’
The weight in his stomach twisted back into a knot as he noticed the sheen of hope and excitement.
‘Forget I mentioned it,’ he said. ‘I don’t celebrate it,’ he added.
‘Why not?’ she said.
‘Because I never have,’ he replied.
‘Never? Not even when you were a child?’ She sounded horrified.
‘My mother didn’t consider my birth something to celebrate,’ he said. ‘Getting pregnant was what ended her affair with my father.’
He’d always tried not to let it bother him. Marking his birthday each year would have been painful for his mother. It had made him feel left out when other children had talked about their birthdays, but he’d forced himself not to care. They hadn’t had money for gifts anyway, so what would have been the point? In truth, he’d only found out about his birth date by accident, after discovering his birth certificate—with his father’s name on it—in one of his mother’s drawers.
‘But, Dominic, that’s awful.’
‘What you don’t have, you don’t miss,’ he said, suddenly wanting to cut off the conversation. Why had he confided so much?
‘Are you sure you don’t want to start celebrating it?’ Alison said. ‘I make a mean chocolate cake.’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
He steeled himself against the shadow of hurt in her eyes. And the brutal pang of longing. What would be the point of celebrating his birthday this year, when there would be no one here to celebrate with him next year?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Can you come to Rome tomorrow night? Selene will make all the arrangements if you can spare the time before the show. D
ALLY READ THE text that had popped up on her smartphone five minutes ago for the twentieth time. Or was it the thirtieth time? She was looking for hidden meaning, or additional information. Or some sign that things had changed in their relationship, if only a little bit, since their night together in London.
But Dominic’s text was exactly the same as all the others she’d received over the past three months requesting her presence by his side—polite, pragmatic and distant.