If only she’d had brown eyes, then she would’ve been perfect.
I felt ashamed of that thought, but that didn’t make it any less real – or honest.
Liberty Alba.
The path I’d taken since Callie and I broke up for good and I left school was so different to the one I originally envisaged. It was the new path that had inspired my daughter’s name.
In the months that followed, for Liberty’s sake, I tried to make it work with Misty, I really did. Misty and Liberty moved in with my family. Less than six months later, it was obvious that Misty and I were water thrown on burning oil – a total disaster. I was at uni and trying to make that work. Misty couldn’t understand why I had no money left from my legacy windfall from Callie’s Nana Jasmine and she hated that I was studying all the time instead of hustling to replace all the money I’d given away. After six months, Misty moved back to her mum’s house, taking Liberty with her. Because I didn’t go running after her, she refused to let me see my daughter. And, I admit, I didn’t put up much of a fight about that. At that time, I had nothing to offer either of them. It wasn’t until years later, when I finally managed to find my feet, that I set up a trust fund for my daughter. And even then Misty still refused to let me see Liberty.
‘She doesn’t know you. Your sudden appearance in her life would just confuse her,’ she told me.
I didn’t argue. Not like I should’ve done. I told myself that Misty was right. One year turned into five, turned into ten. I paid more money into Libby’s trust fund so she wouldn’t go without, but that’s all I did for her. And now my daughter had written to me.
Dear Dad,
It feels a bit strange to write that word when I’ve never been able to call you that to your face. I’ve only just learned that you’re my dad. Mum always told me that my dad couldn’t care less about us. I only found out the truth because I intercepted a letter the bank wrote to me about the trust fund you set up for me. Mum has spent all the money, but I don’t even care so much about that, not if it means that you and I can finally meet and get to know each other. I know you’re a very busy man, but I’m hoping you’ll be able to find time for me in your life. My email address is above and my mobile number is below. I’m crossing my fingers that you’ll get in touch.
Your daughter,
Liberty
Daughter …
That word meant something completely different now than it did when I was still a teenager. Then it had meant worry and despair and fear, and an intense sense of being tethered to the ground. Hell, not just tethered but staked. Now it meant … hope. Hope that I could turn some of my focus without rather than within. Hope that I could grow bigger to meet her expectations rather than shrink and shrivel to fulfil my own. Dangerous word, hope.
Liberty. She might just live up to her name and set me free. Free of my cynicism and misanthropy. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Of course I’d get in touch with her. What was she like? Did she take after me? Her mum? Both of us? Neither? Was she popular at school? I bet she was. I shook my head, acutely aware in that moment of how little I knew about my own daughter. That bitch Misty had told me Libby wanted nothing to do with me. I’d sent birthday and Crossmas cards and a number of letters over the years. None of them had ever been so much as acknowledged. This email made me think Libby hadn’t received a single one of them. And all the trust-fund money was gone? My lawyers could deal with that and Misty later. Right now, I wanted nothing more than to get to know my daughter.
I was already in full planning mode. During the next couple of days, I’d get in touch with Libby and arrange a meeting. Then we’d take it from there. I needed to make up for lost time. Almost eighteen years of lost time. But, before that, I had to get through this bullshit evening.
‘Would you like me to wait for you, sir?’ asked Ben, my driver, as he pulled up in front of Butler’s Wharf.
I looked up at the riverside apartment building before me – all twenty storeys of it – and was sorely tempted to say yes. I really wasn’t in the mood for socializing. With less than one week to go before the general election, I had more productive things to do with my time. For Shaka’s sake, I had three interviews – two radio and one TV – lined up for the following morning, all before 11 a.m.
‘No, Ben. That’s OK. You go and get yourself some dinner,’ I replied.
Ben, a Nought in his late fifties with white-blond hair and a trim matching moustache, nodded his head. ‘Just phone when you’re ready to be picked up, sir.’
How many times had I asked Ben to call me Tobey rather than sir, but I was still waiting for that to happen. Getting out of the car, I made my way to the apartment-block entrance. Dan’s penthouse occupied the whole of the top floor of this exclusive block. In the centre of the city, with the east aspect overlooking the river, it must’ve have set him back several million – conservative estimate! To think that, only a decade ago, I’d been visiting him in prison. Now look where I was visiting him. I pressed the button of the video entry system to his apartment. Almost immediately the tempered glass doors clicked open. I made my way inside.
Up on the twentieth floor, I stepped out of the lift to find Dan’s door was already open. A deep breath later, I entered his apartment. I wasn’t the first to arrive, but, from the look of it, I wasn’t the last either. Others had already taken up position around his lounge. Kellan Bruemann, the Cross CEO of a worldwide construction company, stood at the floor-to-ceiling window. The view wasn’t the only thing he was drinking in, to judge by the huge glass of cognac in his hand. He was starting early. It was barely seven o’clock. What was he doing here? I knew for a fact that he detested Dan.
To my surprise, Isabella Monroe, my ex-PA and ex-lover, was also present. Hellsake! What had she been saying to Dan about me? The way we parted meant she wasn’t exactly a paid-up member of my fan club. Not any more. She stood by a lamp where the light could best show off her gold sequined dress. I have to admit, she looked stunning. Bella caught sight of me, held my gaze for a moment, then looked away with a scornful flick of her eyelashes. I sighed inwardly. She was still bearing a grudge, that much was obvious.
‘You’re dumping me? You’re actually dumping me?’ Isabella couldn’t believe it when I told her.
‘Bella, I told you I’m not looking for anything serious or permanent, but you’re picking out baby clothes,’ I replied. ‘I told you when we started this affair that all I was looking for was occasional companionship. Nothing else. Nothing more. And you agreed.’
‘I thought … I hoped what we had might develop into something deeper,’ Isabella admitted.
I shook my head. ‘I can’t help what you hoped.’
God, I sounded like a callous bastard, but it was time to nip this in the bud. Tout de suite.
‘That’s it? That’s all you have to say?’ Isabella was incredulous.
I sighed. ‘I’m hoping we can both behave like adults about this. We can still be friends and you’re a damned good PA—’
‘You think I’d work for you after this?’ Then Isabella proceeded to tell me where to stick my job and what to do once it was firmly wedged. I know I had it coming, but it didn’t make it any less unpleasant.