The seven year difference in their ages was ideal—she needed someone just a bit older to put her in her place from time to time. She would walk all over a younger man. But anyone seeing her and Dominic together would assume that she was after his money. She cringed at the thought, but acknowledged that she deserved the payback for herself thinking the same thing of other black women in a similar position.
Dominic’s money had little to do with her feelings for him. Yet, there was no ignoring the fact that he was loaded. She would have been attracted to him, even if he was a postman or a street cleaner. The question that she couldn’t honestly answer was: would she have slept with him if he was? His money gave him an aura of power that was seductive. He had also, with a sum that was peanuts to him, drastically improved her financial position and given her the first months of security she’d had since the age of eleven. And yet, if he wasn’t rich she would worry less that she was just a plaything he would discard when he was done toying with her.
Never say never. She was thankful that she hadn’t ever vocalized the private thought that she would never date a white man. She’d had typical teenage crushes on black actors, singers and rappers; had been attracted to black boys while at secondary school and had seen a few on the university campus who had made her heartbeat quicken. But one casual date at Pizza Hut with a fellow student had made her realize that real romance could far removed from its portrayal in novels. Her date had ordered a large pizza for himself and a bottle of wine to accompany the meal, and another as they chatted afterwards. She had barely drunk any, not being used to it or liking its dry, crisp taste, but had enjoyed her small Margherita. When the bill was presented, she was horrified to learn that although he had invited her on the date, he’d expected her to pay half the bill. Luckily, she’d had the required amount in her purse, but it had severely eaten into the amount she’d set aside for that month’s groceries. In the weeks following her siblings hadn’t noticed that their portions of meat, chicken or fish were smaller than usual, or that often there weren’t enough pieces for their sister to have a share as well. It had taken several weeks of scrimping and scraping to financially recover from the one lousy date. She’d decided that they weren’t worth the effort—at least not until she was in a better economic position.
On the other had, she hadn’t been attracted to any of the boys at school and had never felt the slightest spark between herself and any of her male white colleagues at university. In her naïveté she had imagined that it meant she simply wasn’t attracted to white men…and then Dominic had walked into Armstrong’s.
She didn’t have a problem with interracial dating or marriage—she just thought that the motivation should be love, not the prospect of greater social acceptance or the purpose of genetic engineering. Both parties had to be proud of their own racial heritage and fully accepting of the other’s.
She didn’t doubt the love she felt for Dominic. She was quite happy to be a member of the working classes. She was proud to be black and would have no problem if their children were replicas of her or Dominic, or a combination of both.
What she didn’t honestly know was if her head had influenced her heart—did Dominic’s wealth, after years of financial struggle, have anything to do with the way she felt about him?
If she couldn’t convince herself her love had nothing to do with his money, how could she convince anyone else?
Chapter Ten
“Mr. O’Brien would like to see you in his office immediately.” Angela didn’t sound her usual bubbly self. The fact that she’d used Dominic’s title didn’t bode well considering the company’s creed that they were all part of one big family so there was no need to stand on formality.
Chantelle hoped that she wasn’t the cause of the woman’s uncharacteristic solemnity, though she suspected she was. Dominic must have just read her letter of resignation.
“Tell him I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Chantelle tried to make her voice sound coolly professional, but butterflies were dancing in her stomach.
Let him stew in his own juices for a little longer.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her legs and swung her chair in half a dozen complete circles before she remembered that she could be seen from the outside.
It wasn’t as if she planned on leaving tomorrow. She had just politely informed him that she would work out her three month notice period effective from today.
Her iPhone immediately beeped.
Get up here now. Or I’ll come down and get you!
She stood up and immediately headed towards the lifts. He was crazy enough to come down and haul her upstairs by her hair…or kiss her senseless in front of everyone.
Angela looked up in relief when Chantelle tapped on the door.
“Hi Angela, I finished what I was doing a little earlier than expected.”
“No problem, Chantelle.” The woman’s frowning face broke into a smile and Chantelle wondered if she knew more than she let on. The woman reached into a drawer and pulled out a handbag that Chantelle had seen priced at several thousand pounds. Dominic must pay the woman a fortune. “He’s expecting you. Go on right through. I’m popping out for lunch now.”
Dominic stopped his pacing when she pushed the door open.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded, shaking the paper he held crushed in his hand at her.
God, he’s even more gorgeous when he’s angry!
“Dominic, I told you I was going to leave.”
“And I told you that you weren’t going anywhere!”
She’d come up with several reasons to convince herself that she was better off leaving him and the company. Just one look at his beloved face made her wonder if she could honestly bear to tear herself away.
“Dominic, it’s better this way,” she began, backing away to the door as he advanced. “If the media find out about us, Shawn and the girls could get teased or bullied by the neighborhood kids…even their own friends.”
“That’s why I want you to move.”
“I don’t want them to get used to a certain lifestyle and then have to go back to what we have now when our relationship is over.”
“Who said that it would be over?” He challenged. “I’ve made some enquiries and it’s not too late for them to change schools for the new school year. Shawn wants to go to Oxford next year, but realistically he has a very slim chance unless he’s attending a private school. My brother Edward lectures there, but he doesn’t have enough clout to influence the admission board. I’ve found an excellent school for him and they will arrange extra tuition if he needs it. Cerise can board at the school I’ve found for her, or she can live at home and get a lift there daily. There are plenty of schools Charmine can attend. She’s little and you know her better, so you can choose which you think will suit her best.”
He put his arms around her and she let him push her head onto his shoulder. His offer was so tempting she didn’t know why she was hesitating. It was a dream come true… But one that could turn into a nightmare if he decided he had enough of her in a few months’ time.
“You don’t know what it’s like to have the rug pulled from under you.” Her throat ached as memories flooded back. “My parents weren’t rich, but we had everything we needed. We went to Jamaica every summer to see our grandparents and even though my father never came with us, we had a great time. When we came back from that last holiday… my father had disappeared and the house felt so…empty.”
“I’m not your father.”
“I know you’re not, but I saw what love can do to a woman. It was like my mother’s spirit died and left an outer shell. Believe it or not, when you first saw her, she was in a better state than when my father left. With him gone too, it was like we were orphans. When I started to mature I had no one to turn to for advice. It was Mrs. Alexander, the P.E. teacher, who pulled me aside one day and told me I needed to wear a bra. Cerise’s hair is soft like Dad’s, I could pull it back into a ponytail and put a couple of slides around her head to make it look nice. My hair’s thicker. I didn’t know how to handle it. I looked like a wild child in the class year-group photograph that year. My white shirt was a dingy grey instead of white, my skirt had a noticeable scorch mark because I didn’t know how to regulate the iron and my hair was in three tangled puffs because I couldn’t pull the comb through it. Whenever I see that photograph it makes me feel sad, not because of my clothes or my hair, but the hopelessness in my eyes.”
“Don’t cry.” He tightened his arms around her and Chantelle realized in surprise that her eyes were wet. She never cried; she didn’t have time.
“It was tough, but I survived it.” Annoyed with herself, she twisted out of his embrace and backed away until she felt the door behind her. “I never want to feel that vulnerable again.”