‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure. Truly, Adam. Please don’t worry about me.’ She smoothed her hands down the soft lapels of his jacket, allowed her hands to linger on the muscular wall of his chest. ‘You’ve got this.’
‘Thank you, Olivia. I appreciate it. Truly.’
For a breathless heartbeat she thought he’d kiss her. Instead he squeezed her hands before releasing her. Turning, he headed backstage.
Heart still thumping, mind whirling, Olivia headed for her seat, picked up the goody bag and looked inside. An ornate card gave her a free stay in any Masterson Hotel, inclusive of travel, complimentary spa time, meals and drinks. A mini bottle of champagne stood alongside an expensive designer body spray.
And there in the corner nestled a tissue-wrapped package with her name scrawled on it—surely in Adam’s handwriting? Olivia unwrapped the light blue folds and pulled out a delicate silver charm bracelet. A surreptitious glance around showed that no one else sported anything similar on their wrist.
Surprise and appreciation lodged deep in her chest as she saw the shape of the charm dangling from the chain. It was a wardrobe: an exact copy of her company’s logo. A miniature wardrobe, complete with arms and legs.
Who knew how he’d got one made so fast? She’d only told him about Working Wardrobes that morning.
She clasped the silver chain around her wrist as the lights changed to illuminate the stand at the head of the catwalk. Conversation slowly cascaded away into an expectant silence as Adam and his co-host, Fenella Jowinski, a famous model of yesteryear, emerged from the shadows into the spotlight.
Following a short, pithy speech from Fenella, Adam stepped up to the microphone and Olivia clenched her hands together as she willed him good luck vibes. Not that it would be possible for anyone to guess he was nervous, the slight whitening of his knuckles as they clasped the edge of the podium the only clue. Otherwise his body was relaxed, his voice even and melodious without a hitch or a hint of edge.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, and everyone else in the audience, I’d like to thank you all for being here today to support a cause that is very dear to me.’
Here Adam paused, his eyes scanning the crowded chairs and resting for a moment on Olivia.
‘I had a speech all prepared—a speech full of statistics and stories and leaps in medical advances. It was a great speech, and I spent a very long time writing it. However, thanks to some words said to me just moments before my arrival here I’ve changed my mind. Someone said to me that my mother would be proud of me. I hope with all my heart that that is true. So, before we get down to the business of fashion and let loose the wonderful, dedicated women who will model some amazing creations, I would like to tell you about my mother—the wonderful woman who shaped my life for eight years.’
Olivia stilled. Only eight years? That meant Adam would have been just a child when his mother died.
Pressing her lips together to hold back a gasp of empathetic pain, she leant forward, wanting to hear every word.
‘Maria Jonson was truly beautiful, inside and out. She had the capability of bringing joy and light to a room with the power of her smile. A single mother who gifted me a carefree childhood, she loved life and lived every precious second of hers to the full. She didn’t have a glamorous job—she worked in an accounts department—but she had an imagination that soared.’
Olivia’s heart twisted with pain as Adam painted a picture of a brave, wonderful, ordinary woman. A woman who’d sung and danced and read him stories. One who’d loved movies and spending time curled up under a duvet with her son and a bowl of popcorn. A woman who had collected so many knick-knacks and souvenirs of her life that their small house had overflowed.
A woman who had suddenly contracted myeloma and three months later passed away.
‘I watched her get weaker, I watched her suffer, but right to the very end she gave me love. And that is why I am standing here today—because I want this disease to be stopped. So that it no longer can claim any more wonderful, ordinary, beautiful women like Maria Jonson. My mother. A woman who deserves to be remembered. I hope wherever she is now she is proud of me, as I am still proud of her.’
You could have heard the proverbial pin drop as Adam stepped down, and Olivia marvelled at what he had done. He had brought his mother’s memory to life and he’d done so without being maudlin or displaying an ounce of self-pity.
Compassion and grief cloaked her at the thought of an eight-year-old Adam whose whole life had been wrenched topsy-turvy, desolated by the loss of the person who had meant everything to him. And for it to have happened so fast... He must have been terrified, alone, hurt and angry at fate.