your problem, you know.”
You’re my problem, Ryan almost snapped. His father couldn’t leave him alone. But if he told JD that, he’d leave himself wide open for a tirade.
He got one anyway.
“It’s high time you did something about your lifestyle, Ryan. You’re still drifting aimlessly. No focus. No goal. You’re past thirty, son, and still a hack journalist.”
For crying out loud.
“You know you should be in management by now. Running budgets, hiring and firing.”
Ryan held the receiver away from his ear as his father rattled on.
“I’ve had an idea that might suit you,” JD said. “It’s time you used the money in the trust fund your mother left you. Use it to buy up a little country newspaper. You would get one for a song. Get it up and running and then knock off the other papers in the region. Build quite a good business.”
Ryan groaned softly. “Thanks for the suggestion, but I’ve no intention of burying myself in some sleepy country town.”
“But for—”
“Dad, I’m taking a short break and then I’m going to concentrate on specialist writing. Features. Human interest. I’ll look up some of my old contacts at The Sydney Chronicle.”
“Surely you’re not going to crawl back to the rag where you started?”
“I can and I shall. I’m very happy with my life.” Ryan’s voice rose several decibels. “OK?”
He disconnected, felt drained. In recent years, hanging up in mid-conversation had been the only way to avoid an almighty argument with his father.
I’m very happy with my life.
It was almost true.
And that was more than JD could claim. His father might be an Australian success story, but he was into his third marriage and was still obsessed with wiping out his business opponents. Ryan couldn’t imagine ever finding pleasure from that.
JD owned a string of iron ore and gold mines and several cattle stations, a mansion in Perth, an apartment overlooking Sydney Harbour, an island in the Great Barrier Reef and a villa on the Côte d’Azur, but his billions had never bought him the kind of contentment that Ryan longed for.
Nevertheless, in his father’s eyes Ryan would always be a failure. Christopher, the elder son, was the Good Son, the golden child. He’d followed in JD’s footsteps, had acquired a Ph.D. in mining engineering, a beautiful trophy wife and two fine sons.
Ryan was the black sheep.
Most of the time he didn’t let it bother him. And yet…
He felt strangely alone.
Like a congenital defect, loneliness had dogged him since childhood, since he’d first known he would never bask in the warmth of his father’s approval.
And right now he was tired. Physically and emotionally. But he knew from experience that it was best after a long international flight to grit it out until night time before hitting the hay.
He really needed coffee.
With not a coffee bean in sight, he opted for Plan B. He would head for Stratos’s café. He could spend the afternoon there, surrounded by Sydneysiders, drinking endless cups of coffee.
Picking up his coat, he felt the weight of the girl’s book in the pocket.
He felt the grain of the leather cover beneath his fingers and then, as he took the diary out and set it on the bookcase, he thought about its owner. Remembered her tentative smile, her lovely eyes.
He should do something about getting this back to her. But the conversation with his father had destroyed his sense of gallantry.
Maybe tomorrow. Right now, he needed coffee.
CHAPTER TWO
SIMONE couldn’t sleep for worrying about her diary, couldn’t believe she’d lost it. She’d called the cab company but there was no report anywhere of it being handed in. She was terribly afraid that the diary had disappeared for ever.
But where was it? Had someone found it? Would they bother to read it? Would they ever link it to her?
The cab company had asked her to leave her name and a contact number, but she’d been too afraid to reveal her identity. What if her story was leaked to the press?
The possibilities tossed around and around in her head like debris swirling down a drainpipe and finally she gave up trying to sleep. Slipping out of bed, she padded in bare feet through the dark flat to her study, blinked at the brightness as her computer screen came to life and read Belle and Claire’s emails for the zillionth time.
Belle had written:
Oh, Simone! What a shame about your diary. I know how hard you worked on it—will you be able to put together your article without it? If you need any details, I’ve got the stuff I wrote for my reports that you can have. As for anyone connecting us with it, I wouldn’t worry too much. It’s most likely in some airport waste compactor by now.
That was a comforting thought. If only she could believe it.
Claire had been equally sympathetic and reassuring:
Don’t beat yourself up about this. It’s disappointing and frustrating, but I can’t imagine it will cause any problems for any of us.
Simone closed down her email programme, hoping the girls were right. It wouldn’t be so bad if she hadn’t included so many personal ramblings in her diary. She hadn’t meant to get deep and meaningful. Her intention had been simply to record the cycling challenge, but for years now she’d kept her inner self so tightly under wraps that once she was out of the country and had started to write, all kinds of thoughts, hopes and fears had tumbled on to the page.
So many dreams and dreads, memories and secrets…
Up there in the Himalayas, close beneath the stars, she’d looked at the vast dome of sky and hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her parents. Both dead. She’d never known her father—he’d died before she was born, fighting in Vietnam. Her mother had died when she was seventeen.
She’d thought a great deal about her grandfather, who was very much alive, although she hadn’t seen him in over a decade.
Belle and Claire had been going through something similar, she’d discovered later, which was why they’d eventually made their pact and why Simone had pledged to go to Jonathan Daintree, her grandfather, to tell him what she should have told him years ago.
But now, back in Sydney and sitting alone in the dark, her courage seemed to have abandoned her totally.
In the eerie darkness, her eyes sought the familiar shape of an old cardboard box on the bookshelf beside her. It held all the Christmas and birthday cards her grandfather had sent her. Each card had come with a generous cheque and she’d written polite notes to thank him, but on both sides their correspondence had been guarded and coldly polite for some time now.
And it was her fault.
After her mother’s death, she’d distanced herself from the old man. At first there had been occasional fleeting meetings in cafés when Jonathan had come to town. A kiss on the cheek…
A handful of words…
“How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks, Grandfather.”
“You know you’re always welcome at Murrawinni.”
“Yes, but I’m so busy.”
She’d had to force the distance between them. It was awful and she knew she’d broken his heart, but if she’d remained close with Jonathan he would have asked too many questions.