“Sabrina,” I say gently, “I’m not here to try to win you back.”
She has cool gray eyes, quite beautiful, and they scan my face now as if trying to see whether I’m telling the truth. She blinks, then looks down at her coffee cup. “I know.” She picks it up, has a sip, and flicks me a brief smile. “It was worth trying, though.”
It’s flattering to think she still wants me back, and kinda crazy too considering what happened at the ball. I can’t work out if she’s vulnerable and hurt or just a psycho.
I decide to give her the benefit of the doubt and go with vulnerable and hurt. I lean my forearms on the table and look her in the eyes. “I wanted to see you to apologize.”
She surveys me cautiously. “For what? For sleeping with me?” Her brow furrows.
“No. I don’t regret it.” It’s a lie, but I make sure to hold her gaze. “We had fun, didn’t we?” She gives a small nod. She might not have been enthusiastic in bed, but I made sure she enjoyed it, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t fake it.
“I thought you liked me,” she says in a small voice.
“I did. I wouldn’t have taken you to bed if I hadn’t. You’re beautiful and spirited, and you deserve much better than me.”
She blinks, and her eyes turn a little glassy. Then she lifts her chin and says, “Yes, I do.”
“You absolutely do.”
I read the headlines, too. She lives her life in the spotlight, and I have no doubt she’s been used by many men. I remind myself of what I discovered online this morning. I’m convinced she is just vulnerable and hurting.
I decide to opt for honesty, as far as I can without admitting everything about Chessie.
“There are many times in my life where I haven’t behaved well,” I begin. “Money does that to you. It makes you think you’re above other people, and that you have the power to take what you want, and then cast it away when you’re done. After the headline about me jumping off the waterfall drunk, Mikaere at the Nga Whetu Rangatahi Foundation gave me a dressing down about my behavior and said I need to step up my game if I’m going to be a role model for the young people in the community, and he’s right. He said I need to act respectably, and to be someone who values commitment, not just the spotlight. And he suggested that having someone by my side who reflects my values would reassure our donors.”
Her eyebrows lift. “That’s why you proposed to Francesca?”
“Obviously, it’s not the only reason. But it was a factor. It was an odd coincidence; I left the meeting with the board and went for a walk, and literally bumped into Chessie. We went for a coffee and got talking, and we got on really well. I know she’s not part of our world, but that’s kind of the point—does that make sense? She’s down to earth and practical, and she grounds me.” With some surprise, I realize it’s true.
Sabrina nods slowly. “I can see that.”
“We dated for a few weeks, and I just fell for her, and it was like everything slotted into place. I didn’t set out to hurt you, although I know I did.”
She looks down at her coffee cup and scratches at a mark on the lid.
“I really want to help these kids,” I say softly. “There are so many young people out there who are struggling, and who don’t have the opportunities I was born with. I think you know all about that.”
Her gaze snaps up to me, and she stares at me for a moment. Then she shrugs. “I guess it’s not difficult to track me down on the internet.”
I’d assumed she was born into money, but after researching this morning, I discovered she was born in one of the poorer suburbs of Auckland and is the daughter of a single mom. Her Maori father has never been in the picture, and her mother raised her single-handed. After she left school she became a dancer in a nightclub, made a few risqué movies, then met a rich older guy, and married him at eighteen. He paid for her to go to university to study fashion because it was her dream, and she stayed with him for four years before he died out of the blue of a heart attack. So she’s known her share of tragedy and grief.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your husband,” I say. She was eighteen and he was forty-one, so I suspect he was also a father figure for her.
“He was a good man,” she replies simply. “Everyone thinks I married him for his money, but I didn’t. I loved him.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“I got where I am because I’ve worked fucking hard.”
“I know.”
“I know what everyone thinks of me,” she says fiercely. “That I don’t have a heart. But I didn’t date anyone for two years after he died. I loved him terribly, and I still miss him every day. But I’m not going to spend the rest of my life alone.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I’m the last person to pass judgement on someone else’s life. My point is that you weren’t born into money and opportunity. And you know how much difference it makes when someone gives you a helping hand. I want to do that for others. And that’s why I’m here. To ask for your help.”
I drop my head to catch her eye. “I know you’re on the board of Te Rangi Ataahua Foundation.” It means The Beautiful Sky, and it provides opportunities for young Maori women to learn about traditional weaving, and from there gives them an entrance to the fashion industry. I’ve read what she’s done for the group, and how hard she works to help young women.
“Rather than sabotage what I’m trying to do, I want to bring you on board the Youth Stars,” I say. “We want to offer you the role of Director of Outreach and Youth Mentor. We want you to use your story to inspire Maori youths—girls especially. Who better to teach them about resilience than someone who’s climbed their way out of poverty and worked super hard to get where you are?”