swallowed thickly. ‘That’s awful… It must’ve been so hard, having to live with him after your mother died.’
There was another swishing silence. I watched the windscreen wipers go back and forth like twin metronome arms. I couldn’t stop thinking about his childhood. How had he coped with his mother’s death? How had his sister coped? What responsibilities had Alessandro taken on that made him feel so guilty for his sister’s problems? How difficult must it have been to live with the man who had exploited his mother? Was that why he hadn’t told me anything of his childhood? Because it had been too bleak and lonely and Dickensian to verbalise?
‘He hated me for defending my mother,’ hesaid finally. ‘He believed a son should stick with his father, no matter what. He was of the opinion that women were inferior. That they only existed to service the needs of men.’
‘Yes, well, I’ve met a few of that type in my time.’ I couldn’t stop myself from saying it.
His eyes cut to mine. ‘I didn’t use you, Jem. I know it probably felt like it at the time, but I really wanted things to work out for us.’
I wanted to believe him. Even after all this time, and with all the simmering hurt that weighed me down so much, I still wanted to believe him. The foolish hope that refused to die annoyed the hell out of me. I thought I’d packed that part of myself away and thrown away the key.
‘So why didn’t you tell me about your ex-fiancée?’
He looked back at the road. ‘I wanted to put it behind me. To move on. I hated thinking about how I’d failed to make someone I cared about happy.’ He let out a whoosh of a breath. ‘But you’re right. I should have told you. It’s yet another regret I have to live with.’
‘How long had you been with her?’
‘All through my specialist training—which, looking back, was part of the problem,’ he said. ‘I was doing a PhD as well asmy fellowship. Work and study took up most of my time. I invested in my career, not in our relationship. She got bored.’
I waited a beat before asking, ‘Did you love her?’
There was a pause that seemed to go on for ever, but it was probably only a second or two.
‘I think what I loved was being in a relationship,’ he said. ‘Coming from the background I had, I wanted the security of it. Knowing there was someone who wanted the same things in life. Who had the same values. Although on reflection her values were not the same as mine. It was only when I met you that I realised that.’
Did you love me?
The words were balanced on the end of my tongue like a terrified novice diver on the ten-metre springboard. But of course I didn’t say them. I sat there staring at my hands and wondering how different my life would have been if I hadn’t met him that day in Paris.
I would probably be married to some guy—a fellow teacher, perhaps—and living in the suburbs. I might even have a baby by now. I would have an ordinary life. A predictable, ordinary life that would have been exactly what I’d wanted right up until I metAlessandro. But meeting him had changed everything. It had changed me.
He had changed me.
He suddenly reached across the console and picked up my right hand. He brought it to his chest, holding it against the deep, steady throb of his heart.
‘There were so many times I wanted to call you. To apologise for how I handled things.’
I should have pulled my hand away, but something about the solid warmth of his chest and the husky honey depth of his voice stopped me. It occurred to me then that we had communicated more about our backgrounds in the last few minutes than we had in the whole month we’d been together. It was like we’d been pretending to be other people back then—happy, carefree people who didn’t have difficult relatives or issues from the past.
‘Why didn’t you?’ I said, but strangely not in the accusatory tone I’d intended to use.
His hand squeezed mine and I swear I
There was another swishing silence. I watched the windscreen wipers go back and forth like twin metronome arms. I couldn’t stop thinking about his childhood. How had he coped with his mother’s death? How had his sister coped? What responsibilities had Alessandro taken on that made him feel so guilty for his sister’s problems? How difficult must it have been to live with the man who had exploited his mother? Was that why he hadn’t told me anything of his childhood? Because it had been too bleak and lonely and Dickensian to verbalise?
‘He hated me for defending my mother,’ hesaid finally. ‘He believed a son should stick with his father, no matter what. He was of the opinion that women were inferior. That they only existed to service the needs of men.’
‘Yes, well, I’ve met a few of that type in my time.’ I couldn’t stop myself from saying it.
His eyes cut to mine. ‘I didn’t use you, Jem. I know it probably felt like it at the time, but I really wanted things to work out for us.’
I wanted to believe him. Even after all this time, and with all the simmering hurt that weighed me down so much, I still wanted to believe him. The foolish hope that refused to die annoyed the hell out of me. I thought I’d packed that part of myself away and thrown away the key.
‘So why didn’t you tell me about your ex-fiancée?’
He looked back at the road. ‘I wanted to put it behind me. To move on. I hated thinking about how I’d failed to make someone I cared about happy.’ He let out a whoosh of a breath. ‘But you’re right. I should have told you. It’s yet another regret I have to live with.’
‘How long had you been with her?’
‘All through my specialist training—which, looking back, was part of the problem,’ he said. ‘I was doing a PhD as well asmy fellowship. Work and study took up most of my time. I invested in my career, not in our relationship. She got bored.’
I waited a beat before asking, ‘Did you love her?’
There was a pause that seemed to go on for ever, but it was probably only a second or two.
‘I think what I loved was being in a relationship,’ he said. ‘Coming from the background I had, I wanted the security of it. Knowing there was someone who wanted the same things in life. Who had the same values. Although on reflection her values were not the same as mine. It was only when I met you that I realised that.’
Did you love me?
The words were balanced on the end of my tongue like a terrified novice diver on the ten-metre springboard. But of course I didn’t say them. I sat there staring at my hands and wondering how different my life would have been if I hadn’t met him that day in Paris.
I would probably be married to some guy—a fellow teacher, perhaps—and living in the suburbs. I might even have a baby by now. I would have an ordinary life. A predictable, ordinary life that would have been exactly what I’d wanted right up until I metAlessandro. But meeting him had changed everything. It had changed me.
He had changed me.
He suddenly reached across the console and picked up my right hand. He brought it to his chest, holding it against the deep, steady throb of his heart.
‘There were so many times I wanted to call you. To apologise for how I handled things.’
I should have pulled my hand away, but something about the solid warmth of his chest and the husky honey depth of his voice stopped me. It occurred to me then that we had communicated more about our backgrounds in the last few minutes than we had in the whole month we’d been together. It was like we’d been pretending to be other people back then—happy, carefree people who didn’t have difficult relatives or issues from the past.
‘Why didn’t you?’ I said, but strangely not in the accusatory tone I’d intended to use.
His hand squeezed mine and I swear I
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