He was holding two large bunches of red roses. On his index finger glinted a ring, the gold one glittering with diamond stars. Annie had a flashback then, men bending to kiss the hand of the godfather who would help them, grant their wishes, ease their pain – at a price.
She took a gulp of air and stepped towards him. ‘Hi,’ she said.
He pulled her in tight against him, hugged her. Annie closed her eyes.
‘How are you, Stepmom?’ asked Alberto, Constantine’s youngest son.
‘Fine,’ she lied.
‘Going home today?’
‘Yeah. In -’ she glanced at her Rolex – ‘about three and a half hours.’
‘Give Layla my love then.’
Annie sighed, thinking of her lovely, problematical daughter, still as hostile as ever, still keeping her at arm’s length. Unlike his siblings, Alberto had never resented her, never shown any hostility towards her. She had never said it – she never would – but he had been the main reason her marriage to Max had foundered. Max had never believed that her trips to the States were purely business. He’d been convinced that she went there to see Alberto, that she was having an affair with him. Because Alberto was almost the same age as her. And because he looked so much like her old love Constantine that it hurt.
Because, because, because…
She had fought tooth and nail to convince Max that this was not true, that it was him she loved. But slowly, steadily, his insane, stupid jealousy and his refusal to believe her had gnawed away at her patience, exhausted her, eaten away at her love.
She would not be confined. She would not live in a box of his devising, watched and worried over like some bloody possession. When she had finally snapped and flung the divorce word in his face, his eyes had been so hard, so implacable. He had said, ‘OK, that’s what you want? That’s what we’ll do. Then you’ll be free to fuck whoever you damned well like.’
Even now, eight years on from all that hurt, that agony, she still felt sick, dizzy and dangerously near to tears when she thought of it. It had taken her a long time to get to grips with her grief over Max.
Of course Layla blamed her, not him. Layla thought that if her mother had stayed in London more, there would have been no divorce.
Annie sighed heavily. She had found some comfort here in the States with Alberto, but for God’s sake, how could Max have thought such an absurd thing? Alberto was not her lover, she had never wanted that. He was like a son, a little brother maybe, to her. There was nothing sexual in their mutual affection.
Looking at Alberto’s face, she could see that he too had suffered. He had aged in the few years since she’d last seen him. Time and knowledge and bitter experience had carved their indelible lines in his handsome face, making it harder, tougher: more fearsome. Now he was even more like his father. He was no longer the readily smiling youthful charmer. He had become the godfather.