thumping, hope spiralling, Serena turned around. Luca looked tortured.
But he said only two words. ‘I’m sorry.’
Her heart sank like a stone. She knew he didn’t love her, but she marvelled that the human spirit was such an irrepressibly optimistic thing even in the face of certain disappointment.
She forced a smile. ‘Don’t be. You’ve given me the gift of discovering how strong I am.’
* * *
You’ve given me the gift of discovering how strong I am.
Luca was stuck in a state of paralysis for so long after Serena left that he had to blink and focus to realise that Laura was in his office and speaking to him, looking worried.
‘Senhor Fonseca? Are you all right?’
And as if he’d been holding something at bay, it ripped through him then, stunning and painful in its intensity, like warmth seeping into frozen limbs. Burning.
‘No,’ he issued curtly, going over to his drinks cabinet and helping himself to a shot of whisky.
When he turned around, Laura’s eyes were huge and she was pale. And Luca knew he was coming apart at the seams.
He forced himself not to snarl at the girl, but the pain inside him was almost crippling. ‘What is it?’
Laura stuttered, making him feel even worse. ‘It’s—it’s Miss DePiero. I just thought you’d want to know she’s on her way to the airport. She’s booked first class on a flight to Athens this afternoon.’
‘Thank you,’ Luca bit out. ‘I’m going to be unavailable for the rest of the day. Please cancel all my appointments. Go home early if you want.’
Laura blinked and said faintly, ‘Yes, sir.’ And then backed away as if he might explode.
He waited until Laura had left and then left himself, knowing nothing more than that he needed to get out—get away. Because he felt like a wounded animal that might lash out and cause serious harm.
He was aware of one or two people approaching him as he walked out of the building, but they quickly diverted when they saw his face. He walked and walked without even knowing where he was going until he realised he was at Ipanema Beach. Where he’d taken Serena just a few days ago.
The scene was the same, even during the week. The beautiful bodies. The amorous couples. The crashing waves. But it mocked him now, for feeling so carefree that day. For believing for a moment that he could be like those people. That he could feel like them.
Anger rose up as he ripped off his tie and jacket, dropping them on a bench and sitting down. That was the problem. He knew he couldn’t feel. The ability had been cut out of him the day he and his brother had been torn apart.
As young boys they’d been close enough to have a special language that only they understood. It had used to drive their father crazy. And Luca could remember that they’d sensed something was happening that day when their parents had brought them into their father’s study.
Luca’s mother had bent down to his level and said, with the scent of alcohol on her breath, ‘Luca, darling, I love you so much I want to take you to Italy with me. Will you come?’
He’d looked at Max, standing near his father. Luca had known that Max loved their mother—he had too—but he didn’t like it when she came home drunk and falling down. He and Max would fight about it—Max hating it if Luca said anything critical, which he was more liable to do.
He’d looked back at his mother, confused. ‘But what about Max? Don’t you love him too?’
She’d been impatient. ‘Of course I do. But Max will stay here with your father.’
Panic had clutched at his insides, making him feel for a moment as if his bowels might drop out of his body. ‘For ever?’
She’d nodded and said, slurring slightly, ‘Yes, caro, for ever. We don’t need them, do we?’
Luca had heard a noise and looked to see Max, ashen, eyes glimmering with tears. ‘Mamma...?’
She’d made an irritated sound and said something in rapid Italian, taking Luca by the hand forcibly, as if to drag him out. Luca had felt as if he was in some kind of nightmare. Max had started crying in earnest and had run to their mother, clutching at her waist. That was when Luca had felt some kind of icy calm come over him—as if Max was acting out how he felt deep inside, but he couldn’t let it out. It was too huge.
His mother had issued another stream of Italian and let Luca go, shoving him towards his father, prising Max off her and saying angrily, ‘Bastante! Stop snivelling. I’ll take you with me instead. After all,’ she’d said snidely over Max’s hiccups, ‘your father doesn’t care who he gets...’
The black memory faded. His mother had told him she loved him and then minutes later she’d demonstrated how empty her words were. Swapping one brother for the other as if choosing objects in a shop.
Serena had told him she loved him.
As soon as she’d said the words, Luca had been transported back to that room, closing in on himself, waiting for the moment when she’d turn around and show him that she didn’t mean it. Not really. She was only saying it because that was what women did, wasn’t it? They had no idea of the devastation they could cause when the emptiness of their words was revealed.
But she hadn’t looked blasé. Nor as if she hadn’t meant it. She’d been pale. Her blue eyes had looked wounded when he’d said, ‘I’m sorry.’
He thought of her words: You’ve made me see how strong I am.
Luca felt disgusted. And how strong was he? Had he ever gone toe-to-toe with his own demons? No, because he’d told himself building up trust in the Fonseca name again was more important.
He heard a sound and looked up to see a plane lifting into the sky from the airport. He knew it couldn’t be her plane, but he had a sudden image of her on it, leaving, and panic gripped him so acutely that he almost called out.
It was as clear as day to him now—what lay between him and his brother. He should have ranted and railed that day when their parents had so cruelly split them up. He should have let it out—not buried it so deep that he’d behaved like a robot since then, afraid to feel anything. Afraid to face the guilt of knowing that he could have done more to protect them both.
If he’d let out the depth of his anger and pain, as Max had, then maybe they wouldn’t have been split apart. Two halves of a whole, torn asunder. Maybe their parents would have been forced to acknowledge the shallow depths of their actions, their intent of scoring points off each other.
It all bubbled up now—and also the sick realisation that he was letting it happen all over again. That while he’d had an excuse of sorts before, because he’d only been a child, he was an adult now—and if he couldn’t shout and scream for what he wanted then he and Max had been pawns for nothing.
And, worse, he’d face a life devoid of any meaning or any prospect of happiness. Happiness
