He shook his head, as if to stay her words. ‘My father had affairs. He couldn’t resist a woman, still can’t. My mother was beside herself with jealousy, and in her misery she drank and wept and raged. And fought him, doing her best to make him hurt, the way she was. They were always at each other, doing their best to draw blood, metaphorically speaking, but sometimes literally as well.’ He paused, his gaze distant. ‘I remember lots of shouting and tears, broken glass, slammed doors.’ A short sigh escaped him. ‘They loved each other, and that love caused them only pain.’
‘It doesn’t have to be that way for everyone,’ Liane felt compelled to remark quietly. ‘Surely you can see that, Alessandro?’
‘I haven’t seen many, if any, examples of a relationship that worked,’ he replied brusquely. ‘And I have no desire to try myself.’ He gave her a fulminating glance. ‘Don’t make this about that, Liane.’
Chastened, she nodded. ‘I’m sorry. Tell me more.’
He shrugged. ‘What more is there to say? They made both their lives a misery, and mine as well. Sometimes they’d trot me out at parties, proof for whoever was wondering that their marriage wasn’t the disaster it really was, a point of pride, I think, considering their celebrated start. They wanted to present a united front, and I was the only way they knew how to do that.’
Liane’s heart twisted hard with sympathy. She’d had her own childhood challenges, with her mother’s critical sternness and her father’s tragic death, but she’d never had to deal with the kind of confusion and heartache Alessandro clearly had. ‘That must have been awful,’ she said quietly.
‘It was. One of the reasons I don’t like parties.’
‘And it ended when you were eight, you said? Your mother...?’
His expression became shuttered and he angled his head away from her. ‘She finally left. I suppose she’d had enough of my father’s affairs.’ He paused, as if he were going to say something else, but then he merely looked away, his lips compressed.
‘You’re an only child?’ she asked gently.
‘Yes, of my parents. I have a younger half-sister, the child of my father’s third wife—or is it fourth?’ He glanced back at her, wryly this time, although there was a grim set to his mouth. ‘She lives in Umbria. I’m planning to see her after all these parties.’
‘You’re close?’
‘I wouldn’t say close, but I want to make sure she has a childhood that’s better than mine was. She’s only fourteen.’
‘And what about your father? You told me he’s in Ibiza. Why is he not with her?’
‘Because he’s hopeless with any sort of responsibility. She lives with her mother, Christina. As far as my father’s wives go, she’s not so bad. Better than some. Better than my mother’s second husband, anyway.’
‘What was he like?’
Alessandro shrugged. ‘I only met him once, when she was leaving m...my father.’ The slight hesitation made her think he’d been going to say me, and her heart ached for him, for the small boy he’d been. ‘He was quite a bit younger than her, clearly with an eye for the main chance. He lasted all of nine months before he left her, taking most of her money. She tripped from man to man after that, and died in a car crash when her latest lover was at the wheel, and over the limit.’
‘Oh, Alessandro.’ Liane couldn’t keep the dismay and compassion from her voice. ‘I’m so sorry.’
He shrugged again, looking away. ‘She was out of my life by then. I could barely remember her.’
‘But still...’ Liane hesitated, and then said quietly, ‘I’m not surprised you’re cynical about love, considering. I suspect I would be too, if my parents had been like that. If I’d encountered so much heartbreak and tragedy along the way.’
‘Perhaps.’ He quickened his step, giving her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘But why are we talking about such a gloomy subject? It’s a beautiful day, and we’re in Paris. Let’s enjoy it, and not lose ourselves in the past.’
Why had he told her all that? Alessandro wondered. He normally didn’t talk about his parents; he hated even thinking about them. Remembering their regrettable marriage took him back to his own lamentable childhood—hiding upstairs, wincing at the sound of screaming, only to have one of the house staff appear at the door.
‘You’re wanted downstairs, Master Alessandro.’
And he’d go, he’d always go, filled with dread and, worse, that tiny, treacherous flicker of hope.
Maybe this time it will be different. Maybe I’ll be able to get them to stop fighting...
No, he certainly didn’t want to think about those days.
And yet, he acknowledged, Liane drew the past out of him, all his secrets and hurts, the way a doctor drew poison. He felt unsettled for having said all that, but he also felt, in a strange way, better. It had been something of a relief, or perhaps an emotional bloodletting. Either way, he was ready to move on.
‘So you haven’t actually told me where we’re going,’ he said, and Liane gave him a glinting smile.
‘My favourite museum in Paris, the Musée d’Orsay. It has the best collection of Impressionist paintings. And then afterwards I thought we could stop by the Orangerie, where Monet’s water lilies were installed. You step inside a curved room and feel as if they’re completely surrounding you.’ She paused, a small, sad smile touching her lips. ‘My father used to take me there.’
‘Did he?’ Alessandro couldn’t help but sound diffident, although he realised he might be biased, when he considered his own father and all his shortcomings. ‘You told me before you’ve missed him.’ Although he’d wanted to stop talking about the past, he’d much rather talk about hers than his.