“Having a short temper is no one’s definition of wild.” I begin to rub my finger against the coffee stain on my sketchbook as a way of keeping my thoughts from him.
“You’ve always been your own person,” he says unhappily. “But please, just take my word for it. Van isn’t a man to be taken lightly.”
“Maybe I’m not looking for a man,” I retort, glancing up. “Don’t look at me like that. You know that’s not what I mean. Maybe I’m not looking for a man long term,” I add heavily, hoping to make him squirm.
“That’s perfectly understandable,” he returns, surprising me. “But you never wanted to be part of this life, you always said the aristocracy was nothing but outdated misogyny. Well, Russia may have done away with the tsars, but they’re no more enlightened, as far as I can tell.”
“I think the serfs would have something else to say about that.”
“What if I told you Van is his own kind of tsar, ruling over his own serfs.”
“Put not your trust in kings and princes,” I find myself murmuring. It’s not like Sandy to be so vague, and I’m not in the mood for playing guessing games.
“Izzy, I’m being serious. Are you listening?”
“Yes, I’m listening to the kettle boiling. If you’re not careful, your wife will send out a search party for her tea.”
“Fine.” He takes the hint, turning to the kettle. “Just be careful. And please don’t misconstrue his offer to take the boys to watch Arsenal play next week.” Sandy spins, brandishing a spoon my way. “How did that come about, by the way?”
“So you’ve heard?”
“Heard? I’ve been roped into it.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” I begin, feeling awkward. It’s one thing to tease Sandy, another to tease myself by dreaming. But it would only be dreaming, and I’m not about to let my sons become used to Van’s presence. They need stability, not another unreliable man in their life. “It was lovely of him to offer, but I’m sure I can do something to talk Hugh out of his excitement.” Sandy snorts. “I’ll find something else he wants to do next Saturday.”
“You won’t unless you can get Ronaldo to pop in to watch him blow out his birthday candles.”
“Who?”
“A famous soccer player, I understand. And no, I don’t know him. So come on, tell me why I’m flying to London next week with my nephews?”
“And Roman,” I say, referring to Kennedy’s husband.
“No, Roman is flying to Sydney on Wednesday. He has family business to take care of.”
“Oh, well, maybe just be thankful Hugh’s best friend couldn’t make it, too.”
He throws up his hands. “Why not? The more, the merrier, right?”
“You’ll be singing a different tune after you’ve spent an afternoon with them.”
“I’ve spent lots of afternoons with my nephews,” he scoffs.
“Trips to the cinema and the zoo, not hyped up on private jets.”
“Stop avoiding the subject. Spit it out—how is this even happening?”
“Blame Tom,” I grumble, propelling myself from the chair. “I could ring his rotten neck. He was supposed to have the boys for Hugh’s birthday, but he’s taking his latest teenage girlfriend to Paris instead.” She’s not a teenager, but the disparity in their ages pisses me off. Pulling the dishwasher door open, I drop my tea plate to the rack when what I really want to do is throw it at the wall. My lanky shit of an ex can annoy me until the cows come home, but disappointing his sons makes me want to remove his testicles. I know what it feels like to be ignored by a parent, to be made to feel like you’re never enough. This won’t happen to my little men. Ever.
“He’s such a bastard,” Sandy growls. “He can’t pay the school fees but—”
“Please tell me he hasn’t.” I don’t know whether to scream or cry. “Tell me he hasn’t asked you to pay them again.” Turning, I lean back against the sink and fold my arms to hide how blood boils in my veins.
“I don’t mind helping,” Sandy begins.
“No. Absolutely not.” My hand cuts through the air with finality. “They are his children. He can take some responsibility for them. He’s already behind with the child support payments. That man,” I grate out, pointing my finger in the air, “that man…” screwed the nanny, left me with a mortgage the size of a third world country’s national debt, and now a nasty phone call from the school’s accounting department.
“That man isn’t much of a man,” Sandy ends as he curls his hands around my shoulders and gives them a comforting squeeze. “You’re well shot of him.” His hands slide away. “But I still don’t see how Van became involved.”
“Hugh was upset, and Van was passing. He said he knew how it felt to be disappointed by a parent. That he wanted to help.”