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She pondered that. “All the benefits of a committed relationship?”
“Such as?”
“Intimacy.”
“I have no issues with intimacy.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t mean sex. I mean true intimacy. Heart to heart stuff. Knowing someone with every fibre of your being. Waking up and reaching for them because you can’t wait to see them smile, to hear them speak, to share your thoughts and hear theirs.”
The air between them crackled and she knew what he was thinking, even when he didn’t say it. He was wondering if that’s what she’d shared with his father. It was on the tip of her tongue to set him straight, to tell him her understanding of relationships was not gained through personal experience, but rather because she’d been on the outside, looking in, on relationships for such a long time, she’d built up a fantasy of what an ideal partnership would look like. She had no idea if it was accurate or not, but deep down, she had her fingers and toes crossed.
“And that’s what you want in life?”
He began to move towards her, carrying the hardbound book. Her eyes stayed locked to his.
“Yes,” she answered, but frowned, dubiously. “I know it sounds idealistic.”
His expression showed agreement.
“You’re young enough for idealism to still be acceptable.”
“But you’re too old and cynical?”
“Even at your age, I didn’t want what you seek.”
“Why not? You can’t blame your parents. You believed them to be happily married.”
“That’s true.”
“So?”
He frowned. “I suppose it was my father. He taught self-reliance above all else. He made us understand the importance of the business—we all work for the family company. My aspiration, as a teenager, was always to take over from him. To be the best I could be. And as I got older, I was happy with relationships as a fringe part of my life. Sex, as a silver lining, without the entanglements and drama of what you call ‘intimacy’.”
“You’re a loner.”
“Yes.”
Close enough to touch her, instead, Anastasios held out the book, and she curled her fingers around it without thinking, looking down belatedly. Van Gogh’s self-portrait looked back on her.
“The impressionists,” she murmured, tracing the cover with her fingertip, feeling his eyes on her face, so that when she looked up a burst of energy jolted through her. “Thank you.”
He dipped his head.
“Don’t you ever wonder what you’re missing out on?”
His eyes probed hers. “Never.”
“But—,”
“And even if I had, revelations of the recent weeks would have shaken those thoughts from my mind. My parents had, from the outside, the ideal marriage, yet look what he did to her. There is no such thing as a perfect marriage, a flawless couple. He had a wife, and children, yet still he sought more.”
“I don’t think you should presume that’s an indictment of his love for your mother.”
“My mother is another topic we should avoid discussing. She wouldn’t like it.”
Phoebe sighed. He was still so convinced she’d had an affair with his father. How would she ever get through to him? Perhaps she never would. Could she accept that? Could she live in a world where Anastasios believed the worst in her?
Of course she could. But she really, really didn’t want to.
