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I open my mouth to speak but my mother continues over me.
“We finally thought you were going to turn into a fine young man with a wonderful wife — upstanding, beautiful, fitting of the Layton name and appropriate for a man in your position.”
“Mother—”
“No, Clark Layton, you will listen to what I have to say. You’ve chosen to live a certain way for too long. Your father and I saw this as a perfect match. The Hamiltons are a highly respectable family. You know Frederick Hamilton is fifty-sixth—”
“—in line to the throne. Yes, Mother, you’ve told me often enough.”
Two waiters place down our salads in perfect unison.
My mother tuts and shakes her head, and I somehow feel two instead of thirty-two years old. “I just can’t believe that you would throw everything away, disgrace us like this, all so you can go back to your old rogue ways. And let me tell you something for nothing, your father will not let that happen.”
I’ve only taken one forkful of salad, but I pull my napkin from my lap and throw it onto the table.
“Mother, you and he are the reason for all of this. I should never have let you push me into the engagement, and I shouldn’t have let things go on for as long as they did. They were my mistakes, but I’m fed up of being your prodigy. I’m a man in my own right, and I won’t live a life dictated by you and him anymore. I won’t.” Especially not now that I know how he’s treated you all these years.
“Young man, don’t you dare take that tone with me,” she says in a whispered snarl, leaning close. “You’re lucky it’s me here today and not your father, because the way he feels about you right now…”
“Is probably the same way he’s felt about me for thirty-two years.”
“Good gracious, Clark, what has got into you? You act like you don’t even care what you’ve done. Constance is absolutely distraught, the poor sweet thing.”
I lean back against the upholstered seat. “You’ve seen Connie?”
“I had lunch yesterday with her and Penelope, yes.”
“You saw Connie before me? Your own son?”
“You should be thanking me. At least I’m trying to contain the damage you’ve created. You must know what this looks like, Clark. You’ve broken the heart of a beautiful young lady so you can” —she flips a hand through the air— “go to bars, drink too much, end up in magazines with other uncouth women.”
I reach for the glass of wine in front of me, but my mother puts her hand across the rim. “No you don’t. That’s what this is about isn’t it? Going back to your old ways.”
I shake my head. “You think so much of me.”
“Constance thinks there’s someone else, Clark. Tell me that isn’t true.”
I stare into her eyes, so like my own. “There always was someone else. But if you’re asking me whether I cheated on Connie, then no, I didn’t. I’ve known Connie since I was a kid, and I love her. I hate that I’ve hurt her. I hate myself for it so much I can’t sleep and I can’t think straight.”
Her features seem to soften and she places her hand over mine on the table top. It’s a rare display of affection, and one that doesn’t feel as sincere as it probably should, but at the moment, I’ll take it.
“I just don’t understand it, Clark.”
“I’m not in love with her, Mother. Is that what you want for me? To be with a woman just because you and my father think I should be?”
She takes her hand back, and her eyes glaze. “It’s not always about that, son. You could’ve had a perfectly good life with Constance.”
My chest aches for my mother. Has she known all these years what my father was up to? I reach for her hand and raise it to my lips. “I know. I’m sorry. I just can’t live that way. And I don’t want that for Connie.” I refrain from adding, because I know how good the real thing could feel.
I’ve never been a man of regrets. I don’t think I’ve ever taken life seriously enough or thought about what I really want, but now, it’s so damned obvious. I don’t regret leaving Connie. My one and only regret was listening to my own doubts, bowing to my father once again, and walking away from Dayna.
“RUMOUR HAS IT you could do with blowing off some steam.”
I fasten the Velcro on my boxing gloves and step through the rope into the ring where Sam, my trainer, is waiting. The boxing ring sits in the middle of the gym, flanked by punch bags, speed bags and machines. This is a man’s gym, no mistaking it. There’s always a heavy, musty smell of sweat lingering in the air. The only women in the gym tend to be attached to one of the men working out, or they’re body-builders. It’s pretty much the best place in the world to get women out of my head.
Sam bounces like a springbok from foot to foot. His black skin is taut across his muscles. The veins in his forearms and neck are pumped and bulging. He’s smaller than me but moves like a whippet and packs a serious punch.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” I say with the same ill-humour I feel.
