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Mateo had no intention of letting his mother know that he met plenty of women—just none that he would spend more than a couple of mutually beneficial and pleasurable evenings with. He had learned that any more and they got ideas that he had no intention of fulfilling.
‘Henri isn’t a boy any more,’ Mateo chided instead.
‘You will both always be boys to me, Mateo,’ his mother replied. ‘But enough. It is time for you to settle down. When are you going to make me happy?’
Mateo stopped, his hand stuck halfway towards the bin with the now crumpled paper coffee cup clenched in a fist.
‘Am I not enough to make you happy as I am?’ he demanded, the mockery in his tone hiding the bitterness at the heart of his question.
‘Of course you are,mi hijo.’ His mother’s soft words barely reached him as his gaze blurred in the middle distance.
She was still talking but all he could hear, all he could see, was her crying in the corner of the kitchen after they had first returned to Spain from England when he was ten years old and utterly helpless to do anything. Over the years he had never stopped trying to make his mother happy, but settling down? No. He slashed a mental hand through the thought. That would never happen.
‘Mateo? Youarestill coming over for dinner on Friday?’
‘Of course, Mamá,’ he replied, finally throwing the cup into the basket, noticing the spray of cold coffee across the paper. ‘But I have a meeting I must get to.’
‘Mateo, are you at work? On your birthday?’
‘Mamá, it’s a weekday. Where else would I be?’
‘Meeting the woman who is going to give me grandbabies—’
‘Bye, Mamá,’ he said, hanging up the phone and cutting her off before she could do more damage.
Mateo checked the calendar on his computer, eyeing the back-to-back meetings he had all afternoon with relish rather than distaste. He purposefully made sure that his birthdays were like this. After all, it was just another day in the year, he told himself.
His mobile rang again and he punched the button on the screen without looking at the caller ID.
‘Mamá, if you’re that serious, I’ll go out onto the street, grab the first woman I meet and make as many grandbabies as you need—’
‘Well, that’s a rather alarming thought,’ came the accented male voice that was most definitelynotMateo’s mother.
‘Cristo, Henri!’
‘What? You answered the phone like that.’
‘I didn’t see who was calling.’
‘That’s not on me,mon ami. I’m just checking that you’re on for this evening. What time do you think you’ll be home?’
‘Now you reallyaresounding like my mother,’ Mateo growled.
‘And you’re sounding like a child. You’re always so moody on your birthday,’ Henri practically whined.
As would you be, if for most of your life the day meant either upsetting your mother or being forgotten by your father.
Mateo bit back the retort and checked his watch. ‘You know why, so stop complaining. I’ll be back by seven. You, me, a bottle of whisky and a pack of cards.Perfecto,’ he said before hanging up.
He had five minutes before—
The knock on his door interrupted even the thought of five minutes to himself and before he could even answer, the temporary secretary covering for his utterly faultless, but in this instance flu-ridden assistant, walked in looking half terrified. Mateo bit back a groan. He liked to fill his birthday with as much work as he could to keep himself distracted, but this was getting out of hand, even for a workaholic like him.
‘Yes?’ Mateo asked of the terrified assistant.
‘There is a woman out here, waiting. She’s been here some time,’ the young man answered, twisting his hands in knots.
‘Who is she? And exactly how long has she been waiting?’ he asked.
