Chapter 60
Gen
Anton was right.
That was a baptism of fire.
At least Hades likes me.
And if I have, at any point over the past few whirlwind days, wondered how Anton’s kids might react to meeting me, clearly I needn’t have worried. They’re far too absorbed in their own lives, which is a relief, I suppose.
I follow him through the archway from his hallway and into a palatial living space. It’s a kitchen and living area and garden room all in one, it seems, and it’s beautiful. White. High-ceilinged. Light-filled.
The appliances are industrial level—stainless steel and impossibly shiny—and a massive slab of marble forms an island down the centre of the kitchen.
Further back, low sofas and huge, modern art works give way to a wall of glass that leads out onto the garden.
More critically, the whole place smells incredible, like being back in the South of France.
‘Do they… live here?’ I ask tentatively as I follow him in.
He laughs. ‘No. They live in Highgate with their mum, most of the time. But their sleepover is in Notting Hill, so they came to see their old man this evening before they went out.’
‘I hate to be the one to tell you this, but there’s no way they’re going to a sleepover dressed like that.
’ They looked like they were ready for a night of clubbing.
Microscopic dresses and flawless makeup that probably came straight off a TikTok tutorial, even if Annabel’s smokey eye was on the aggressive side.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, doubling back and gathering me up in his arms again. ‘They’re going to an end-of-term party at a school friend’s house—fully supervised, apparently—and then a sleepover.’
‘Ahh,’ I say, looping my arms around his neck. ‘And what smells so good?’
‘Linguine alla vongole,’ he says with a wink. He gives me one perfect kiss and then backs away, grabbing his tea-towel off his shoulder.
‘Oh wow,’ I say. ‘Heaven.’ I draw closer to the enormous range for a peek.
He has cherry tomatoes and garlic simmering in what smells like white wine, and it’s so incredible my mouth instantly waters.
I accept the glass of chilled white he pours me and wander around the vast space as he lovingly tends to the contents of his pan.
My host, Hades, the least terrifying and most inappropriately named Doberman ever, pads sweetly at my side.
It’s clear his place has been professionally put together with a probably limitless budget, but it’s also strikingly clear to me that this is a home and not just a beautiful bachelor pad.
There’s no clutter—not down here—and each vase, each coffee table book, has been chosen for the beauty it adds to the overall vignette.
Even so, there are family photos everywhere, both on the walls and in silver-framed clusters on console tables. I sip my wine as I take in this unexpected photographic history of the man who consumes me so much.
I’ve had this assumption, I realise, that Anton and I have both been living in splendid isolation. The Anton I met first was the guy with the corner office, the intimidating, ruthless conqueror of corporations by day and women by night.
I assumed he was cold.
Calculating.
But he’s not. He’s fire. He’s a man with an enormous capacity for all parts of his life—work, sex and love—and he knows how to live fully. To feel. He has layers I can’t even conceive of.
The photos are spellbinding. Not least because they speak of happy families. You wouldn’t guess he had three divorces behind him. There’s a continuity here, a message that every moment is to be celebrated, even when circumstances change.
Of all the images of Anton with his arms around the beautiful women of his past and their equally beautiful children, the one that hits me hardest is the photo of him and his twins.
He’s standing proudly, grinning at the camera.
His hair is shorter, and it’s clear from the hospital backdrop and the purple shadows under his eyes that he’s shattered.
But in the crook of each arm lies a tiny baby girl, swaddled in pink with a little pink cap. They’re so insanely small they make him look like the Incredible Hulk. And there’s nothing in his smile but utter pride and joy.
I can’t even imagine the life experiences he’s had.
I’ve never wanted kids, but there’s no doubt that birth is the greatest miracle we can experience as humans.
And, as I look at his exhausted, elated face in that moment of new fatherhood, I know I’ve just scratched the surface of what this man is capable of.
I bring it up over dinner. ‘I like that you have photos of your exes everywhere. It must be nice for your kids.’
He shrugs. ‘Life’s a continuum. Just because I don’t want to be married to my exes anymore, doesn’t mean they didn’t play an important part in my life. Two of them gave me my children. It’s insane to think you draw a line under marriage and pretend it didn’t happen, you know?’
‘Yeah,’ I say as I balance my linguine on a spoon and roll it around my fork. ‘I suppose a lot of people let bitterness get in the way. Or pride.’
‘That’s just stupid and self-sabotaging,’ he says.
‘I love my exes. I love my kids. I have enough room in my heart for everyone. And all those memories are special. I like having the photos around. When things are shit at work, or I’m letting myself get stressed about a deal or something equally unimportant in the grand scheme of things, being surrounded by photos of my crazy, messy family reminds me I’ve achieved something worthwhile. ’