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Tears burned and flowed again. The black jaws of agony yawned awake inside her again. She pushed her fist into her mouth to stop the howl. Her teeth scored her flesh, but the numb sting of pain meant nothing. She curled into a little ball and rocked herself into another day without him.

Eventually she became aware of someone moving about in the hallway. Her father, clearing his throat—his passive-aggressive way of telling her that she should be downstairs helping her mother.

Well, he was right about that. But that was
all
he was right about.

Since she’d come back they’d quietly circled one another, silently assessing but not engaging. She knew it upset her mother, but she was putting so much effort into not crying in front of them that she couldn’t risk getting involved in any arguments with him. But it was coming. She could feel it.

Slowly she sat up, dropped her legs out of the bed, let them dangle in the chilly air. How many times had she sat just like this over the years? Countless. And here she
was again. She stood. Her heart was strong. It could beat seventy times a minute. It had just taken the pummelling of her life and it was still beating. Life was going to get better. It
had
to.

She shuffled her feet into slippers, shrugged her shoulders into Mark’s old Trinity College hoody and began to make her way along the hall.

‘So you’re going to join us?’

He was standing at the top of the stairs—just like he’d been all those years ago. Just standing there. Staring. Judging.

‘Yes,’ she said.

Something about his dark, solid, unflinching outline made her pause her steps. He was holding something in his hand.

‘I
knew
I was right. All these years …’

There was barely any light in the top hallway. A tiny skylight and a four-paned window at the end. The flower-printed shade that her brothers had to dodge as they passed held only a dim lightbulb that daubed the walls and carpet in dark beige patches the colour of cold tea. Her father’s anger radiated its own dark gloom.

She stared at him. The default denial—
No, Daddy, I promise I didn’t
—sank to the floor. She had no use for it anymore.

‘Yes. You were right. Does that make you happy?’

He seemed to take that like a blow, tipping his head back slightly with the shock of it. She couldn’t see his face properly, but she could sense the intake of breath.

‘Happy? How could any shame you bring on yourself make me
happy
? Then or now?’

‘I’ve never done
anything
shameful.’ She jerked her chin up at him. And she hadn’t. There was no shame in
love. ‘But God knows you made me feel like I did. Treating me like an outcast—sending me away like that.’

‘It was for your own good.’

‘How can you
say
that? You ruined my life—selling my pony and imprisoning me in that convent.’

‘Your life wasn’t ruined by that—you were doing a good-enough job of that on your own. And you know we had to sell her. No one regretted it as much as I. But there was no option. Not with the run of bad luck we’d had with the others. And then Danny leaving. And anyway, the convent was the making of you.’

The convent was the making of you?
He really thought that? The convent hadn’t been the making of her—it had been her life outdoors, the farm, nature all around. It had been leaving home and travelling, choosing a job in a country where she barely spoke the language. Highest paths, toughest challenges, always proving herself. Hadn’t it?

‘You were wild. Ran wild from before you could walk. You needed some anchors and there were none strong enough. The nuns trained you to stand still and focus yourself.’

She almost had to steady herself as her world was suddenly whipped up in the air and reordered.

‘I thought that you’d calmed down completely when you landed that job. But clearly not. The minute
he
appears you’re all over the place again.’

He thrust forward a magazine, held it in his hand like a folded weapon. She stared at it. He thrust it farther.

‘Read it. See what they’re printing. And
then
tell me you’re not ashamed.’

She lifted the magazine—the gossip section from his Sunday paper. She could barely make out the text, but
his finger jabbed at a photograph and she could see by the stark colours exactly what it was.

The Turlington Club party. She was in white. Rocco was in black. She lifted it closer, tilted it to catch the gloomy brown light, and felt the fist around her heart squeeze a little tighter. Rocco was holding her as if they were dancing the most erotic tango. Bodies like licks of fire. Heat and light and passion bounced from the page. She turned away, clutching it, staring at it.

‘It’s him, isn’t it? The one who came here. The hotshot …’

She stared at the picture. Stared at the man who was her whole world.

Her father was droning on and on. ‘Coming here … turning your head like that … leading you on … getting you to do …’

She was suddenly jolted out of her gloom.

‘Rocco didn’t lead me on. What are you
saying
? It was me who tried to lead
him
on.’

The words her father was about to growl out hung in his mouth unsaid and he gaped.

She looked at him. ‘Have you thought for all these years that
he
was the one to blame for what happened that night?’

Across the gloom of the afternoon they stared at each other. She was barely aware of the television being turned off, a door closing softly downstairs.

‘It was me who went to him.
I
went to him. And then I went back to him last month.’

She saw him swallow—heard it, too. A gulp of shock.

For a moment he looked puzzled, even hurt. Then his face gathered itself into the storm that never seemed far away.

‘Well, why have you come back here now?’

His voice was low and cold, like sleet landing on mud. But as she heard it and felt it all the darkness slowly began to melt away. She looked down at the magazine in her hand. She’d had all that. All that man.
Her
man. The only one who was right for her. All she’d lacked was the patience to help him see that, too.

‘You know, Dad, I’ve no idea why I came back here. Not for your support or your love anyway.’

‘Pfff!’
he said. ‘If we didn’t love you we wouldn’t care that you get yourself into all this trouble. You
and
your brother.’

For a moment he looked at her and she saw the shadows of worry and care etched deep. He was so hidebound by what others saw that he couldn’t see that love was the most valuable commodity of all. He should be
happy
that Danny had got married in Dubai. So what if it wasn’t a traditional wedding? It wasn’t ‘trouble’—it was love.

She thought of Rocco’s hands holding her, his lips loving her. She thought of their nights and days. She thought of him gently teasing her out of her silly insecurities and stubbornly hiding his. She thought of him with Dante, his flashes of jealousy. His tiny keepsake photograph of Lodo. His overwhelming loyalty. And his love. He had such a capacity for love. He was frightened of it, but it was there in everything he did for them. And for her. He couldn’t hide it. He loved her. He needed her.

‘He loves me,’ she whispered to herself. ‘He understands me. He would never do anything to hurt me.’

‘Well, if he loves you so much why are you here? Why aren’t you with him? Why hasn’t he made an honest woman of you instead of all this parading about, getting your picture in the papers, giving those gossips in the village something to say about you?’

She looked away from her father—out at the December sky.

‘He made an honest woman of me the first day I met him. He showed me who I am and he made me learn about myself in a way that no one else possibly could.’

And he had. Her sexuality was part of her—a part of which she was now proud. They were perfectly matched, true partners, but each of them carried such huge scars that only the unflinching patience of true love would get past them.

‘Well, I’ll say it again—what are you doing here, crying in your bedroom? That’s not going to solve anything.’ He lifted the magazine out of her hands, stared down at the photograph. ‘You might think that I’m some old fool, that I don’t understand, but I’m not daft. You won’t get far if you don’t commit to one another properly. And I don’t see much evidence of
that
if you’re here and he’s there.’

Frankie looked at her father.
Really
looked. When was the last time she had done that? He was of a different generation, but maybe he was no less well meaning or principled than she was. Maybe he did truly want the best for her. There were things that mattered to him that she couldn’t understand. But she should respect them. For his sake.

‘I love you, Daddy,’ she said. ‘I won’t always agree with you, but this time I do.’

He hugged her gruffly, then pushed her away. No time for that kind of nonsense.

‘Well, get on with you, then.’ He shuffled around, put his hand on the banister and made his way down to the kitchen—to his Sunday lunch and his steady, uneventful life.

‘You young people can be awful stupid at times.’

Rocco turned off the radio. Silenced the preamble to today’s match. A resounding win predicted for Hermanos Hermida against their old rivals San Como. Dante was captaining for the first time. Rocco was glad. It was time he led the team on his own. He was a much more naturally talented player anyway—always had been. What Dante lacked in bloodthirstiness he made up for in consummate skill. A fearless child, he had excelled in every sport.

Yes, he thoroughly deserved his place—and the win that was predicted to follow.

As for himself …? Rocco wasn’t sure when or if he’d play again. He’d wanted to be there today, to lend Dante support. But right now he had come to the end of this particular road.

He sat back, ensconced in the leather bucket seat of his Lotus, tilted his head and closed his eyes.

You’d better get yourself sorted, man. You’ve just lost the best thing that ever happened to you and you’re in danger of losing everything else if you don’t dig yourself out of this pit.

Dante’s words still rang in his ears.

He’d faced Rocco across the snug—having found him holed up there three days after Frankie had gone—when he’d run out of bags to punch and miles to run. When he’d been left with nothing more than a cluster of bottles to drain as he tried to drink the misery away.

‘What do you think she’d say if she could see you now?’ He’d looked at the mess on the wall—the vintage red-wine stain now dried and pink. ‘Her hero.
Everybody’s
hero. God only knows what you did for her to give up on you.’

‘What would
you
know?’ he’d slurred back at Dante.
‘You’ve never known what it’s like to feel misery. Everything lands at your feet. Women, money, success …’

‘You think? You think I’ve never known any pain? That just shows what
you
know. It’s always been about you, Rocco. You and your
real
family. Your
real
brother. You never gave a damn about all the times I watched my mother in pain, waiting for news of where you were, never understanding why you’d do anything rather than be with us. And all we did was love you. You threw it back in our faces time and time again.’

He had been angry. Angrier than Rocco had known he could be. He’d sobered up in a heartbeat, watching him.

Dante had gone on, ‘And how do you think
I
felt? Did you ever stop to think? Rejected over and over like that? Knowing that I was never going to be good enough for you? That I’d never hold a candle to Lodo’s memory? You kicked me in the stomach more times than you’ll ever know.’

‘I … I’m sorry. Dante—I’m so … I’m just a mess. Not worth your love …’

At that Dante had reared up, his face a furious mask.

‘Just
shut up
! Stop your self-pity. You’re worth every bit of my love
and
our parents’ love. And
her
love—Frankie’s. You’re just too damn stubborn and blind to see it.’

They’d ended up standing, facing each other like cage fighters. He’d so badly wanted to swing at him. So badly wanted to hurt him. Because he knew he was right. He’d acted terribly. Selfishly.

In the end Dante had walked away, shaking his head. And in that moment Rocco had made his mind up. His life as he knew it was over. He didn’t want to be a playboy polo player anymore. He didn’t even want to be a horse breeder. He didn’t care about any of that. None of
it mattered while he was hurting the people he loved. And he loved Frankie so much—so much it killed him to think what he’d done to her.

From the moment he’d seen her he’d loved her. He’d fought against it all these years, but he had. She sparkled, she shone, and she was as pure as a brilliant-cut diamond. She’d brought energy and passion and love to his life. She’d lit up the dark, solemn corners of his heart. She’d set fire to him that night in her bed—a fire that he’d never been able to put out. All the women he’d bedded since had been just an effort to smother that flame. But none of it had worked.

Seeing her at the Campo had just lent oxygen to the embers that had always been there. And he’d known then he’d had a second chance. He’d pursued her relentlessly, not taking no for an answer. She was
his.
He wanted her and he would have her. But only on his terms.

Who the hell did he think he was?

Standing in the wreck of his room, he’d thought about what he’d built up and now cared nothing for—his polo, his ponies, his estancia. She’d come farther than him. She might not have the baubles to show for it, the money, but she was honest. She had strength. Integrity. Compassion. And those were the things he’d suddenly realised he lacked.

He had so much to make up for.

The next day he’d gotten up, cleared up the squalor he’d created and started to sort everything out. He’d called in on Dante. Apologised and shared his plans with him: he was going to bow out of polo, get more serious with life, get more involved in his new businesses. And he was going to meet Chris Martinez. He didn’t know how yet—but he was.