Chapter III:  ROME and SYDNEY

 

 

Don't let your eyes tell the brain 
You should feel ashamed 
Everyone needs it baby 
And I feel the same 
Didn't quite catch your name 
Hush, hush, hush 
Don't say a thing 
Let's see what the night will bring 
It might be everything 

Oh it hurts 
When you're too blind to see 
Please don't read my mind 
I tell the truth to me

 

Sergei had initially turned down the invitation because, as a matter of course, he always turned down such requests, usually sending his apologies and one of his deputies in his stead. Officially, he let it be known that he preferred to stay out of the limelight if possible, although that stance was becoming increasingly hard to maintain now that the world's press had turned the full force of the media spotlight on the Litvinovs. The once mysterious and remote Russian businessman was now one half of Europe's most famous celebrity couple.

It had begun almost by accident. Early in their marriage Sergei had suggested a compromise to compensate for the limitations placed upon Zoe's future career opportunities by offering her his charitable foundation to spearhead and re-shape according to her own vision. The Litvinov Foundation had always been very important to him. Through this organisation he had endeavoured to pay something back by funding various global humanitarian projects.  His vast fortune seemed to him to be obscene unless it was put to use for humanity: the acquisition of money by itself never having driven his ambition beyond the level of the security and comfort it afforded. Sergei lived well, enjoyed expensive things, took advantage of all his wealth offered him - but beyond that it had little meaning for him.

Zoe had eagerly seized his offer. Already an experienced businesswoman, she recognised that it was no longer possible for her to work on a regular basis if they were to have any semblance of a family life together. This foundation gave her a new purpose, one that even managed to hark back to her earlier career ambitions, long since shelved for the sake of Andreas, now possible again in a new and altered form. She had once planned to become a witness to the world's ills through the medium of news journalism. Now she could contribute by means of sponsoring real projects in areas of great need.  Already she had set in place several dynamic new in initiatives around the world. Zoe Litvinova did not intend to be the spoiled wife of a rich man. It was her aim to turn her new role into something positive rather than let herself be sucked under by the weight of the expectations of the world she now moved in.

The unexpected - and un-looked for - result of this public position was that the spotlight of the world press was shone on the newly married Litvinovs, with an attention bordering on obsession. They had been courted by the media circus from the start: the beautiful and enigmatic Zoe Thorne-Costello, sister of the successful recording artist, Liam Thorne, now married to Sergei Litvinov, the debonaire and erstwhile highly eligible billionaire businessman. It was always going to be the fairy tale romance so beloved of the celebrity pages, a quasi-royal match in a modern world short on handsome princes and rags-to-riches damsels. Added to that, her high profile aid work around the world, particularly in areas of conflict, poverty, natural disaster and disease, had catapulted them both to a new level of notoriety.

But Sergei had still used family as an excuse for his no-show at the much-vaunted 'Global Leadership Forum' in Rome. It was summer holidays - family time. It gave him only a slight sense of guilt that his family had been an excuse. The end justified the means in this case. His presence there had not been sought because he was regarded as one of that stellar group of the world's richest and most charitably-inclined moguls, led by the likes of Gates and Branson. Sergei knew that his invitation was little more than a tool to prise open their access to the impenetrable and murky depths of the Russian corporate world, where social responsibility and ecological concerns figured about as highly as did fair pay and labour laws. He didn't enjoy the unctuous smug condescension of his nominal peer group - nor did he wish to become the champion of the current regime. Yet, to speak his mind against them would have been the final nail in the coffin of his reputation in the Kremlin.

Things had suddenly changed, however. Since his run-in with Glebov, there was no reason any more for Sergei to hold back. In fact, it might well be wiser for him to fire the first salvos before his enemies began to move against him. And on what better stage than an international forum? Maximum global coverage would make it harder for covert reprisals. There was already much cynicism surrounding the jailing of billionaire Mikhail Khodorovsky on a nine-year term in a Siberian prison for alleged tax evasion and fraud. Not because he wasn't most likely guilty of the charges but because it was seen as absurd in the outside world that anyone in the Russian government could dare to call foul bribery and corruption; when everyone knew that they were the lifeblood of the entire system. Khodorovsky, the owner of an oil company, had crossed Putin. That was the only real crime left in Russia. Sergei had no wish to share a similar fate.

So, during that long wakeful night after Zoe had locked him out of their bedroom, Sergei had had plenty of time to think about his next move and had decided to change his mind. A call to the US secured not only a place on the main podium - but also an address to the main hall on the final day. Once the die was cast, it was his intention to launch some major missiles in the direction of his government and the current regime. This time the world's press could work on his behalf for a change. Let Putin dare touch him once he had made the international community aware of where he really stood.

The conference had gone well but by Friday afternoon, Sergei felt drained. His final speech had met with a standing ovation. As he took his leave it was clear that the aftershocks would already be reverberating round Moscow and beyond. His first thought was of Zoe and whether she would hear about it before he had time to explain.  He ought to call her straight away to warn her, but the telephone was not the ideal medium. On the other hand he was not sure that this could wait. CNN would already be flashing the sound bite version up on its rolling bar soon enough.

On a steamy hot late August afternoon in Rome, he exited the air-conditioned cool of the conference centre, Raybans shading his eyes. His car, its engine purring, was waiting as he strode out flanked by bodyguards. He shuddered at the thought of entering the sealed chilled cabinet to shelter him from the real world, particularly on such a glorious day. How many cities did he visit and see no more than airport to hotel to office and then back again? He had neither seen the sun nor daylight since he had set out after his daily workout and an early breakfast that morning.  Suddenly he felt a surge of claustrophobia.  He needed fresh air, freedom, escape.

Sucking deeply on the heavy humid air, sweat already forming on his brow and in droplets on the back of his shirt, he made a snap decision. His hotel was less than half a mile away. He would walk.

Ripping off his tie and jacket, he tossed them both through the open door of his limousine, barking an order to the driver to return to the hotel and wait there. One of his men started to raise an objection that Sergei curtly closed off with a raised palm, merely rolling up his sleeves and requesting the bodyguard to fetch a bottle of chilled water from the refrigerated bar unit inside the limousine.

Opening it, draining a long swig, he sauntered off in the direction of his hotel, much like many of the tourists thronging the capital at this time of year. Or not much like them at all. Unlike the majority of passers-by, Sergei Litvinov oozed the gloss of great wealth and high class, the indefinable sheen of elegance and style, power and authority, even as he wandered incognito amongst the crowds. Women eyed him up as he strolled along. Men glanced at him and recognised the alpha.

He himself was largely insensible to any attention directed his way. It just felt good to be alone - if he could ever be considered to be truly be alone, that was, with three armed men keeping their distance but still on the alert, in voice contact with back up, and intent on protecting him from the world at large. Sergei glanced back and could not help but smile. Who were they fooling? On a busy crowded street surrounded by tall buildings and dozens of un-vetted strangers, there was any number of possible ways an assassin could take him out. Only the fact that he had broken with his intended schedule made it unlikely that any attack would be set up at such short notice - but it couldn't be discounted.  A hit man might have been following him for weeks just waiting for this eventuality.

Was part of him tempting fate? He already felt weary to his very bones - and the battle had barely begun. There was an odd sort of relief, too, in playing with fire, in provoking direct action after months of game-playing. He didn't want to die. Of course, he didn't. But he wasn't sure he wished to bring danger to his family either. This way might be cleaner, simpler. At least he would know what he was fighting, instead of swinging at shadows. If it should all end here on this hot dusty street, then fate would have decided. If it didn't...he was going to war. The deal with the devil.

A car backfired. Sergei stopped dead - then laughed, taking another drink, before tossing the empty bottle into a nearby trashcan. Hands in his pockets, sauntering now, he suddenly felt lighter. He was going to take them all on - and he was going to win. And then? Who knew? Russia might need a new master. Was he ready for that? He had to be. There wasn't anyone else who could hold it all together.  Once the Rubicon was crossed, there could be no half measures, no turning back.

By the time he reached the hotel, he had found a new focus. Taking the steps at a run, he acknowledged the liveried doorman's greeting with an uncharacteristic smile, hitting the revolving door with purpose, striding through the lobby, any vacillation he had felt a short while before rapidly disappearing.

"So, you are going to walk right past me without even saying hello, are you? Sergei Litvinov... shame on you...!"

The voice brought him up short, only then realising how lost inside himself he had been. She was standing before him, as astonishingly beautiful as ever, the intervening years seeming not to have touched her. At the sight of her, he smiled, a genuine smile of appreciation. He had once loved this woman even if he had been too selfish at the time to fully understand himself.

"Chiara! What on earth are you doing here?"

Her husky laugh wrapped in balmy nights, soft sheets, heated flesh and candlelight, was a sensory memory in itself. In a searing, visceral jolt, he found that he could almost taste the old hunger.

"What am I doing here? This is Roma, my city, remember? You're the invader, Russian boy..."

Sergei acknowledged her correction with a grin and a nonchalant shrug. "So we are here together...we cannot simply say hello and goodbye. For once I have some time. What I most need now is someone to take my mind off the global economy, geo-politics, and the corruption of Mother Russia...who better than you? Are you free, Chiara? Or off to some glamorous assignation?" He flashed his eyes, flirting, hinting at a better option of his own.

"As a matter of fact, you are in luck, cara. I was just leaving but...I think I could be persuaded to one more coffee on your tab... The lounge? They serve beautiful pastries there in the late afternoon..."

He looked across at the open lobby lounge and shook his head. "No, too public for me, particularly today. Not to mention that I doubt your husband -or my wife- would wish to see us together in tomorrow's newspaper...Give me ten minutes and then join me in my suite. The concierge will see you up..." He turned to one of the hovering bodyguards and indicated for him to clear the visitor with Security.

Chiara smiled, her dark eyes hooded, a forbidden promise he should not have even noticed. "...and you think our partners would prefer that we meet behind closed doors? Somehow, I think not. Even if you are absolutely right that privacy would be preferable. The presidential suite, I presume?"

Sergei nodded, an almost boyish arrogance in the pleasure he was taking to impress her. 

"Then how can I refuse?...A l'ora, baci..." She blew him a kiss before strutting off, throwing a sultry parting glance, also catching the eye of Valeri Gudovin, one of Sergei's men. He, as usual, remained devoid of expression much to her amusement. His thoughts, however, were another matter entirely. This she well knew.

Sergei hit the elevator button aware of a new, revived spring in his step. This rendezvous was not wise today -or any day. No doubt that was why it felt so good. He always responded to pressure. Pushing the boundaries. Taking chances. Walking the tightrope. Teetering on the edge. Wasn't that what today had really been about? It seemed pointless to stop now. Nor did he particularly wish to stop now. Not when the ball had been set in motion. A number of balls, or so it seemed. Fate seemed determined of late to force his hand. So be it.

To onlookers, this meeting would appear something wholly other than what it was. He understood that. A man in his position could attract speculation even over the most innocent encounter; his every move was put under scrutiny. Yet he didn't care.  Especially not today. As long as he knew that it was harmless, nothing but a reunion of two old friends, what else mattered? What his wife would say about it, however, was quite another thing. He had no illusions about that.

If she found out, that is. And he would make sure that she never did. But right now, he deserved this. His conscience never even gave it a second thought.

Upstairs, he burst into his suite, giving the butler an order for afternoon tea - with champagne - to be served out on the garden terrace, before he ripped off the remainder of his formal suit attire and took a welcome shower, changing into casual clothes, deciding against shaving again. He chose white linen trousers, cut to his physique rather than loose; he wanted her to see that he had not let himself go. If anything, he was more honed than when they had been together. He eyed himself in the mirror as he put his arms through the pale blue shirt, leaving it hanging loose, with just a few buttons fastened, his feet bare. He felt comfortable. It was a hot day.

It was also an inappropriately informal style for a demure afternoon tea with a woman who was not his wife. Especially one who had once been his mistress.

He glanced again at his own reflection, staring intently into his own eyes, trying to read what he might be hiding even from himself. "Be careful, Sergei. Make sure you keep your wits about you with this one, eh?" Then he grinned. Man, though did it feel good!

When he strolled back in, Chiara was already waiting for him in the sumptuous lounge, looking as though she had just stepped out of a salon herself, although she was still dressed as before, in a tightly fitting white silk day dress, trimmed with a splash of her signature violet. Her figure was perfectly suited to the style, voluptuous but narrow-waisted, hips to make a man sweat, graced with long slender olive-gold legs elegantly wrapped in bronze sandals.

She tossed back her thick dark hair and gave him a moue of approval at his change of clothes.  Swaying across, she came much closer than she had in public, catching the whiff of his cologne and sighing, before placing a soft kiss on one cheek, caressing the other with her palm, approving of the light dusting of stubble with a husky sigh. "Magnificent, Sergei! You always get it right. So few men ever do."

He made a slight bow in acknowledgment of her compliment - and held out his right hand. "The terrace? It's cooler out there than you might think. Shady, private and glorious on a late afternoon. Please...?"

It was another excellent choice. As the afternoon heat subsided into a fragrant clammy evening, they sat on and talked amicably in the shelter of their bower, high above the city. His controversial speech was already hitting the news services and flashing around the world's headlines, but he had all but forgotten, intoxicated by a beautiful woman, the allure of sensual memory and the elegant garden arbour.

They spoke of general things at first: her career, his companies, her home, his travels. The subject of her children came up. She showed him pictures of her two boys. They were her passion; he suspected these were the only men who had ever really touched her heart.

"Giannini and Luca. My lifeblood. I would die for them. I am a good mother, you know? Better mother than wife, that's for sure..." she smiled, caressing their images fondly with a manicured thumb.

"Where are they?"

"Here. In Italia. By the sea. Positano. I have a place there. Tomorrow, I join them..."

"And your husband...?"

She hunched her shoulders, clicking her tongue. "Who knows? Making a film somewhere. It is what it is. He has his life, I have mine. It suits us this way..." Her voice trailed off with words unspoken hovering in the air between them. She had not quite explained what it was that suited them. He had no need of an explanation.

"And you? You seem to have taken to marriage in a way I would never have expected. She's very young, your little wife, isn't she. Very beautiful, too. And she has given you children. That was very clever of her..." Chiara's tongue was still as barbed as ever. She could not resist reminding Sergei that she knew truths about him that few others did.

He tilted his head, choosing his reply carefully. His marriage was nothing to do with her. "When we parted, you and I, my behaviour towards you was appalling. I do not blame you for your anger towards me and for the way in which you took your leave.  I deserved it. Since then I have often wished I could apologise. Perhaps you will allow me that privilege now? To set the record straight and clear the air between us? I was younger then and had much to learn in life. That is my only defence, for what it is..."

"-I asked you about your wife, Sergei. And yet you have changed the subject..."

"I know. More champagne?" Case closed. Typical Litvinov fashion on territory he did not wish to visit. She shrugged it off with a grin, extending her glass. No matter. She didn't need an explanation from him. That was his private business and of no concern to her.

"Apology accepted nevertheless. It was a long time ago. We would have made a lousy couple anyway. We are both much happier as a result. You are happy, aren't you, Sergei?" She asked directly, her voiced laced with implications.

He gazed steadily back for what seemed a long time, before replying: "Deliriously."

They both broke into laughter. Enough honesty for one session. 

It was already dusk when she checked her watch. "My God, look at the time! I have to run, cara. I have a dinner and I can't go dressed like this!" She stood up and ran her hands down her body, accentuating the drape of silk against shapely flesh. Sergei was a man. He could not help remember her naked in his arms - and what he had forgotten, he could see before him without requiring much imagination on his part.

He stood up. "I apologise for commandeering your time. I hope I haven't spoiled your plans for today. You never told me why you were at the hotel..."

"...No, I didn't, did I?" she teased. "Just tea with a friend. I called her when you went upstairs and told her I couldn't make it. Some other time...She will understand..."

There had been no girlfriend, of course. Chiara had spent the previous two hours before running into Sergei in bed with a young American actor who was also in town. He had rushed off after their liquid lunch of bodily fluids to resume shooting; Chiara had been on her way back to her own apartment when she had so fortuitously bumped into her former lover.

And she did regard the meeting as serendipitous. Of all the men she had ever dallied, Sergei Litvinov was by far the one that had meant the most. She was tired of strings of meaningless affairs. She was older now. What she wished most was to find a long term lover. But that required a man who could hold her permanent interest -which excluded almost every man she met.

Until Providence had brought back Sergei.

He led her to the door of the suite where they lingered, exchanging a few final words. 

"This has been wonderful, Chiara. So good to spend time with you again. Enjoy your beautiful boys!" He reached down to plant a chaste kiss on her lips. She pulled away, tasting and licking her perfect lips lazily.

"You always tasted so good, Sergei! Like a man should.  You know, you never showed me pictures of your sons, did you? Next time, huh?" 

She smiled and made her exit through the open door before he could reply. He laughed. There would be no next time. She had to know that. Of course, she knew that!  It was why she had to have the last word. Shaking his head, amused at her audacity, enjoying every minute of it, he closed the door. He felt much calmer now. The hint of eroticism and forbidden fruit that this encounter had brought with it had taken his mind off the pressures of the day. He was now ready to face it all again.

A phone rang in the distance. The butler appeared holding his cell out. "Your wife, sir..."

"Damn!" he muttered, checking his watch. She must have seen the news by now. He had not called to warn her. Did she already know?

The butler stood impassive but his eyes showed some interest. It was human nature. His employer had just entertained a singularly attractive - and legendary- actress. Now his wife was on the phone. Mr. Litvinov looked annoyed. There was some juicy gossip in all this.

Sergei snatched at his phone waving a dismissive hand for the man to leave him alone. He also nodded to Valeri who was still sitting on point by the door. Both men left for the kitchen.

"Sorry...I was showering..." He grimaced as he lied to Zoe. The first lie of many, he wondered.

"Sergei...what's this I hear about on the BBC? What the hell have you done today? My God, you think you might have shared your plans with me before you went ahead and declared war on the Russian government? Do I have to rely on reading it in tomorrow's paper? I simply cannot believe you would have done this to us and not had the decency to at least give me some warning..."

 

 

~~~

 

Liam let himself into his parents' home with the key that he was surprised to have located surprisingly easily at the bottom of a sports' bag, the only luggage he normally carried with him when he went up north. It was late afternoon. He had come straight from the airport. The house was quiet; it was possible they were both out. Or away. He hadn't been in touch for a few weeks.

Wandering through the downstairs rooms, he tried the study door, pushing it open without expecting to find anyone there.  He was almost as startled as his mother. She had been sitting at the desk at work on her laptop.

She glanced up and gasped. "God, Liam, you made me jump! How on earth did you get in here?"

"Key. You gave me one, remember? Ages ago," he grinned, striding over to greet her. She had risen from her seat and opened her arms to him. He gave her the usual warm hug, swinging her off the floor and planting a smacker of a kiss on her cheek. She stroked his face, tutting at the untidy stubble, flicking back the unruly hair that was growing every which way. It was months since it had seen a pair of scissors.

"I thought you'd have lost that key long ago. Liam, you're such a mess! Those jeans looks like you've been wearing them for weeks!" As usual she began by fussing over his disreputable state. She had always despaired at how scruffy he was by nature, so unlike his father, who was always so meticulous about his grooming.

"Probably because I have. Been wearing them for weeks. Give it a rest, Mum! How about 'wonderful to see you, darling?' I've been up north. Like they dress for dinner there?"

Liam set her down and she gave him a long-suffering glance. "When did you get back? You hungry? I'll go put the kettle on," she answered herself, leading him back through the house to the large open-plan kitchen. He followed obediently. He was hungry. He was always hungry. And he loved nothing better than being fussed over by his mother.

"Just flew in. I could murder a decent sarnie, Mum. Where's Dad?"

"Ham and cheese, do? The fridge is a bit low. We're going out to dinner tonight, so I didn't stock up. Dad? Dunno where he is. He mumbled something this morning. Probably at the office with Jamie."

Liam nodded at the offer of the meat and cheese while Annie set to putting it together. Taking a stool, he leant on the counter top, watching her assemble the elaborate offering.

"Farrow? Why's Dad at Siphos? And on a Saturday, as well?" he inquired as she passed the plate over to him and busied herself with making coffee.

"He's been doing a lot of consultancy for them. Mostly with new staff, sitting on interview panels, giving a few seminars, leading courses for corporate clients on security issues for staff working overseas. That sort of thing. And Saturday because they're having a new induction course beginning on Monday - and the troops are arriving today. Dad's giving the opening orientation and pep talk, filling them in on the sorts of situations that might become their bread and butter once they're working for Siphos, etc, etc.. Jamie's got Dad on the Board now. Suits him down to the ground. He keeps his hand in, but only works on average a day or two a week.  Plenty of time for golf and driving me demented..."

"...And for spending the afternoons in bed. Thought I might catch you two at it when I heard how quiet the house was..." Liam grinned.

"We are never quiet, sweetie. You'd have heard us from the front door," Annie retorted, grinning back. Liam snorted. You could never faze Mum.

"Heard from Zoe?" 

Annie shook her head. "Not for a few days. Think she's in Paris by now."

"Something on?"

"Charity ball hosted by the Sarkozys. Probably costing more than all the charities concerned raised in a year..." Annie added tartly, her left wing tendencies showing.

Liam laughed. "Come on, Mum, real world please! It's not the 1960s. You have to spend money to make money...wine and dine the fabulously wealthy and they will cough up zillions...but they expect to be courted.  It's the name of the game, that's all."

"I still prefer the way you're giving something back, to this publicity-driven cheque book generosity. It's all for show," Annie observed.

Liam shrugged. "Who cares why they give, as long as they give?  Types like that wouldn't hand anything out otherwise. People like me always would. That's the difference. Zoe's making a massive contribution through the Foundation. Real serious money and involvement. I'm just a chicken feed charity in comparison..."

"You're just one man. Doing it alone. I respect that. And I respect what she does, too. Enormously. Especially as I know she hates all the notoriety it brings - not to mention the social circle she has to inhabit. Sometimes I pity her so much, locked up in her luxury homes, trying to give the children something approximating a normal upbringing."

Liam nodded in agreement. There wasn't much he could say on that count. He had suffered from fame and no one had more sympathy for those struggling with it than he did. Especially for those who had never done the deal with the devil like him. Unless you regarded marriage to Litvinov as being much the same thing as having sympathy for the devil.

Liam and Zoe's husband did not have much in common. Sergei treated him with a scarcely concealed disdain; he responded by acting up in his presence, swaggering about rock-star fashion- and annoying the cool Russian even more. It was very childish behaviour, as much to do with some sort of sibling jealousy as anything else, but he had never tried to curb it. Once, he himself had almost been Andreas' surrogate father, now he was relegated to black sheep uncle status. And he barely knew little Alex. Whom Liam always called by the nickname 'Quinn' when Sergei was around.

It was not surprising that Sergei gave Liam the cold shoulder.

Annie had moved on already, setting down a pot of freshly brewed coffee with a jug of hot frothy milk. Liam poured two cups.

"Why did you come round here anyway straight from the airport? What's wrong with your own place - or did you just feel like a bit of TLC from Mum?" Annie asked with a smile.

Liam hunched his shoulders. "...Well, there is my washing..."

She slapped his arm playfully, knowing full well that wasn't an issue. His Sydney home had a small fulltime staff. He got better treatment there than at his parents' house where he was expected to pull his weight, not treat his Mum as a servant.

"...actually I got a mail from Abby. She's in town and, in her imperious fashion, chose to ensconce herself at my place instead of using a hotel. She expects me to join her as soon as I'm back down, but...I'm just not in the mood yet. I'm still in my chilled out, down country state of mind. You have to be totally on your mettle to deal with Mizz 'high octane' Abigail."

Annie frowned, still unsure about the relationship between her son and the lovely Abigail Merchison. The two had been on and off for a few years now despite the many other rumours about Liam's private life, which had always made her suspect that Abigail was just being used as a front. Popular fiction claimed that Liam was gay, or bi-sexual, or partially out of the closet, or in denial - or something- whatever the latest story they came up with. She knew she should take no notice of this sort of gossip but there was enough unexplained about Liam's friendship with a Hollywood actor that made her wonder. Terry himself was guarded whenever she raised the subject, either because he didn't want to know - or more likely because he knew a lot more than he wished to admit to her. Who could tell with her husband and secrets? He was the best there was at concealment.

"How's it going with you two, then?" Annie made a tentative stab at the subject.

Liam flashed her a look. "I'm avoiding her. 'Nuff said, surely?" 

"Not entirely," Annie countered. "Is she just handy for sex? Is that all she means to you? Because if that's it, then it's pretty shabby of you. That girl loves you, Liam. It's unfair to lead her on..."

There was always the chance that he might say more than he planned to if she riled him enough. His expression showed her that she had touched a major nerve.

"Using Abigail as a sex toy would be difficult as she uses almost every guy she meets in that very way. Christ, Mum, she's a wild one. You know that. Okay, I sleep with her now and then - but she's hardly a vulnerable woman...She has a different man in every city of the world..."

"...She loves you..."

"...She knows my feelings on that particular subject. I've always been completely honest with her. I am upfront..."

"...And exactly what would your definition of upfront be?" Annie asked directly.

Liam chewed on his lip. "None of your business, Mum." Then he sighed, already regretting his acerbic reply. "I'm not in a relationship at the moment. I have no commitments or loyalties to anyone. Thus, as far as I'm concerned that makes me an entirely free agent. If I wish to sleep around - as long as I am careful and treat my partners decently- then I am perfectly free to do so without comment from you or anyone else. Since when did you become the moral majority, anyway?"

He was still sharp with her; he found it hard to deal with any references to his private life, even from his own mother.

Annie nodded, unwilling to provoke him further. He was right, of course. His private life was his own business. The fact that she accepted that, however, didn't make it any easier to stand on the sidelines and watch him, though. She knew her son. He was lonely. He missed his daughter. He craved security and love. It never ceased to amaze her how hard it was for him to find. Liam was such a man. What was wrong with women? Or was it Jake who lingered on the fringes of Liam's life, preventing him from truly forming a lasting bond with anyone else? Annie didn't really care if her son one day came home and admitted he was gay. As long as he was happy. That's all that counted.

Although she couldn't believe he was for a moment. Nothing about Liam throughout his entire life had ever given out that particular vibe to her. She was his mother! She wasn't naïve! She would know!

"I just want you to be happy, Liam. Everyone needs to be secure and happy eventually. That's all I'm saying," Annie offered.

"Actually, you were taking me to task for keeping Abigail on a string. Mum, all I want out of life is to one day fall in love and have a houseful of babies. I'm a simple guy at heart. But I just don't seem to meet the kind of women who could make it work for me. Marriage to Abigail would be a disaster. And if I think that now, it ain't gonna get any better a few years down the line. Can you imagine her as a mother? Sure, she'd give me babies if I asked, but she wouldn't win any prizes for mothering, I can tell you that now.  I am not prepared to play roulette with the futures of my putative children by bringing them into a world where an unstable home was a given. Most mothers would be telling their sons to run a mile from a girl like her..."

"I don't want you to marry Abigail! Don't you think I don't realise how crazy she is? I just think that maybe you shouldn't be hiding over here just because she's in town. It suggests something is seriously wrong, love...Either break it off or get together with her - don't bury your head in the sand and do nothing!"

He gave her a boyish grin; she reached over and ruffled up his hair. "Mum, it's complicated. Abby knows the score but she's persistent. She seems to think that we're intended for each other eventually. Until then, however, she's shagging her way round the world and frankly, Mum, as bad as I am, I'm pretty old-fashioned about the potential mother of my children..."

"That's rich coming from a serial shagger like yourself," Annie observed dryly.

"No doubt, but that's the way it is, Mumsy. I'm no different from my Dad. My woman has got be a little bit above all that sort of thing...Special. My girl. Just like you were for Dad..."

"I wasn't a virgin when I met him..."

"I'm not out for a virgin, Ma. Christ, I want someone who knows what's what, ya know?" he laughed huskily. "But not one who's been round the houses and then some. It's not just the sex, either. Women like Abby are spoilt and selfish. They're never going to be able to give what it takes for a relationship to work in the long run. Not over years. As soon as it gets hard or boring, they'll be off looking for kicks. What kind of mother does that make?"

Annie gave his comment some thought before adding: "You shouldn't be looking for a womb, Liam, but a woman. Don't confuse the two, eh?"

Liam didn't answer. He knew better than to respond to that one. 

"How's Jake? See much of him these days?" Annie had changed the subject with a rapier thrust worthy of his father. Liam kept his cool, aware what her real question was.

"He's not often in the Northern Territories, so no, I haven't seen him in ages," Liam answered smartly. "Apparently he's in love. Surely you read the gossip mags like all the other girls?"

Annie snorted at the very suggestion that she might have read a popular magazine - although to be fair, she had read up on Jake and the new fiancée in Hello magazine at the salon.

"It's the real thing, so he says.  Mind you he said that about 'you-know-who' and look where that got him..." Annie winced at Liam's acerbic reference to Jake's earlier affair with Zoe. " Apparently, he's happy as a pig in muck anyway. She's got a couple of littlies of her own already and they all get on like a house on fire. They're even planning one of their own. Plus he's got some big movie out soon, some sword and sandal epic...can't remember who he plays- Sinbad, maybe? ...Looks like it'll be big box office, anyway. He's doing great..."

"Prince of Persia," Annie mumbled. "Based on the video game..."

"Never read the fan mags, eh?" Liam teased. 

"I think Dad told me," she pulled her tongue out at him. "Talk of the devil..."

The front door slammed shut and the sound of keys being thrown down announced the arrival of Terry Thorne. He walked into the kitchen, beaming at the sight of his son.

"Coffee's hot," Annie said.

"Coffee? My son's home. Crack a few beers, will ya, love? How ya doing, mate? When did you get in?" Terry slapped Liam on the back. Liam grasped his father's right hand and they did that male clasped fist greeting. It made Annie smile. They were so fond of each other. It was so good to see them together. Her boys.

"Why don't you just call me 'Sheila' and be done with it, Bruce?" she laughed as she placed two coldies down before them. "Take them out on the balcony. It's a fine evening for this time of year. I think I'll join you in a glass of wine before I start getting ready. Liam, want to join us tonight? We've got a table at La Luna...I'm sure they can squeeze one more in..."

"Sounds like a plan...Better still, my treat. Dad, you got a shirt I can borrow? I can probably get away with these jeans..."

"At La Luna? Are you nuts? No jeans...Fortunately I still have a stack of your clothes from the last time you flopped down here. I'll find you some decent pants, a jacket and shirt. Dad will give you a tie. They're very fussy there..." Annie reminded him.

Liam waived away her objection. "Tie? Me? Get real. No restaurant in Sydney would turn me away even if I were stark naked with a ribbon tied round my dick. But I'll brush up neat for you, if you insist..."

"...You'll wear a tie. Around your neck and no further down. And you will wear it for me..." Annie replied.

Liam saluted. "So, Dad, what's going on in the world of high security?"

"Nothing much. Just a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears new recruits. They think just because they're ex-special forces and intelligence wallahs that they know more than we do. I spent a very satisfying afternoon setting them right on that one. You seen the news, Annie? The real story for the day is what your favourite son-in-law has just gone and done. He must have nerves of steel taking on the whole of the Kremlin and organised crime in the Motherland..."

"What?" Annie gasped, running for the TV remote to switch on CNN. And there it was, the Global Leadership Forum now centre stage, a political analyst explaining the ramifications of Sergei Litvinov's devastating attack on the regime in his homeland. They listened for a while, saying nothing.

Liam exhaled, shaking his head. "No doubt the bastard's got balls, but he's also got a wife and three children. What the fuck's he need to go stirring up that hornet's nest?"

"Because it needs saying. Someone has to be prepared to face up to what modern Russia has become," Annie defended Sergei. 

Terry looked less convinced. "Altruism or ambition? Not sure there's a lot to choose between the two at times, particularly where Sergei's concerned..."

"Ambition?" Annie picked up on that one immediately. "What do you mean, ambition? What is that supposed to mean?"

Terry gave her a wry look. "We may be looking at the first salvo of a future political campaign being fired across Russia's bows. Where else is there for one of the world's richest man to go next?  He's already built the financial empire. He doesn't need to make any more money. It's never about money at that level, anyway. The name of the game is  - and always was -power..."

"Sergei's an honourable man! You're making him sound like a megalomaniac! " Annie insisted.

"Sure he's honourable. The two things are not mutually exclusive, honey. Nor is there anything wrong with political ambitions, Annie. Some might say service for your own country's a good thing. Probably it would not be you, however, who would hold to that maxim- but most right-thinking people would," Terry gave her liberal views short shrift.

She ignored his dig. "You think Sergei wants to displace Putin and Medvedev and that bunch of cowboys - and put himself in the picture?"

The two men exchanged weary glances. "He chose a very appropriate place to open his campaign, if that's what it is," Liam observed. "Maximum international coverage. Hard for them to touch him once he's set his stall out to the world..."

"I can't believe it! Zoe would have said something if Sergei was preparing for such a step! It impacts his whole family..."

"Damn right, it does," Terry answered. Who knows why she hadn't mentioned it? Maybe Zoe didn't know herself. Litvinov always played his cards close to his chest. His wife was rarely in on the machinations of his empire. He may not have even warned her that a bomb was about to drop...Although, if he hadn't he was an even braver man than Terry had thought. Zoe would crucify him for dropping this one on her - and rightly so "...Look, this all happened yesterday afternoon in Europe. With time difference and all, she would have had time to contact us in advance of him going public- unless she only found out at the last moment herself. Let's take a breath and wait until we know for sure what's going on. "

He checked his watch. "Give her a call before we go out tonight. It'll be morning there by then. Something tells me she'll be up early today..."

 

 

To Part Four

Featured Song: Sin, Sin, Sin by Robbie Williams from Intensive Care

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