For once he couldn’t think of what to say.
‘I...’ She stopped, reached out a hand to the counter as if to steady herself and tried again. ‘I...we can’t keep doing this—kissing on every date.’ Her voice still hitched. ‘It’s... I’m worried it will mess with my head, fuzz my judgement and I...we can’t afford that. The decision we have to make is too important for that.’
‘Agreed. If you decide to marry me I need to know it is for the right reasons; I need to know we entered this agreement on the same page.’
She smoothed her hair, ran a wondering hand over her lips and nodded.
Forcing positivity into his voice, he gestured to the ingredients. ‘Now let’s bake this cake.’
A nod and she leant down, picked the book up off the floor with a rueful look, and found the page with the recipe.
The first ten minutes were spent in sharing the tasks, whilst fighting off the memory of that kiss. No easy task in itself, as they were of necessity still so close that he could catch a waft of her shampoo. As he read the instructions over her shoulder he had to fight the urge to lean over and nuzzle kisses along the nape of her neck. Knew the smell of cocoa powder as it dusted the air would always bring him back to this moment.
‘It’s good practice for children, isn’t it?’ she said and he blinked.
‘I think I may have missed a bit of the conversation.’
‘I meant that one day I can imagine showing my child how to do this and it got me wondering.’ She turned her face from him, stirred the mixture in the bowl harder and then paused, turned to look at him. ‘Tell me what sort of father you want to be.’
‘Why do I get the feeling this is an interview question?’
‘Because in a way it is.’ Her voice was serious now. ‘If we get married it’s not like a fairy tale where we waltz off the page into the horizon of happy ever after. We have to think about the reality of what comes after we say we do. This is real.’
‘I understand that,’ he said.
‘Good.’ She stirred with a little less gusto and then handed it over to him to continue. Almost as if it were some sort of symbol. ‘So what sort of father do you want to be? You must have thought about this, thought about the idea of having children?’
‘Um...’ He stared down at the mixture in the bowl, searched for inspiration. In truth the furthest he’d got to thinking about children was the general idea of not having them.
Because the whole ide
a of parenthood terrified him. When he remembered how much he’d craved affection, love, attention, he knew that that was what he needed to give a child. Problem was he wasn’t sure he could, because he’d never been shown how, and the thought of letting a child down was unacceptable. If there was any chance of that he wouldn’t take the risk. An easy choice as he’d had no intention of marriage anyway.
But now... That had all changed and panic clawed his chest. How on earth could he be a father? The idea threatened to choke him with its enormity. What if he really couldn’t be the father he knew every child deserved, couldn’t offer love? What if he was simply conditioned to repeat his parents’ mistakes?
Gabriella was studying him. ‘Sorry. I know it’s a big question. But it is an important one. If we are to get married then hopefully we will end up responsible for another human being and that is an awesome and a huge responsibility. And here and now I am willing to put my credentials on the line. I have always wanted children, but only if it would be right for them. I wanted it to be the right time in my life so that I would be able to give them security, a home, as well as love. I wanted them to have a family life with two loving parents and siblings and huge Christmas meals and family holidays and...’ She shook her head. ‘I know I am painting a rose-coloured picture. I know there will be difficulties and arguments and tiredness along the way. I do know it will be real. But I want all that too.’
A family. Kids in the plural. Christmas lunches. Family holidays. Events completely unlike the ones he’d experienced. Himself and Gabriella with a brood of dark-haired children, children with Gabriella’s wide smile and dimple. With her serious brown eyes, that could light up with laughter. The wave of panic threatened again and he forced himself to stem it as he faced the seriousness of her expression now.
As she continued. ‘I didn’t have a father and I wanted one so very badly. I vowed that when I had children I would make sure I gave them a good dad, a good man who would care for them, protect them, carry them round on his shoulders, help them with their homework...be there for them. I can’t marry a man who won’t be a good father.’
‘I...’ Dammit—she deserved better than the platitudes he knew he could reel out, the diplomatic assurances he could craft. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said, the lameness apparent to his own ears, and he knew she deserved more than that as well. He watched as she carefully spooned the mixture into a cake tin. ‘I realise that sounds meh at best. But it’s hard for me to imagine being a good father, because I don’t have a role model. And I don’t have the sort of imagination you have to be able to picture one.’
‘What about your own father?’
Cesar hesitated and then shrugged, knew she deserved a real explanation. ‘My parents...they did everything for duty, for Aguilarez. Including having children; sometimes I felt as though we were their gift to the country, a duty done. Then after we were born it was their duty to mould us into the sons and daughters of Aguilarez. But by so doing it was as if that absolved them of any duty to make us feel wanted on a personal level. So I saw very little of him and when I did it was more of an audience, an update report, a tick-the-box exercise.’ He could still remember the discomfort of the starched clothes, the perfectly combed hair, the exhortations from the nanny of the day not to fidget, to enunciate, to be polite. ‘A time where I had to be on best behaviour.’
‘And did you always behave?’
‘Yes. Especially once I’d figured out that it wasn’t only us who bore the consequences if I didn’t, but it was the nannies too.’ He flushed now, slightly uncomfortable. ‘It sounds horrible now but I did realise that gave me a level of power. It was always easier to persuade them to give us a treat just before a parental meeting.’
Gabriella looked at him. ‘So your childhood was really a string of negotiations.’
‘Life is a string of negotiations,’ he said.
‘Maybe, but it shouldn’t be and childhood certainly shouldn’t be that. And I don’t want it to be that way for my children.’
‘Neither do I.’ And that was the honest truth. ‘I would do my best, Gabi. To be there for them, to kick a ball around, teach them how to ride a bike or bake a cake. I’ll try to be there for them.’ Somehow he’d conquer the terror that twisted his guts with the fear he’d get it wrong. After all, Cesar Asturias feared nothing.