The One In My Heart

“Yes, I believe so.”


Bennett’s father studied me for a moment—as if my equanimity in the matter still surprised him. “There were quite a few things about that relationship that unsettled us. The age difference and that it had begun while Bennett was still a minor were the most obvious issues. But what mattered as much was the tremendous romantic delusion they had both been under. It wasn’t so surprising that a teenage boy should be somewhat blind about his first great love. But for Ms. McAllister, a woman of sophistication and insight, it was beyond us how she looked at Bennett and saw only what she wanted to see.”

I smoothed the napkin on my lap. “There’s no age at which one becomes immune to the cognitive impairment love causes.”

“You’re absolutely correct. My wife and I used to sit in stunned silence after one of our encounters with Ms. McAllister and wonder whether she was right—whether we knew our son at all. When they eventually broke up, we weren’t surprised, but a small part of me was disappointed: It would have been something remarkable had they managed to maintain their relationship. Even I, stick-in-the-mud extraordinaire, as Bennett liked to call me, couldn’t be entirely indifferent to the force of such an all-conquering love.”

I smoothed the napkin some more. “But it wasn’t.”

“No, it wasn’t, in part because of that romantic delusion. Had they seen each other more realistically, the outcome might have been different.”

I saw where this conversation was going. “And you’d like to know whether I’m also under some sort of delusion about who and what Bennett is.”

“I hope you are not offended.”

The irony of it. I shook my head. “No, I’m not offended.”

“Then do you mind if I ask what you think of my son?”

He was a forthright man, Bennett’s father, not given to pretenses. I wondered what he had made of Bennett’s apparent ease and good cheer the night before. A stranger walking by would have seen a dazzling young man, one who already had everything he could possibly desire. That young man did not need his less wealthy, less glamorous parents; he was happy to humor them, but he had moved far beyond their sphere of influence.

I stirred my coffee. “What I think of his flaws, you mean?”

“Yes.”

Weeks of internal debate. Whether to approach her. It might turn out to be serious.

Flaw 1: He spouts so much BS.

What do you do when you despair, and there isn’t an August rain to drown your sorrow?

Flaw 2: I’m afraid he sees through me.

“There’s an excess of pride to him,” I said, breaking off a piece of a chocolate croissant. “A healthy amount of arrogance. Opportunism, too—he’s not above being exploitive. I think I may safely call him a shark, your son.”

“Yet you’re with him,” said Mr. Somerset.

“Yet I’m with him.”

Should I be concerned at how convincing I sounded? Had I become that good an actress, or was it something else that gave force and gravitas to my words?

“Why?”

“You mean besides the obvious? I like that he’s always been up-front with me, especially about his flaws. I like that he isn’t pissing away his money on hookers and blow. And I like…I like that he challenges me.”

Strangely enough, I might not be lying outright on the last part. As much as I hated it when Bennett called me out on my BS, in a way it was also something of a rush. Nobody else did.

The only thing I didn’t like was that he was only my pretend boyfriend and I the set dressing for his newfound maturity and seriousness.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Somerset. “I’m glad—and relieved—to hear it.”

I wasn’t as glad to have enumerated reasons Bennett’s hold on me grew more tangible with each passing day. But this wasn’t about me. “He’s really quite remarkable, your son.”

“Yes, he is,” said Mr. Somerset. “And has always been.”

A declaration of fact on his part, rather than one of pride, as if he were stating Bennett’s age or height: This was a man who had a clear, unsentimental view of his son.

We fell back into small talk. Ten minutes later, coffee and pastry consumed, we were once again shaking hands, wishing each other safe and pleasant trips.

“Bennett is very lucky to have you,” said Mr. Somerset.

“Who knows, maybe I’m the luckier one here,” I answered. “I hope to see you again when we’re all back in the city.”

Mr. Somerset smiled. “Yes, I’d like that.”


BENNETT AND I HAD AN uneventful flight to London. At Heathrow Airport we were met by Mrs. Asquith’s man, Hobbs, who drove an old-fashioned sedan with a partition between the front and the back seats. Her house was forty minutes away, a small estate tucked into the Berkshire countryside—not far from Eton, according to Bennett.

“Did you like going to the school?”