Nico looked almost relieved. ‘I thought you’d discovered you didn’t fancy me.’ He stroked my hair. ‘I’m sorry being married to me hasn’t been a bit better.’
‘Don’t be silly. I love being married to you. I just feel that I’m letting you down all the time. I knew I’d never replace Caitlin, but no one has ever hated me as much as Francesca.’
‘She doesn’t hate you. How could she? You’re lovely. It’s what she’s lost and what you represent. So do you know what I suggest, Mrs Farinelli?’ he asked, pulling out a chair for me.
Even though he sounded cheery and positive, fear must have flashed across my face. Two months into our marriage and I was still waiting for him to realise it was all a big mistake.
He leaned over and kissed me. ‘We’re going to set up a workshop for you in the attic. It’s quite nice up there. Before she got ill, Caitlin was going to make it into a yoga studio, so we’ve already done the electrics and white-washed the walls. There’s a big Velux window so it’s light and we can commission some built-in work tables, shelves and cupboards – whatever you need – to make the most of the space.’
Commission. God, that was a word I’d never needed to use. Make do. Barter. Cobble together. A little thread of hope curled around my heart. My own special space. I might be able to offer proper dressmaking services rather than just alterations and repairs.
‘And the big plus is that it’s rent-free.’
‘Are you sure? You won’t feel taken advantage of?’
‘Don’t be silly! I’m your husband, not your landlord. That’s what couples do. They share each other’s problems and work out solutions.’
That set me off blubbing again. After so many years on my own, battling for a way out of trouble that wouldn’t lead to me relying on Mum for money or Sam going short, Nico’s words were like fairy dust floating about, magicking sparkly little solutions out of thin air.
‘We’ll have to clear out the attic though.’ He pulled a face. ‘We might have to get Francesca to help with that. There’s a lot of Caitlin’s stuff up there. God knows what. Her books from university, walking and diving gear, her riding stuff, scrapbooks – she was a great one for hanging onto concert programmes, plane tickets, all that sort of thing. But there might be some bits and pieces Francesca will want to keep.’
I closed my mind to how many memories sorting out Caitlin’s belongings would stir up for Nico. Given how sporty she’d been, it was astonishing he’d ended up with a pudding like me. I’d never sat on a horse in my life. I didn’t like the idea of being on anything without a reliable brake. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there while he talked Francesca through the places they’d visited, the bands they’d seen, the beaches where they’d watched the sun go down. I didn’t want to spoil anything we did together by wondering if he’d had a better time with Caitlin. Or find there was a whole list of places in the world where he’d already had sex with his first wife.
I was keen to sound suitably grateful so I tried a diplomatic approach: ‘I’m happy to help, but do you think it’s something you might want to do on your own together? I shouldn’t have a say in what stays and what goes. If it’s a big space, you could keep some of it to one side and I’ll use the rest.’
‘If you don’t mind, it’s probably better if you do it with us, otherwise we’ll just keep putting it off. And I can’t expect you to co-exist with Caitlin’s stuff sitting in the corner. I wouldn’t want to keep your ex-boyfriend’s knick-knacks under my desk. It’s time. Francesca can put the things she wants in her room.’
I hugged him. Now we just had to pitch the idea to Francesca.
8
LARA
Towards the end of March, with Easter just round the corner, I could no longer kid myself about how long it was since I’d seen Dad. New Year’s Day. The last time Massimo had been free to drive me to the nursing home deep in the Sussex countryside.
I didn’t want to think about that afternoon and how badly Dad had behaved towards Massimo. Shouting unintelligible nonsense about ‘purple windows’ and threatening to hit him with his walking stick. I’d sat shaken and sobbing in the car on the way home while Massimo railed about the ‘ungrateful sod’, detailing how much he spent on the nursing home. ‘Do you know how much getting him a haircut sets me back even though he’s only got five strands left? Seventeen pounds!’
Massimo had always been too busy to take me again – too stressed, too away, too tied up. And ironically, because Dad had always discouraged me from learning to drive because he didn’t want me to die in a car crash like my mother, I couldn’t get there under my own steam. Of course, in the beginning, I’d had a few friends left to give me a lift. But Massimo had eventually made them so unwelcome, or caused such a scene when I wanted to see them, that over time they’d fallen by the wayside, finding our friendship too much like hard work. And I still couldn’t allow myself to think about what Massimo had done the last time I’d spent a fortune on a taxi.
So now I couldn’t see Dad at all.
But recently, Massimo seemed more amenable to everything. Perhaps he was just less stressed at work, but cups of tea in bed were becoming the norm, shoulder massages, even rational conversations about exploring possible jobs at his firm for me – ‘Let’s look into it after the summer when Sandro’s back at school.’ It was a change from his usual ‘The firm’s become so much more cut-throat than when you were there. I don’t think you’ll cope.’
Tonight, too, he was in a good mood. He’d read a story to Sandro at bedtime, opened a lovely bottle of Sancerre and I’d roasted some monkfish with garlic, just as he liked it. The perfect evening for broaching the subject of Dad.
‘I know it won’t be your favourite day out, but I really need to go and see Dad over Easter. I hate the thought of everyone else spending time with their families and him sitting there on his own with a nursing home Easter egg.’
Massimo forked in a piece of fish, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. ‘I don’t want you getting upset over Easter. You know how depressing you find going to visit him. I’ve only got the four days off and I thought we could have a little trip to London, take Sandro to the London Dungeons or the Tower of London? Get a hotel up there?’
I stared at him, being careful not to sound dismissive. The London Dungeons? Sandro would have the screaming abdabs for months afterwards. ‘That sounds great. I’ll have a look and see what’s on. Perhaps we could go to a show if you fancy it. Is there any chance we could perhaps pop over to Dad’s on the evening before Good Friday if you finish work early enough?’
‘I’m going to be right up against it on the Thursday, just to get everything done so I don’t have to work over Easter. Your dad won’t know it’s Easter, will he? You could go any time. The week after or the one after that.’