I could have hugged him. Someone finding one tiny fault in Saint Caitlin. It was like finding a twenty-pound note on the pavement. Not life-changing but ridiculously uplifting on a temporary basis.
‘If you’re sure? And Lara won’t mind?’ I was still smarting from her sudden exit this morning. I didn’t want to add ‘party for lairy kids’ to my wrongdoings.
‘She’ll be fine with it.’
Lara had many qualities but I didn’t feel relaxed and ready to entertain were among them. But Massimo was doing that thing of being so ridiculously generous and enthusiastic that any argument would make me look like I was the most ungrateful person breathing in Brighton air.
‘Shall we do it on Sunday in two weeks’ time? Then that’ll give me the Saturday to get it all set up. Shall we say three till five? The parents can have a drink when they come to pick up. I’ll sort out all of the games… I’ve got loads of ideas.’
If Sandro had never had a party, I was afraid Massimo was falling into that typical bloke trap of assuming he could turn up for the main event without worrying about any of the details leading up to it. Lara would get lumbered with cleaning the house to her exacting standards so all the kids’ parents could scoff their vol-au-vents directly off the floor if necessary, while he trollied in twirling a football on one finger.
I couldn’t let him present Lara with a fait accompli. I didn’t want her to feel taken advantage of. I tried again. ‘Why don’t we pop round there now and run it past Lara before we get too far down the line and I claim my spot in family history as the most unpopular relative ever?’
Massimo surprised me. He threw his arms around me and whirled me around. ‘You, darling Maggie, are the best thing that ever happened to my brother, a wonderful breath of fresh air breezing through his uptight life. You deal with him and I’ll talk to Lara.’ He turned to Sam. ‘It’ll be the best party you’ve ever had, mate, they’ll all be talking about it for a week afterwards.’
Sam looked delighted. But in among the worry about imposing ourselves on next door, I felt a little pang it wasn’t Nico making a massive effort for Sam. My hopes of being one big happy family, where our kids just saw us as ‘the parents’ regardless of origin, were looking increasingly unlikely.
Thank God I would be able to repay their generosity by teaching Lara to drive, assuming I did actually manage to get her to plant her backside in the car sometime soon. I couldn’t wait to surprise Massimo when she came roaring round the corner waving her driving licence. It would definitely take a load off him when he no longer had to taxi them everywhere. Finally I’d have my own little part in the family history, smiling modestly as Massimo regaled everyone with the story of when ‘Maggie, that little minx of my sister-in-law, helped Lara pass her test without me knowing a thing about it.’
23
LARA
Since I’d come home from Maggie’s at lunchtime, my stomach was so hollow I felt as though a big echo would reverberate inside me if I ate a peanut. What did Massimo giving Caitlin that box mean? That they’d had an affair? Or that he’d just given her a present he hadn’t told me about? Had I really been blind to something going on under my nose or was Massimo just doing his usual trick of presenting himself as a thoughtful man, finding the perfect gift for his sister-in-law?
I sieved through my memory for any standout moments of ‘Ah-ha!’ but could only find a jumble of possibilities that could easily be a product of what Massimo would describe as my penchant for ‘blowing everything out of proportion’. Was Massimo reading out loud to her when she was ill, suspicious or an act of kindness? Going to the opera with her because Nico hated it and he loved it, a subterfuge or a practicality? Guiding her hand while she added truffles to the mushroom risotto he’d taught her to cook on our last Italian holiday together, blatant betrayal or his usual tactile nature?
I made myself a cup of tea and tried to think straight. Five years ago, when I’d discovered the gold box in the drawer just before Christmas, Sandro had been two and a half. And it was fair to say Massimo and I weren’t quite seeing eye-to-eye, though I’d never envisaged it might lead to him hopping over the garden fence for a bit of ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ therapy with Caitlin.
That Christmas had coincided with a period when bedtime – or Sandro’s rebellion against it – had become the subject of all Farinelli gatherings. Anna led the ‘bedtime by seven or great calamity will ensue’ campaign, shrugging off my counterargument that kids in Italy seemed to be up till all hours. She simply sniffed and said, ‘But Sandro lives in England, Lara.’
Caitlin would then launch into her own ‘Research shows…’ diatribe and I’d be left isolated in the useless parent corner, with Massimo placing the blame firmly on my shoulders for the fact Sandro would only fall asleep if I sat with him until he dropped off.
But in the lead-up to Christmas, Massimo had decided that, as he was on holiday for a couple of weeks, he was ‘going to get on top of all this night-time nonsense’.
I sipped my drink, raking up memories of that particular ‘festive season’, then regretting it and trying to blank them out. I didn’t want to remember Massimo’s footsteps on the landing, his fingers closing round my wrist as I stroked Sandro’s forehead, my ears alert for the regular deep breathing that would signify he’d finally given into sleep.
‘You’re not sitting here all night.’
‘Ssshhhh. He’ll be off in a minute.’ And then it would start. Sandro disturbed by Massimo’s harsh tones, flinging open his eyes: ‘Mummy, Mummy, stay me, stay me.’
Massimo wrenched me away. ‘It’s bedtime, Sandro.’
His chin would lift. ‘No bedtime, Daddy.’ And Sandro would wriggle out of the little dinosaur duvet, ready to clamber out of bed and into my arms.
And I’d try: ‘Let me just settle him down and then I’ll come downstairs.’
But Massimo would wrestle him back in, Sandro becoming more and more hysterical, with Massimo bellowing over him, trying to silence him with the sheer volume of his voice. Massimo would hustle me out of the room to a growing crescendo of screaming, slam the door shut and stand in front of it. ‘Go downstairs.’
If I tried to argue, pleading to go back in and calm Sandro down, Massimo would threaten to go in and smack him. ‘I’ll shut that boy up. I’ll show him who’s in charge.’