I’d watch the door handle rattling up and down from the inside while Massimo held it closed, every tiny piece of me yearning to rush in and tell him he was safe, that he didn’t need to be afraid, that Mummy was just outside the door. Eventually I’d stand in the kitchen humming to myself to mask the screaming, but not so loud that I wouldn’t hear Massimo going into Sandro’s bedroom. Massimo had never smacked Sandro but there was always that tenseness about him, as though he was holding himself back, a looming threat that might one day break loose.
Every night was the same. I’d start getting stressed about bedtime just after breakfast. But after two weeks, Massimo declared himself triumphant, cock-a-hoop about fuss-free bedtimes, crowing about Sandro just needing ‘a firm hand’.
I didn’t tell him that Sandro had started wetting the bed at night again after a good two months’ dry. That, I would handle myself. Quietly.
But just because Massimo had had an authoritarian take on bedtimes, it didn’t mean that he was a philanderer. I couldn’t remember him going missing for long periods. Instead I recalled how the house seemed to breathe around us when he wasn’t there, when I didn’t have to worry if I was being too soft or ‘not showing Sandro who’s boss’, when I could just enjoy a bit of time with my two-year-old son and follow my instincts instead of filtering them through the great avalanche of Massimo’s expectations.
But surely I would have noticed him having an affair. Wouldn’t I? Maybe I was so relieved to have a break from monitoring Sandro’s behaviour for Massimo’s approval that he never seemed gone long enough.
I put my teacup in the sink and got out my window cleaning stuff. Some women sang and danced to cheer themselves up, I cleaned windows. I found solace in removing dirt, fingerprints, everything that went before, leaving a sparkling view onto the world outside and the crisp smell of the recently polished.
I started in the guest bedroom. It was amazing that the windows got dirty in here, given that the last time anyone had stayed in it was Dad a few years ago, before he moved into the home. As I sprayed the window, busy with my duster, I stared over to Nico and Maggie’s house, admiring the clematis around their bedroom window. Nico really did have green fingers.
I scrubbed away at the corners of the window, my mind picking away at the possibility of Massimo having an affair with Caitlin. Massimo wouldn’t do that to his brother. He always looked out for Nico. A far more likely explanation was that Massimo had mentioned the present to me at the time and I hadn’t remembered. Back then, he was always telling me that it was high time I got over my ‘pregnancy brain’ and stopped forgetting things.
I tutted at my own stupidity. No wonder Massimo got frustrated with me: I was probably doing what I always did, getting over-anxious about everything, too quick to believe the worst. But after years of Dad saying, ‘Fear keeps you safe, darling, because, as we know, the worst can happen,’ it was a hard habit to break.
I’d have to take a lesson from Maggie. She always expected the best of everyone and laughed at people who let her down.
Today, at the age of thirty-five and a half I was going to make my own joy. I’d start with inviting Dad over for a day, maybe even to stay the night once we’d seen how he coped. I’d love to have him sleep in this bedroom again. It would take a bit of organisation, but with Beryl’s help, I was sure we could look after him. If I planned it when Massimo was away for work, then he couldn’t really object. In his own way, Massimo did want the best for Dad, he just found the reality of the nose blowing and toileting accidents a bit distasteful. Still, there weren’t many men who’d be prepared to shell out a fortune for someone they’d inherited through marriage. When the right moment presented itself though, I’d explore other options for Dad’s care. Somewhere closer, that maybe didn’t cost as much. Dad didn’t need fresh lilies in the hallway, he needed his family around him.
I finished off with a jaunty sweep of the windowsill, delighted to have a plan in place. Window cleaning, Dad to visit, nursing homes to investigate, driving lessons, banishing the ridiculous notion that my husband had had an affair with my sister-in-law… Lara ‘seize the day’ Farinelli.
I trotted off downstairs just as Massimo was coming in through the door. On a wave of newfound confidence, I threw my arms around him and kissed him.
‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ He pulled me close, his hands caressing my back. ‘Where’s Sandro?’ he whispered.
‘He’s gone over to your mother’s for dinner.’
‘Upstairs with you then, Mrs Farinelli.’
Proof that he still loved me, right there. I needed to stop doubting him. Whatever his faults, Massimo had always fancied me. Even in our worst times, we’d never stopped having sex.
He wouldn’t have allowed me to.
24
MAGGIE
Before I could get a chance to okay the party with Lara, she came round, full of ideas for ‘finger food’. I think she meant ‘ham and cheese sandwiches’. I was only slightly tempted to tease her by suggesting the fish paste and sandwich spread sarnies Mum swore by.
‘Massimo’s got all sorts lined up – water football – so it might get a bit messy and muddy, dodge football with a couple of kids on the trampoline, and some assault courses. He’s bought some basketball nets as well and some hula hoops… not quite sure what he’s going to do with those but no doubt he’ll have a plan.’
I bit my lip. ‘Are you sure you’re all right with this? It’s so generous of you both.’
‘It’s fine. Honestly, Massimo is brilliant with kids, he’s like the Pied Piper. We can just worry about the food.’
I scrabbled about for a pen and paper to make a list. ‘Obviously I’ll go and buy it all.’
‘Not necessary. Massimo’s already ordered everything from the Cash and Carry.’ Lara was glowing, triumphant her husband was such a pillar of efficiency.
It was a mark of my mingy mean spirit that I felt a little dart of disappointment. Sam had never had a proper party before – we’d never had room – and I’d looked forward to choosing the food with him, standing there while he made the excruciating decision between Monster Munch and Pringles, margherita or pepperoni pizza.
Lara’s face fell. ‘Is that okay?’
‘Yes, yes, of course, thank you. I’m just a bit embarrassed about how much trouble you’re both going to and how little I’m doing.’ I fidgeted self-consciously, wondering whether to start pressing tenners into her hand, or whether talking about something as vulgar as money would contravene some other family rule that I hadn’t yet grasped. I decided to let Nico deal with that one.