Even if I did give into temptation one day, with a herd of kids marauding about sticking up the proverbial two fingers at my ‘three at a time’ rule on the trampoline, today was definitely not the right moment.
Every time I turned my back the springs were groaning under a bunch of lively frogs somersaulting away, which made the idea of a neck brace look like a ‘when’ not ‘if’ scenario. That was if the whole bloody tarpaulin didn’t suddenly shear down the middle and dump them in a bone-busting heap. Another group were driving footballs into the shed door with relentless regularity, while one kid had fallen into the dustbin full of water, tipping it over and turning the lawn into a mudslide, much to the boys’ delight. A couple of the girls who’d ignored the ‘come dressed in old clothes’ on the invitation were now in tears by the privet hedge, having slipped over in the sludge. Sandro hovered close to them, looking as though he wished he was sitting in the local library with a book about fossils.
Nico raced in with a big hug and a ‘What can I do to help?’ Just being able to direct him to trampoline supervision and know he wouldn’t wander off after two minutes because it was too boring, compared to say, getting pissed with his mates, improved my mood. I reminded myself to ask how Francesca had got on. He beamed with pride as he told me she’d come first in junior crawl. My heart softened. I was glad he’d been there to cheer her on. I’d have hated it if Sam had scored a hat-trick at a football match and I’d had to hear about it second-hand.
I congratulated her as she raced past. ‘Well done, Francesca! Dad tells me you beat them all by several strokes?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, without bothering to pause as she ran down to Sam. I watched him throw a football at her head, which she ducked, then grabbed his ankles, pulling him to the grass and forcing him into a wheelbarrow. If she’d been in primary school, she’d have probably drawn her, Nico and Sam holding hands in front of a house with me standing alone by a tree. But I was so bloody delighted Sam had made a connection with a sibling, I’d have been happy to stand under a green lollipop on my own all day long.
Just as all the other boys joined in the wheelbarrowing – a chaotic tangle of shrieks and skinny limbs – the mayhem came to a halt. Massimo strode down the garden, dressed in a proper goalkeeping outfit, clapping his hands and barking out an authoritative, ‘Right, gather round.’
I’d been trying to get their attention for the last half an hour. It was still a man’s world. But right now, I was glad this particular man with his child-taming abilities was here.
He ran through the rules of the splash and score game involving transferring water from one dustbin to another before shooting at the goal. ‘Two teams, you’re the goalie for that one, Nico; I’ll be the other.’
Not for Massimo the ‘Ready, Steady, Go, let’s all enjoy ourselves’ approach. Oh no. He blew a whistle and launched into a stream of team encouragement that made me feel as though he was trying to cheer an Olympic marathon runner to the finish line rather than a gaggle of ten-year-olds carrying a bucket of water. ‘Line it up, stand back, take a run, NOT your left foot, aim past his head, try for the corner of the net…’
And there was no way he was letting a single goal past him. It was less like a bit of fun in the garden and more like he was on trial for a place in the World Cup squad. Nico, on the other hand, was falling over, deliberately missing the feeble balls rolling towards him, trickling off the toes of the girls in party dresses and sparkly sandals. ‘Good shot, Chloe! You had me there.’ ‘Josh! You’re going to be playing for Man U at this rate!’
At the end of the game, Massimo did a quick tally. ‘Nico’s team – three. My team – twenty-seven! What shall Nico’s punishment be, guys and girls?’
There was a flurry of suggestions including ‘Kill him!’ by some little charmer. But before Nico could move, Massimo upended the water dustbin over his head, leaving a drenched Nico spluttering. The ten-year-olds loved it, but I wasn’t sure that Nico was so keen. Massimo started to wolf-whistle, and all the boys joined in, competing to see who could manage the shrillest sound, turning this posh terrace in Brighton into a jeering builders’ yard.
I waited until the commotion had died down then sidled up to Nico. ‘Shall I nip next door and get you some dry clothes?’
He nodded. ‘Typical Massimo, always has to take it one step further.’
Even though I would have hated to get soaked, I wanted to be married to someone who saw it as a bit of a laugh, a devil-may-care counterbalance to make up for my sourpuss. So although I was annoyed with Massimo, I was still irritated Nico didn’t see the funny side.
I popped home for some clothes, resisting the temptation to sit in our lounge for ten minutes’ peace and quiet, and hurried back to the party. While Nico got changed, I stood with Mum and Anna who were managing to blow an arctic wind through the kitchen on this sunny July day. Lara was doing her best to jolly Mum along, asking her about her work with the lady who had dementia, trying to get tips for managing her dad. Mum, however, was taking the opportunity to have a dig at Anna. ‘I love looking after people who just need a bit of comfort at the end of their lives. You’d be amazed at how hard-hearted families can be, especially when it comes to the business end of mopping up and washing down.’
Anna’s nostrils were flaring, like a horse bothered by a particularly persistent wasp. The holiday in Tuscany and my glittering brainwave of inviting Mum to join us was looking nothing short of lunatic.
I caught Lara’s eye and was relieved she could see the humour in the Italo-Anglo war of words. I got the sense Lara was doing a silent cheer for Beryl.
As Massimo blew his whistle again, I went out to take some photos of the obstacle course. Massimo ran through the rules: before either team could score, they had to knock either Massimo or Nico off the beam with a foam hand. Which was when I discovered that Nico possessed a secret skill – wonderful balance. In contrast, a little poke with a big foam hand was enough to send Massimo wibble-wobbling off his perch despite his tongue stuck out in concentration and his eyes trained on a point in the distance.
Nico teased him: ‘Need to get down the gym, big man, work on your core muscles, gone to pot now you’ve hit forty-five. You won’t be able to touch your toes soon…’ He followed this by standing on one leg and still resisting the onslaught of ten-year-olds who were bouncing up and down on the beam, trying to shake him off. He egged them on, doing funny little pirouettes, rotating one foot in front of him without toppling over, simultaneously punching footballs out the way with his fist.