Massimo lifted up the book and started leafing through the pages. Sandro tensed, as though an invisible drawstring was pulling his features taut. He was biting his lip, desire for approval blaring out of his eyes. He was his mother’s son, all right, approaching life as though it was something to endure rather than embrace.
Massimo was doing that logical bloke thing of assessing the drawing rather than looking down at Sandro’s eager little face and realising that he had a chance to even the stakes a bit, shift the glittering halo of glory away from Francesca with her county freestyle medals and make up for his misjudged ‘swimming lesson’ this morning. I wanted to thump the table until the olives jumped out of the ceramic bowls. Never mind Anna running round to their house with ‘research’ she’d cut out of the newspaper about how bicycles harbour more bacteria than a toilet seat and giving Lara yet another thing to worry about, they could all benefit from the Dorky Guide to Establishing A Tiny Smidge of Self-Esteem.
I couldn’t bear it. ‘Isn’t he a great artist, Massimo? I’m always so impressed by his drawings.’
A shy smile crept onto Sandro’s face.
Massimo looked surprised as though he wasn’t quite sure how I would know. I wanted to say, ‘Look, mate, if you asked anyone at all the three things they know about your son, what a brilliant artist he is would be one of them.’
‘Yes, he certainly is.’ Massimo’s face flickered, as though he was preparing to move on to a far more interesting subject. I felt a stab of injustice that Massimo often went along with Nico to watch his niece compete, could talk you through every bloody detail of Francesca’s winning strokes but couldn’t linger on his own son’s achievements for more than two seconds.
Maybe I understood Sandro more because most people dismissed my tailoring business as a jolly little hobby rather than the job I earned my living from. Just the day before, Anna had asked me how I was getting on with my ‘sewing project’ as though I was dicking about making a summer scarf. Of course, if I had been making a summer scarf, I would have had an immediate and alternative use for it. I wasn’t going to let Massimo dismiss Sandro that easily.
‘Does he get his drawing talent from you?’
Massimo threw back his head and laughed. ‘No! I can’t draw a stickman. Always been a numbers man, eye-on-the-bottom-line sort of bloke. Nico was the one faffing about with pencils, picking up leaves, smelling the flowers. I was far more interested in maths. And winning swimming competitions.’
I took a slurp of Prosecco, frustration inflating inside me like a balloon. Sandro had his head down, his eyes focused on his page but his crayon wasn’t moving.
Just before I gave in to my desire to let my eyes roll into the back of my head until I looked like a zombie, Massimo tapped on the pages of Sandro’s sketch pad.
‘If you put as much effort into learning to swim as you do into drawing castles, you could be on Team GB in a few years!’
Lara and Sandro exchanged glances. Instead of Lara giving him a little wink and reassuring smile like I would have done, she started picking at her cuticles. No wonder Sandro sidled through life, soaking up the message he was a failure. Poor kid.
Watching Sandro churn himself inside out with the weight of expectation was more than I could bear. Massimo and Lara’s push-pull parenting made Mum and me look as though, with the addition of a bit more broccoli and spinach, we could star in a super-parent reality show.
It was pretty rare I was grateful for Anna’s arrival but her bustling out of the kitchen bearing a huge bowl of pasta carbonara was a welcome diversion. The enticing smell wafting across the courtyard was enough to magic up Sam and Francesca from the depths of the garden.
Anna sat at the head of the table – where else? – and served up trailing plates of spaghetti, while Massimo sorted the wine, telling Mum he’d like to introduce her to a ‘cheeky little number’. I hated myself for even looking at Anna when Mum cracked back, ‘I need all the cheeky little numbers I can get at my age, last chance saloon before it all starts to go south.’ But she reserved her real sneer for when Mum chopped her spaghetti into little bits while Sam slurped his, great creamy strands trailing across his chin.
Anna put her hand to her neck as though she’d swallowed a fish bone. ‘Dio mio! That is not how you eat spaghetti. Sam, Beryl, let me show you.’ She brandished her fork and, with a dramatic flourish, dug into the pile of spaghetti and wound it into a bite-sized bundle.
I waited to see whether Mum would rebel, but for once, she seemed prepared to accept advice and merrily twirled and whirled, laughing as the spaghetti dolloped off her fork and splatted back onto her plate. Sam found it hilarious and soon everyone was showing off their twirling abilities.
Mum leaned into Sandro, ‘Here, you talk me through it, I’m not much good at this spaghetti lark.’
And bless him, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth, eyes narrowed in concentration, he showed Mum exactly what to do, a confidence settling on him under Mum’s cheerleading.
‘You’re very smart to do that at your age. Look at me, I’m fifty-nine and can’t do that. Clever boy.’
For the first time that evening, Lara engaged with the conversation, asking Mum, ‘Have you been to the opera before?’
Mum shook her head and said, ‘My ticket will probably be a waste of money, but Massimo tells me I’ll love it, so I’m trying to keep an open mind. I can fall asleep if it’s too bad.’
Massimo threw his hands up. ‘Sacrilege, Beryl! Wash your mouth out with wine!’ And took another big gulp himself.
In an undertone I said to Nico, ‘Isn’t he supposed to be driving?’
Massimo obviously had bionic hearing and butted in before Nico could answer. ‘Don’t be so English, Maggie! We’re in Italy, the land of wine. We don’t worry too much about that, as long as we’re not seeing double. I’ve only had a glass anyway, but I’ll stick with water now since you’re being the wine monitor.’
I was getting a bit bored with being talked down to. ‘There is a reason we have drink-driving laws. I think it’s something to do with not killing people.’
Massimo laughed as though I had the sophistication of someone who’d been born in a hamlet on a hillside. ‘I didn’t have you down for being so law-abiding, Maggie.’
I knew he was joking but I still felt like the killjoy at the party, the person going round putting the bottles in the recycling instead of opening all the cupboards to see if there was a secret stash of booze.
Thankfully Mum and Sam bulldozed through any tension by comparing how many Italian words they’d learnt so far. Mum made us laugh, adamant as she was that the word for swimming pool – piscina – had its origins in the fact that so many people had a wee in it.