Lara’s face closed down. She wriggled out from under Massimo’s arm and wandered over to where Mum and Sandro were peering at a large scale model of San Gimignano in a nearby shop window. ‘Look at that. Can you see the gates in the town walls? They used to be closed when the people went to bed to keep the baddies out.’
I bit my lip and looked at Nico, who did a ‘How could we possibly have known that?’ face.
Massimo didn’t seem at all bothered that Lara was upset, ushering us along and saying, ‘Right. Shall we go in then and see which brother triumphs?’
34
LARA
Massimo speaking so glibly about the opera, even daring to tease Nico about the fact Maggie might fancy him summed up how smart he thought he was. Or how gormless he considered the rest of us. I’d never felt rage like it. It reminded me of a friendship cake that I’d been given, a pot of sourdough sitting on the side in the kitchen, fermenting and bubbling away, fed with sugar, flour and milk at regular intervals. Except it was injustice, jealousy and resentment stoking my anger. Usually I was so adept at disguising my feelings, putting on a face to keep the peace. But as Massimo filled in Maggie on what was happening on stage, my stomach was churning as though the sourness inside me might burrow out and gush forth in a spectacular explosion of truths, lighting up that starry sky with a firework display of expletives.
Anna was singing along, her fingers bending and stretching as she conducted an invisible orchestra. Every now and then, she’d hiss at Sam and Francesca who were flicking little bits of torn off programme into the audience, then killing themselves laughing when people started peering around to see where the spit-covered missile had come from. Beryl kept looking at her watch and slipping toffees to Sandro. I loved her for being so totally on his side. Nico looked as though he’d fallen into a sea of memories, sitting back, his eyes flickering about the stage, as though each note, each gesture was taking him back in time. Opera had to remind him of Caitlin, the hundreds of evenings when it seeped out into the garden, filling the neighbourhood with rousing notes of thwarted love, broken dreams and untimely deaths.
I hoped Nico would never have to find out what she’d done.
What Massimo had done.
I couldn’t wait for the opera to be over. I wasn’t alone: over half of our party displayed more animation at the final encore than at any other moment during the whole show. I tried not to feel betrayed by Maggie’s enthusiasm as we walked back to the car.
‘Oh my god, that was amazing! I’m not going to lie, I thought I’d be half-dead with boredom. But you were right, Massimo, the way they act almost tells you what the story is, even if you don’t understand. And that lead woman’s costume was incredible. I’d love to know what stones they’d used to make them sparkle like that. The music seemed a bit familiar to me, though God knows when I’ve ever listened to any opera.’
On and on with questions and observations, like the swotty girl in the class. And Massimo at his best, the teacher, the holder of the knowledge, patiently explaining. I wanted to shake Maggie, tell her not to get sucked in, not to fall for that veneer, that layer so fine that the slightest irritation, obstacle or differing opinion would rub it away to reveal the vindictive unpleasantness beneath.
When we reached the cars, Anna waved the children away. ‘Nico, Beryl, Maggie, you come with me. I cannot stand their screeching any more.’
Sam and Francesca bundled into Massimo’s car, with Sam demanding that Massimo put down the roof. ‘We’ll be like James Bond!’
Sandro squeezed in next to them, pale and listless as though he should have been in bed several hours ago.
Massimo always drove hard on the accelerator and brakes, but this evening, he was testosterone in overdrive, revving through the outskirts of the town before shooting off into the countryside, swinging around the corners with Sam and Francesca egging him on. Sandro’s face kept flashing up, wide-eyed and terrified in my wing mirror, his hair flying about all over the place like a demented puppet.
In the end I couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘Slow down! Just stop it!’
Massimo shouted through to the back. ‘Who thinks Lara’s a scaredy-cat?’ Sam was shouting at Massimo to go faster, with Francesca joining in, though I thought I detected a note of fear in her voice. But Massimo was always telling her how brave she was, ‘tough as old boots, determined like your mother’, usually followed by ‘unlike my great big wuss of a son’. She was never going to be my ally.
I thought about my mother driving along, sticking to the speed limits, leaning forward over the steering wheel, close to the windscreen, the perfect example of ‘mirror, signal, manoeuvre’. Yet she hadn’t stood a chance when the lorry had veered over the central reservation on the dual carriageway. Now, Massimo was breaking every rule in the book – probably over the limit, showing off, speeding – if we hit anything, we’d be thrown out of the car, smashed onto the verges like boiled eggs cracked on the top by a spoon. I begged. ‘Stop! Stop!’ but Massimo just stepped harder on the accelerator, laughing as the tyres squealed round the corners. I clung onto the door with my right hand and slipped my other one between the seats to find Sandro. His fingers grabbed mine and we hung onto each other in silent fear.
By the time we screeched up to the castle, I had wet patches under the arms of my T-shirt and cramps searing through my stomach. Anna’s car wasn’t home of course. As fast as my trembling legs would move, I scooped up a tearful Sandro, running up the stone staircase to our bedroom. I tucked Sandro into his bed, smoothing his hair back from his face and feeling the pull of that dream vision of us in a little flat, where he’d never be frightened again.
Where I’d never be frightened again.
I got into bed quickly, hoping I might get away with pretending to be asleep. By the time Massimo decided to follow, he’d obviously had another couple of drinks. Outside in the corridor, he was full of bonhomie, doing his big man ‘You need anything, anything at all, just ask,’ to Beryl and high-fiving Sam: ‘My plucky little co-pilot’.