If it were possible, Sandro nearly drowning had rocked Massimo more than me. We’d clung to each other that evening, too shocked to persist in our opposing positions in our marriage, the whole Caitlin affair paling into insignificance compared with almost losing our son. My body craved the comfort of the only other person in the world who shared the same visceral love for Sandro, however imperfectly he displayed it. We fell asleep, wrung out, sandwiched against each other, unified in our relief, our rejoicing that fate hadn’t chosen us to punish. Every time I moved, Massimo startled himself awake, pulling me close again.
The following morning we’d made love, passionate but gentle, a delicate exchange of emotion, a liberation from fear, a wordless preamble to a conversation we weren’t yet ready for. I didn’t ask myself any questions, I just gave into channelling all that energy, that adrenaline, into a physical release without worrying about what tomorrow would look like. Massimo was tender in a way that he hadn’t been in such a long time, I could no longer recall whether he ever was.
Afterwards I wanted to freeze time, to keep us locked in that moment when nothing jagged, spiteful or unexpected would hurt me again.
But far too soon the last few calm days passed and it was the roll call for Anna’s traditional family photo before we drove back to the airport. Massimo’s arm was tight around my shoulder as though I was a treasure to protect. In turn, the mere thought that it could all have been so different made me squeeze Sandro’s hand until he squirmed free. I chased away the idea that instead of the current rabble Anna was attempting to herd into her viewfinder, we could have been gathering together a procession of devastated relatives preparing to face a painful journey home, one child short. The familiarity of Anna bossing everyone around soothed and comforted me.
‘In! In! Nico, you’re blocking Lara. Sam – out of the way of Sandro. Francesca, just pull your skirt down, I do want to be able to show my friends at least one photo of the whole family.’
I had to smile when Maggie defended her. ‘Come on, Anna, she’s got a lovely figure. Wouldn’t look good on me, I grant you, but it is the fashion.’ I expected Francesca to show some sign of gratitude but her face didn’t flicker. Poor Maggie really did need the patience of a saint for that particular dynamic.
When Anna was satisfied she had a photograph to rival the very best of the ‘Look at us with our sunset/cocktail/bikini bodies/perfect children with their violins and sporting cups’ photos on Facebook, we all scattered for a last-minute sweep of the garden area for rogue sunglasses and flip-flops. Although I went through the motions, I was more worried about how close Sandro got to the pool than leaving a half-used bottle of factor fifty behind.
Massimo walked with me. ‘So, Mrs Farinelli? Are you prepared to give me another chance?’
I turned to face him. I hoped this wasn’t some elaborate hoax that would have me standing with my hands over Sandro’s ears in two weeks’ time, saying, ‘Shhh, Daddy’s just a bit cross today.’ But Sandro nearly drowning had turned my grievances on their head. What if Massimo hadn’t been there, the strong swimmer, the cool head to concentrate on what needed to happen instead of losing himself to panic as I had done? It was down to him that I still had a son, a family.
But maybe I was just falling back into pushover territory. I tested the water with, ‘I don’t want to go back to how we were before. I’ve got to be able to express an opinion without worrying about you flying into a rage.’ I studied his face for a flicker, a shadow, a pursing of lips.
‘I understand that,’ he said. ‘I will make it up to you, make you trust me again.’
Those eyes. So sincere. He hadn’t aged apart from a few flecks of grey in his fringe. Still that boyish appeal reeling me in.
‘We’re going to have to sit down and talk at some point, not just brush it under the carpet.’
He laughed. ‘Can we talk and, you know… perhaps get to know each other all over again?’ he said, running his hand over my breast.
I moved his hand away. ‘You seem so angry all the time. You always give the impression that it’s us in the way of whatever would make you happy. Do you really want another chance?’ If I’d flipped a coin, I wouldn’t have known whether I was wishing for heads or tails – go or stay.
He pressed his lips onto mine, lingering there until I felt myself folding into him. ‘Does that answer your question?’
I reached into my heart where just days ago all the fragments of betrayal and bullying had resided, their sharp edges lacerating my emotions into a harsh and jagged mass around which I had no choice but to build a permanent and resilient shelter. If I pressed hard, located the exact spot, like a tooth with a hairline crack, I could feel a sore when I thought of Massimo plotting and planning with Caitlin, skipping off on weekends of opera and – whatever he said – nights of passion. But the pain was so dull in the face of the agony of nearly losing Sandro as to seem almost risible.
There’d been so many false dawns, so many times Massimo had promised to change and so many disappointments. But I’d watched him with Sandro since the pool incident. He’d been patient, encouraging, the Massimo I’d fallen in love with, not the one I’d had to endure.
It was beyond ironic that Sandro had nearly had to die before we’d woken up to what we had. It would be foolish to compound our stupidity for the sake of getting even.
‘One last chance.’
38
LARA
Once we were back in England, Massimo was so sunny side up that the man who’d bent my fingers until I thought they’d snap, slept with my sister-in-law, hissed in Sandro’s face until his eyes were round with fright seemed like someone I’d invented to justify my decision to leave. Since Italy, it was as though we’d both decided to appreciate the good things we shared, not fixate on the bad. For years I’d had to remind myself why we’d got together in the first place, questioning my judgement, my actions, my whole personality. But now, for the first time in a long time, Massimo became a source of refuge rather than a font of attack.
We were spending more time on our own, just the two of us. Beryl was always happy to babysit: ‘I don’t want your money, it’s my pleasure.’ But Massimo would always press a couple of twenties into her hand after we’d spent evenings reminiscing about the past and planning for the future.
‘When Sandro’s a bit older, let’s take an extended holiday and travel round Italy.’ ‘Maybe I could look at retiring a little earlier or cutting down to four days a week, have a few long weekends, catch up on lost time.’