‘I just wondered how you wanted me to introduce myself? As a friend? Your dad’s wife? Your stepmother?’ There was a pause. I tried to make a joke. ‘Perhaps stepmother sounds a bit “Come on, dearie, have a nice bite of the apple”.’
Francesca looked at me as though she thought I might try and hold her hand or kiss her goodbye. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Anyway, I’ve got to go and get changed.’ And she scooted off, leaving me trailing behind.
The trouble was, I didn’t know either. Despite my best intentions, Nico and Francesca were falling onto one side of the Farinelli fence, with Sam happy in either camp and me left isolated on my own.
I followed the crowds and settled myself into the viewing gallery. Everywhere I looked there were parents with clipboards and stopwatches. Nothing about them said, ‘Just thought I’d pop along and see how little Johnny is getting on with his breaststroke.’ The heat was stifling. By the time Francesca came out, my back was prickling with sweat. But as soon as she started to line up, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her face was so determined, filled with that same concentration I saw on Nico when he was assessing which particular element of the garden wasn’t working. The same look Massimo had when he was trying to teach Sandro to throw a rugby ball.
When the whistle went, Francesca shot off the block and powered her way down the pool. Suddenly I wanted her to win so badly, my biceps were flexing in time with every stroke. For most of the length she was neck and neck with another girl. I wished excruciating cramp on her competitor. Then Francesca edged half a body length ahead. I couldn’t sit still. The crowd around me was starting to cheer and rumble, various names being bandied about, ‘Go on, Katie!’ ‘Come on, Olivia!’ I couldn’t hear anyone shouting for Francesca. I ran down to the front, leaning over the barrier. ‘Get a move on, Francesca! She’s catching you up. Come ONNNN!’
Francesca slipped into second place at the turn. I bloody hoped she never made it to the Olympics, I’d end up in an early grave.
I cheered and shouted her name, willing her on. God, this was more nerve-wracking than the Grand National when Mum had bet the rent on it and won.
There must have been about ten strokes left when she suddenly found another gear and touched the side first, maybe just by a nail-length but definitely first.
As she got out, she turned to look for me in the crowd. I waved wildly, screaming ‘well done’ at the top of my lungs, oblivious to everyone around me as her name was announced. She broke into a huge smile and waved back, her fist in the air in triumph. A true Farinelli.
I sat back down, adrenaline and excitement still coursing through me, subsiding slightly into embarrassment as I became aware of the mums and dads on either side of me, doing that British ‘how undignified’ pursing of the lips. Presumably, I should have been tapping my fingertips together without actually making any sound. I wanted to jump on my chair again and give another ‘FRAN-CESCAAAAA’ bellow for good measure. But instead I looked at my programme to see when her next race was.
One woman a few seats down was having a really good gawk at me. If I’d have been on the estate, I might have done a ‘What you looking at?’ As it was, I fiddled with my phone, texting Nico to tell him how well Francesca had done, wishing he was there so we could talk loudly about his daughter. I felt a sense of ownership, a rush of pride that surprised me. After all, she hadn’t inherited her sporting genes from me – luckily. I stole a sideways glance to see if the staring woman had put her eyes back in. But she was still looking at me. I felt a prickle of irritation.
She smiled, stood up and walked towards me. Brown curly hair framed her freckly face. ‘Hi there. Are you here with Francesca Farinelli?’
I nodded.
‘Are you her coach?’
I laughed. ‘God no! I’m her stepmum. Got a bit overexcited there.’
The woman frowned. I waited to see if she’d have the guts to give me a lecture on parental etiquette at swimming competitions. If she thought I was bad, she should come to one of Sam’s football matches: the dads had completely lost touch with the fact they were watching the under-elevens and not a relegation match between two Premier league teams.
‘Stepmum?’
I nodded and stopped myself launching into a rude retort. Christ, it was bad enough Francesca making me feel like an outsider without random strangers joining in.
‘That was Francesca Farinelli, Caitlin and Nico’s daughter, who just won that race?’
I stared at her, wondering where she was going with this. Contrarily I wanted to keep that information to myself. I’d obviously been hanging out with Lara too often. ‘Yes. Do you know the family?’
‘Yes. I knew Francesca when she was a tiny baby. She’s a few months older than my son. But we moved to Newcastle and lost touch with them. It was just the name that rang a bell.’
I wanted to ask if she knew that Caitlin had died. I wasn’t quite sure of the etiquette of a conversation along the lines of ‘I didn’t break up their marriage, you know, she died.’
She paused for a moment. ‘Are they all still living in Siena Avenue in Brighton? Anna as well?’
‘Yes.’ I didn’t know how to add in, ‘Well, all if you don’t count Caitlin.’ If she carried on like this, I’d be watching my rear-view mirror for a tail on the way home.
I never used to be suspicious of strangers. Once, when Nico and I had been lying in bed, messing about, doing a silly list of the ten things we loved most about each other, he’d said, ‘I love how you assume everyone is your friend. How you chat to everyone, the woman in the post office, the dog tied up outside the supermarket, the bloke with the toffee vodka at the checkout.’
For whatever reason, I’d blundered through life for the last thirty-five years expecting a welcoming reception. But now I’d experienced what it was like to have someone wage a campaign of indifference and sometimes out-and-out hate, I was more guarded with everyone.
Poor woman. Here I was all secret squirrel when she was probably just a family acquaintance, casually interested in hearing their news from the last decade or so. I couldn’t help feeling slightly pissed off, though, that it fell to me rather than some other mutual acquaintance to break the news about Caitlin. But the moment passed before I managed to get the D-word onto my lips.
The woman put her head on one side. ‘I didn’t know Nico and Caitlin had got divorced.’
I was going to have to say it. I hoped she wouldn’t start crying. That really would be the ultimate irony, me comforting some stranger over Caitlin’s death.
‘Um, Caitlin died nearly three years ago.’
The woman gasped. ‘Oh my god! Poor Nico and Francesca!’
I hoped I wasn’t going to witness yet another person raising their eyebrows as they looked at me and thought, ‘Christ, he’s gone for a completely different type.’