Something in me sagged. Everything in the Farinelli family was always a big deal.
Anyway, it could wait. If no one had known about Ben for thirteen years, a couple of days wouldn’t make much difference. But I knew the bit of me that was hacked right out of my mother would be noseying away, picking through conversations for clues that it was one massive conspiracy, that everyone else was whispering, ‘Sshh, Maggie’s coming,’ whenever they were talking about Ben.
My mind carried on whirling around, interspersed with the occasional ‘How much longer till we get home?’ from Francesca.
We drew up outside our house just before four-thirty. Francesca turned to me: ‘Can’t wait to tell Uncle Massimo that I won. Thanks for taking me, Mags.’
‘Wouldn’t have missed it. You blew the competition out of the water.’
Then we both laughed and said at the same time, ‘Literally’.
And despite the fireworks fizzing round my head until I was worried some vital grey matter would come smoking out of my ears and I’d lose the knack of doing up my bra or cleaning my teeth, I still wanted to do a little happy dance.
But that really would have spoilt the moment.
43
LARA
When Massimo had phoned from his conference in Liverpool, I told him I had two surprises for him when he got home on Saturday afternoon.
‘Does it involve you taking your clothes off and having a go at making a baby?’
As always when the topic of another baby came up I felt a rush of guilt. Despite Massimo continuing to be a great advert for marriage, I didn’t yet trust him enough to feel capable of bringing another child into the world, another being to consider – and to protect – if necessary. Although I was edging towards accepting that an overdone steak, a failure to record his favourite TV programme, one of Lupo’s hairs in the butter might no longer be the disasters they once were, I still wasn’t ready to stop having contraceptive injections. Every time he brought up the subject of going for tests to see why we were unable to conceive, I experienced a rush of nausea so overwhelming, throwing up became a real possibility. I’d come up with a whole raft of excuses to put him off getting a medical opinion. My latest stalling tactic was to keep referring to the fact that sperm quality declined after the age of forty. His desire to have another child was currently equalled by his fear of finding out the problem lay with him, not with me. A middle-aged man with sub-standard rather than romp-home, spear-carrying sperm would not fit Massimo’s image of himself.
When I knew Massimo was on his way home, I couldn’t stay still. I kept telling myself he wouldn’t have a problem with Dad being here. That he’d be thrilled I’d learnt to drive. But I couldn’t settle. I kept walking past the hall window, watching for his car. I’d allowed myself to get dragged back into my old habits, making sure there was white wine of every possible grape variety chilled in the fridge, every hand towel in the house was freshly laundered, Sandro had secured his curtains with the tie backs.
In between times I kept pausing at the door to watch Sandro with Dad. One of the things that had captured and held Dad’s attention was Sandro’s electric keyboard. Sandro was showing him how he could play chopsticks. And from nowhere, Dad took over and started to play ‘Hey Jude’, singing along in his croaky voice.
Sandro called me in. ‘Look at granddad. He’s really good at the piano.’
I loved seeing them together. Sandro didn’t seem to notice Dad made odd comments about knowing the people on TV, called Lupo a cat and was just as likely to drink out of the milk jug as a cup. Given that he’d shaken with fear when there’d been an explosion on the TV news, seeing him relaxed, embracing music and enjoying Sandro’s company brought so many emotions to the fore that I didn’t know whether to sing along with him or burst into tears.
At half-past four, I heard the growl of Massimo’s BMW pull up outside. My stomach knotted as I glanced at Dad, my ears straining for the sound of him coming up the drive, the jangle of keys, the thud of the briefcase on the top step. But instead of his footsteps after the car door slammed, Francesca’s voice rang out, followed by a cheer from Massimo. I caught a ‘Bravo!’ and ‘That’s my girl’. Maggie was booming into the mix, ‘Just zoomed in at the last moment and left them all standing, she did. Bloody brilliant.’
Hearing her outside gave me courage. I could tell him while she was there. She’d help me out. She was brilliant at picking up a thread of discord and snipping it off before it started – smoothing down Anna squaring up to Beryl, Sam having a spat with Francesca, Massimo goading Nico – Maggie was always there with a joke or a diversion to defuse the tension.
I opened the door and waved at them all.
Massimo threw his arms wide in a big theatrical gesture. ‘My gorgeous wife! Have you missed me?’
Nerves made me blurt out: ‘I’ve been too busy to miss you.’
Of course, it was a preamble to ‘Dad’s come to visit and I’ve got my hands full’, but I didn’t get that far before Massimo dropped his hands to his side and said, ‘Did you hear that, Maggie? That’s charming, isn’t it? She’s been too busy to miss me!’
Maggie glanced at me and said, ‘You know what they say, when the cat’s away, the mice will play. You’ve no idea what we get up to in your absence.’
Something in her voice made me do a double-take. I normally envied the way her conversations with Massimo were teasing and full of banter. But she sounded – I couldn’t put my finger on it – sullen? Sulky? As though she was trying to pick an argument?’
My heart skipped a little.
Massimo raised an eyebrow but his tone was light, ‘Look forward to hearing all about it. I’ll just get changed out of my suit, then I’m all ears.’
Massimo hated secrets, unless he was the one keeping them. Something uncertain flashed across his face. He wasn’t a man who liked being on the back foot.