My Husband's Wife(86)

‘You must ask them for more money,’ Mamma had reminded her in another letter which had arrived just before she left.

But that would be so awkward, thought Carla as she opened her law books and began to study, despite the rocking motion of the train. How was she to just come out with it? You’ll think of something, sang the train as it rocked along. You’ll think of something …

‘But why can’t it fly?’ demanded the tall, skinny boy, waving his arms around in frustration.

‘I’ve told you, Tom. It’s only a model.’

‘But the picture on the box shows it in the air.’

‘That’s to make it look exciting,’ Ed groaned.

‘Then they shouldn’t show it like that, should they? We ought to report them to the Advertising Standards Authority.’

Carla was impressed. ‘You have a point, Tom! You’ll have to be a lawyer like your mum.’

‘Heaven forbid.’ Ed grimaced. ‘One in the family is more than enough. Sorry, Carla, no offence intended.’

She flashed him a smile. ‘None taken.’

Up until Tom’s outburst, her present of a model plane set had been a great success. The boy had assembled it in ten minutes flat, even though it was much more complicated than she’d realized. But it was afterwards that was difficult. All these questions! Questions that could not be answered. It was exhausting for them all, including Lily’s parents, who had been kindness itself to her.

When she’d arrived at this beautiful house, Carla had been astounded. She’d thought the place in London was lovely, but this was extraordinary, with its huge sash windows, a hall that was big enough for a whole family to live in, and a large airy conservatory facing out over an expansive lawn! Just the kind of house she would love to own.

‘My grandparents used to live here,’ Lily had explained.

They must have been very rich, thought Carla, to have afforded such a palace by the sea. It stood high on the cliff overlooking the water; the view from her bedroom was staggering. Below twinkled the lights from the town, just as the lights would be twinkling in the Florentine hills right now. But Carla had forced herself to bite back the homesickness and concentrate instead on the tall Christmas tree in the hall – what a wonderful smell of pine! – with the presents at the bottom. There was even a small pile with her own name on it.

The drawing room, as Lily’s mother called it, was tastefully furnished with a sage-green carpet and old mahogany wood hinting of lavender polish. There were pictures hanging on the walls; not Ed’s, but older ones, showing scenes of fields and setting suns.

‘Copies,’ Ed had said dismissively when she’d admired them, although he’d spoken in a low voice so no one else had heard.

There were photographs too. Everywhere. On the mantelpiece. On the side tables. Pictures of Lily as a child and also pictures of a boy who was a little taller than she was. ‘That’s Daniel,’ Lily’s mother had said in a bright voice.

Daniel? Dimly, Carla remembered a conversation she’d had with Lily about her brother, all those years ago when she’d first lived in England.

I don’t want to talk about him.

Wasn’t that what she’d said?

‘Is he coming here for the holiday?’ Carla had started to ask, but her question was drowned in confusion because Tom had suddenly started ripping open his presents, even though they hadn’t been to Midnight Mass yet.

And now there was all this fuss about why the model plane couldn’t fly. It had become heated, Carla noticed. Tom was getting increasingly upset, tugging at his own hair and pulling out strands. Lily was really edgy, although she’d been like that since she’d picked Carla up from the station. She didn’t remember Lily being so irritable when she used to know her. Lily’s mother, who looked just like her daughter, with the same height and hair colour, was apologizing profusely.

Different, Lily had said. Tom, our son … he’s different. When people said that, they usually meant they were embarrassed by the difference. What they didn’t consider was how it affected that person.

The only thing that would help was to make him feel good about himself. Reassure him. And since no one else was doing that – Lily constantly had her nose in files – the task clearly fell to Carla. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘Leonardo da Vinci got his models to fly.’

Who is Leonardo da Vinci? she expected Tom to ask. But his face had begun to clear. ‘The artist? The man who drew Christ like a clock?’

‘Exactly.’ That was the way she had seen the picture as a child too. A Jesus-like figure, spread-eagled at quarter to three. ‘He designed one of the early aeroplanes. Did you know that?’

Tom shook his head. ‘I haven’t got that far. I’ve only just got the book out of the library …’

‘I didn’t know you were studying Leonardo at school, darling,’ said Lily, emerging unexpectedly from the study. Her expression reminded her of Mamma’s all those years ago when she was trying to help her understand her maths homework.

‘I’m not. I just liked the picture on the cover.’ He frowned. ‘If Leonardo could make his models fly, why can’t I?’

‘It’s a different kind of model.’ Carla was kneeling down next to him now. ‘Tell you what, in the morning we’ll see if we can make our own design.’