The Silent Wife(12)

As I busied about making tea for Anna and Lara, Massimo swept back in with a whole crate of wine, plonking it down on the table with a flourish. ‘Thought we’d have a little drink in Caitlin’s memory.’

Nico started to protest. ‘I’ve got loads of wine, you didn’t need to bring that.’

‘Ah, but this is really good stuff. A grateful client slipped it my way after I managed to find a little tax loophole.’

Nico shrugged. Massimo clapped his hands. ‘Who wants a little drink? Maggie, darling sister-in-law of mine, would you be so kind as to find me some glasses?’ Today didn’t feel like a day to be shouting the sister-in-law label far and wide. But given that Lara and Anna seemed happy for me to wait on them but could barely bring themselves to acknowledge my presence, it was wonderful to have at least one person in the room who considered me part of the family. I dug out some wineglasses. He pulled a face and whispered, ‘Thank God you’ve arrived on the scene, Maggie. You’re going to have to sort my brother out with some decent glasses. Sacrilege to serve Picpoul in these.’

I was glad he had never witnessed Mum and me pouring lemonade into the disgusting red wine we got free with our Chinese takeaways and slugging it out of mugs.

Nico called everyone to the table. I served up the soup, asking Lara, ‘Will Sandro eat this? Do you want me to make him some little sandwiches?’

Before she could reply, Massimo waved me away, ‘You’ve got enough to do, Maggie, you don’t need to go to that trouble.’

Sandro took one look at the soup ladle, jumped off his chair and buried his face in Lara’s lap. ‘I don’t like soup. I want ham sandwiches.’

Massimo tickled the back of Sandro’s neck then peeled him off Lara and sat him back onto his chair. ‘Come on, buddy. Sit down now.’ Sandro sat with his arms folded, looking as though he was going to have to plough his way through a bowl of liver and onions.

I tried to make light of it. ‘Honestly, Massimo, it’s fine. I can easily make a few sandwiches.’ I bent down to Sandro’s eye level. ‘Soup’s a bit of a grown-up thing when you’re seven, isn’t it, darling?’

Before Sandro could answer, Massimo said, ‘You’re such a sweetheart, but Italian children don’t get a separate menu. There’s no such thing as children’s food. They eat what we eat.’

Sandro looked as though he was about to cry. Christ. I’d opened a right can of worms. Part of me admired Massimo’s energy. On the other hand, would it matter in two weeks’ time that Sandro had had a sandwich instead of minestrone? My rules for Sam had petered out after ‘Don’t steal’ and ‘Don’t swear’. I’d never been one to get excited over eating your peas – or soup.

Nico rescued me. ‘Come and sit next to me.’

He called across the table to Sandro. ‘Here, have some bread and dip it in. You’ll grow muscles on your muscles.’ But Sandro refused to look up, putting his head down low over his bowl, where I’d ladled in the tiniest amount possible.

As Sandro slugged down great gulps of water after every mouthful of soup, I wished I’d served everyone fish fingers, jelly and ice cream and had done with it.

The rest of lunch slunk on in an uneasy clattering of spoons on bowls, caught between Lara quietly encouraging Sandro to eat, Francesca punishing Nico with monosyllabic answers and my mother chattering on about the price of fresh flowers ‘considering they only lasted a few days’. I tried to block out the image of Francesca’s roses in front of the cemetery gates, the white petals ground into the pavement, the stems bruised and broken.

For a brief moment when Anna clacked her nails on the side of her glass, I hoped she was going to find a topic of conversation to move us on from funereal thoughts.

‘As it’s the anniversary of my dear daughter-in-law’s death, I thought we should take it in turns to share our favourite memory of Caitlin.’

It took me all my restraint not to squeal with laughter. I’d seen it all now. The disapproved-of second wife expected to sit through family homage to the fabulous first wife. I hopped up. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I said, my words falling into an uncomfortable silence. ‘Mum, give me a hand clearing away.’ My mother, who’d been feeding little bits of bread to Sandro and tricking him into eating the soup, got to her feet, quickly slipping Sandro’s bowl under hers.

Nico said something to his mother in Italian I couldn’t understand, but there was a definite rebuke in his words.

I started gathering things up. ‘Go ahead. It’s nice to remember the good times. Mum and I will go into the kitchen.’ Instead of crashing the crockery together, I gently piled up the plates, refusing to give Anna the satisfaction of knowing that actually, I’d like to be Frisbeeing them against the wall, bellowing ‘It’s not my bloody fault Caitlin died!’

As Massimo got to his feet to speak, the agony of indecision was marbling Nico’s cheeks. I had a little sieve through my feelings. Part of me felt sorry for him, pulled every which way by Francesca and Anna. Part of me wanted to shout, ‘Just grow a pair. Tell your mother to get stuffed. That whether she likes it or not, I am here to stay. Or at least I will be if she doesn’t completely bugger it up for both of us.’

Which was not a good thought to be having just over a month into my marriage.