The Silent Wife(13)

6





LARA




It was classic Anna – elevating Caitlin to a saint’s status now she wasn’t here to clash swords with her about everything from how she ironed Nico’s shirts to whether she’d put enough salt in the pasta. Massimo was the first to join in the charade. Though of course, he hedged his bets.

‘First of all, I’d like us to raise a glass to Maggie and her mum for cooking for us today. Delicious, thank you.’ He caught Sandro’s eye. Thank goodness Beryl had managed a sleight of hand with his soup bowl.

I was desperate to follow out Maggie and Beryl. The mere thought of dredging up a lovely memory of Caitlin made me all hot. I couldn’t think of anything that would satisfy everyone left at the table.

Massimo chose to focus on her vitality and energy, directing his entire speech to Francesca. ‘Your mother was amazing. Every morning when Lara and I were barely out of bed, we’d see her jogging back from her run, all fresh-faced and looking like she was ready for the day.’

I loosened my top over my stomach with a fresh wave of self-loathing for every piece of pasta picked off Sandro’s plate, every biscuit sneaked out of the pack, every leftover fish finger I’d hoovered up.

Massimo hadn’t finished yet. ‘I still can’t believe that someone who ate so well, exercised and took such good care of herself could die so young.’ He took a slug of his wine. ‘But, in you, darling Francesca, she has left behind such a delightful daughter. I know she would be thrilled about how beautiful and how sporty you are. I wish she’d seen you win the county swimming championship.’

Massimo would – of course – choose sport to praise. That superior Farinelli athletic gene that had them all hurdling their way through life with their mega backhand, their bloody butterfly, their ability to pick up any racket, bat or club and have everyone applaud in awe.

All of them except Sandro.

Francesca sat ripping at little bits of napkin as Massimo spoke. She probably didn’t need reminding of all the events her mother had missed out on. I could hear her sucking air through her nostrils in uneven bursts. Rosettes of emotion studded her cheeks, as though she was talking herself down from telling us all to go to hell. But then she had every right to be angry at losing her mother so young. Every birthday I still felt a mixture of sadness and fury that my mum had died before I was five. No amount of being called ‘beautiful’ and ‘fantastic’ would make up for being ‘left behind’. Throughout my childhood, I’d forever been ‘that poor girl whose mum died’. The weird kid with the dad who was much older than the other parents, a bearded oddity squashed in among the handbags and heels at school events.

I pushed away the thoughts of my own loss as Massimo called our attention, demanding a toast to ‘the wonderful Caitlin, gone but not forgotten’.

Anna was next up. I could see Maggie and her mum moving about in the kitchen. They must have been able to hear what was being said. I couldn’t blame Maggie for wondering what kind of madhouse she’d married into. But if what Anna said was true, it had been a calculated move: Maggie’d had an affair with Nico before Caitlin was even dead.

I’d overheard Anna imitating Maggie: ‘“No one believes us but we didn’t get together for ages afterwards.” Absolute rubbish! And that mother of hers was just as bad. “Poor Caitlin, let me plump up your pillows for you, ducky.”’ Anna had rattled on, scathing about Beryl. ‘And all the while she had her eye on the main chance – masterminding a meal ticket for her daughter and grandson. Not a bad result for someone who sews on buttons for a living.’

I wondered if Beryl had the measure of Anna. She wasn’t stupid. She’d clocked Anna practically reaching for the smelling salts when Beryl didn’t know the difference between penne and fusilli – ‘It’s all pasta, isn’t it?’

But unlike me, Beryl didn’t resolve to do better, to read more, to think faster, to learn the steps to dance to the Farinellis’ tune. She found their idiosyncrasies and criticism funny. Little flashes of irreverence versus Anna’s pomposity. God only knew what face she was pulling over the washing-up as Anna pontificated about what a fabulous homemaker Caitlin was, reminiscing about the ‘most magnificent’ Victorian grape scissors she’d unearthed at an antiques fair. If Anna deemed me worthy of this sort of morbid memorial, I hoped that she’d remember me for something more noteworthy than my ability to spot a pair of fruit scissors in a tray of tat. Then Anna turned to Francesca.

‘Your turn, amore.’

I wanted to leap up and call a halt to this macabre theatre. I was desperate to tell Francesca she didn’t have to participate. She needed to be able to accept her feelings, take comfort in her memories without the rest of the bloody family assessing her ability to perform. But she looked at the table, then got to her feet as though what she was about to share had more of a purpose than voicing a random recollection.

Briefly, her face softened, taking on the rounder, more relaxed features of a child rather than the prickly teenager she’d become. Then glaring at Nico, her eyes red-rimmed, her features pinched and hard, she said, ‘The thing I remember most about Mum is that she was there for me one hundred per cent. No one was more important to her than me. And I miss that.’ Her voice tapered away, crumbling into misery.