The Silent Wife(15)

So that March evening when the landlord of my shop shuffled about on the spot before blurting out – ‘Ever so sorry’ – he’d sold the whole building and was giving me four weeks’ notice to leave, big fat tears blobbed onto the silk skirt I’d been mending. I’d rented this little place for next-to-nothing for so long, there was no way I’d find another shop I could afford. And if I didn’t sew, I couldn’t earn and I really would fulfil everyone’s gold-digging expectations. The sneering about ‘It didn’t take her long to become a lady of leisure’ would be ricocheting around certain houses on Siena Avenue before I’d even packed up my pin cushions.

I was tempted to give my mates on the estate a ring, disappear down The Hat and Feather and drink enough vodka until I saw the funny side. Or skip the alcohol and head over to Mum’s where Sam stayed after football practice every Wednesday. I allowed myself to consider how comforting it would be to burst through my old front door and slump down on Mum’s knackered couch while she bustled about with tea and crumpets. All the seats in Nico’s house were designed to encourage you to get up and do something else. And for once, I wanted to eat takeaway curry out of a foil dish, mopping up the sauce with a chunk of naan bread, not fiddle about with garlic, herbs and proper chicken stock.

But I was a wife now, so I had to go home. Nico was already back from the garden centre when I got in. He looked up from the risotto he was stirring and rushed over. ‘Maggie! Are you okay? What’s the matter?’ And despite feeling that with Francesca so unhappy, it was up to me to keep the faith that everyone would come round eventually, my brave face crumpled there and then. Nico held out his arms to me. Francesca, who’d been doing her homework at the kitchen table, slammed out of the room.

And once I’d started, Nico must have wished he’d done a bulk buy of Kleenex and kitchen roll. Out it all poured, spewing into the atmosphere. Me losing the sewing shop. Caitlin’s clothes in the wardrobe of the spare room, beige, black and navy, hanging there like a reproach. Francesca waging – and winning – a war that meant we never got any time together. I wished I could fix her, wished I could make it better, stop her hurting and being so angry.

But I couldn’t.

Which meant we could never relax in case Francesca needed Nico. Even when we went to bed, there was often a nightly drama: ‘Dad, there’s an earwig in my room/I can hear a noise downstairs/I can’t sleep/I’ve got a headache.’ Despite growing up on the estate where the walls were so thin you could hear the neighbours fart and fornicate, fear of Francesca’s footsteps along the landing was the most effective antidote to newly-wed libido known to man – or woman.

Nico looked almost relieved. ‘I thought you’d discovered you didn’t fancy me.’ He stroked my hair. ‘I’m sorry being married to me hasn’t been a bit better.’

‘Don’t be silly. I love being married to you. I just feel that I’m letting you down all the time. I knew I’d never replace Caitlin, but no one has ever hated me as much as Francesca.’

‘She doesn’t hate you. How could she? You’re lovely. It’s what she’s lost and what you represent. So do you know what I suggest, Mrs Farinelli?’ he asked, pulling out a chair for me.

Even though he sounded cheery and positive, fear must have flashed across my face. Two months into our marriage and I was still waiting for him to realise it was all a big mistake.

He leaned over and kissed me. ‘We’re going to set up a workshop for you in the attic. It’s quite nice up there. Before she got ill, Caitlin was going to make it into a yoga studio, so we’ve already done the electrics and white-washed the walls. There’s a big Velux window so it’s light and we can commission some built-in work tables, shelves and cupboards – whatever you need – to make the most of the space.’

Commission. God, that was a word I’d never needed to use. Make do. Barter. Cobble together. A little thread of hope curled around my heart. My own special space. I might be able to offer proper dressmaking services rather than just alterations and repairs.

‘And the big plus is that it’s rent-free.’

‘Are you sure? You won’t feel taken advantage of?’

‘Don’t be silly! I’m your husband, not your landlord. That’s what couples do. They share each other’s problems and work out solutions.’

That set me off blubbing again. After so many years on my own, battling for a way out of trouble that wouldn’t lead to me relying on Mum for money or Sam going short, Nico’s words were like fairy dust floating about, magicking sparkly little solutions out of thin air.

‘We’ll have to clear out the attic though.’ He pulled a face. ‘We might have to get Francesca to help with that. There’s a lot of Caitlin’s stuff up there. God knows what. Her books from university, walking and diving gear, her riding stuff, scrapbooks – she was a great one for hanging onto concert programmes, plane tickets, all that sort of thing. But there might be some bits and pieces Francesca will want to keep.’

I closed my mind to how many memories sorting out Caitlin’s belongings would stir up for Nico. Given how sporty she’d been, it was astonishing he’d ended up with a pudding like me. I’d never sat on a horse in my life. I didn’t like the idea of being on anything without a reliable brake. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there while he talked Francesca through the places they’d visited, the bands they’d seen, the beaches where they’d watched the sun go down. I didn’t want to spoil anything we did together by wondering if he’d had a better time with Caitlin. Or find there was a whole list of places in the world where he’d already had sex with his first wife.