The Silent Wife(21)

I called over to Francesca, ‘You’re not thinking of studying nutrition and sport science, are you?’

She snorted. ‘No chance. I’m not spending my life trying to lick a load of old fatties into shape.’

I sucked in my stomach.

I picked out an enormous illustrated tome about the place of exercise in psychotherapy. It looked like the huge French dictionaries Mum had staggered home with after a clear out from the local library in case she could flog them. We never did find any takers but we stacked them up and used them as a stand for the hamster cage. Nico must find me very limited if Caitlin had a brain big enough to understand how skipping on the spot could make you less of a loony.

I looked over at Nico on the other side of the attic, hoping I’d be enough for him in the long term. He was sitting side-by-side with Francesca, delving into a white wicker chest, exclaiming quietly over tiny pairs of toddler shoes, a little tulip-print babygro, a blue bunny with one ear. I wasn’t sure Sam’s dad would even be able to pick him out of a line-up of ten-year-olds with sandy hair and freckles, let alone remember his baby toys. Francesca was stroking things, pressing them to her face. My heart ached as I watched her straining for a memory of Caitlin, a remnant of a scent, a whisper of a touch contained within random objects that probably smelt more of dust and damp.

She pulled out some school exercise books. ‘Look, Dad, creative writing in Miss Roland’s class!’ Nico started reading her story about her new dog, ‘Polly-Dolly’, out loud, while Francesca squealed with embarrassment. ‘And it wasn’t even true! Mum never did let me have a dog.’ She tapped the page. ‘Look how fat I’ve drawn Mum. I don’t remember her like that.’

I tried not to listen to their conversation, rummaging noisily into the box, the private emotions between father and daughter making me feel like a cuckoo in a nest for two.

‘The dust is making my throat dry. I’m going to pop down and fetch us some tea.’

‘I’ll go,’ Nico said, jumping up as though he was grateful to have an excuse to escape for a minute.

I wanted to bound down the ladder, to get away from all the grief and regret and someone else’s love spreading like ivy out of everything we opened but I knelt down again to carry on sorting.

I came across a gold jewellery box tucked away underneath another layer of books. Good job I hadn’t just glanced in, seen a few dusty old books on how to stop wetting yourself on the trampoline and dumped the lot. I picked it up, running my fingers over the heart shape studded in what looked like rubies on the top. I opened the lid. It was empty, just a padded cushion at the bottom, but a blast of classical music filled the attic, making me jump. Francesca craned over to see what I’d found. I stood up and squeezed around Caitlin’s exercise bike, stepping over yoga mats and a half-deflated Pilates ball to show her.

She stroked the blue velvet inside and said, ‘I don’t remember Mum having this. It’s really pretty.’ She shut the box then opened it again. ‘What’s that music?’

‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask your dad. I don’t know anything about classical music.’ Straight out of my ‘How to be a Fab Stepmum’ manual, I grabbed my opportunity to engage. ‘Do you like this sort of music?’ I asked, dreading that she’d launch into some comparison of composers I’d never heard of. All the Farinellis seemed to scoff up the arts and culture section of newspapers with their breakfast.

Francesca wrinkled her nose. ‘Not really. Mum used to listen to opera all the time but I’m not that keen.’

‘You might be later on. Shall I put this to one side for you? It’s real gold, judging by the hallmark on the bottom, so it’s definitely worth hanging onto,’ I said.

Francesca nodded. ‘Yes please. I could use it for my earrings.’

My moment of usefulness faded away and she started looking at her old schoolbooks again. I rotated my shoulders, picking my way back to the other side of the attic. As I stood deciding between tackling the bag labelled ‘bed linen’ or opening up an old-fashioned chest that contained God knows what to make me doubt myself a little bit more, I sneezed and the gold box flew out of my grasp.

It landed lid open on a pile of rucksacks, the sound of violins and flutes blaring out.

‘Sorry, sorry, must be all the dust.’ I scrabbled to retrieve it, praying that I hadn’t dented something that would turn out to be a priceless heirloom.

As I picked it up, tipping it upside down to inspect for damage, the padded velvet bottom fell out. A shower of papers fluttered down: tickets, a postcard, a couple of handwritten notes, a folded-up menu from the National Portrait Gallery. I gathered them together to stuff them back in, noticing an engraving inside on the bottom.

My darling Caity-Cat

Whenever I hear this music, I will think of you and wish we’d made different choices.

Yours always, P





I frowned and peered closer. Yes, definitely ‘P’. I really didn’t want to know what pet name Caitlin had for Nico. ‘Petal?’ ‘Pumpkin?’ ‘Precious?’ Ugh. Thank God Nico hadn’t thought up a Caity-Cat equivalent for me. Maggie-Moo. Or if I didn’t get on top of my weight soon, Maggie Muffin-top. I’d once had a boyfriend who called me ‘Shnoodle Bum’. It had put me off nicknames for life.