The Silent Wife(23)
‘I remember you wearing those! You went in a puddle so deep that all the water came over the top and I had to carry you home on my shoulders with bare feet.’
Grateful as I was that I didn’t have to hand over the box and watch his face take on the bittersweet glow of forgotten memories, I still couldn’t understand how any man could possibly engrave a present for his wife then totally forget about it. Was he protecting my feelings?
But I didn’t feel I could march over there, rip out the velvet padding and start jabbing my finger at the writing inside, ‘Look, look, you had it engraved for her!’ without appearing completely unhinged. Which, if the sick feeling in my stomach was anything to go by, I might become.
Francesca stood up, stretching her back. ‘Right. Which one shall we do next, Dad?’
‘Take your pick,’ Nico said, swivelling round towards me. ‘How are you getting on, Maggie?’
Tempting as it was to say, ‘Feeling more inadequate by the minute,’ I managed a relatively cheery ‘Fine, I don’t think there’s much here you’re going to want to keep. Just university course books. Perhaps we could donate them to the library?’
Nico shrugged. ‘Or there’s a book bank down at Morrisons’ car park.’
We sorted through a couple more crates, putting all the photo albums to one side. I promised myself I would never be tempted to open them, concentrating instead on the idea that if we tied up Caitlin’s loose ends as soon as possible, I’d feel less like an impostor bluffing my way in through the door with a stick-on moustache. But despite my best intentions, my mind kept drifting back to the postcard. The depth of devotion Nico had for Caitlin had floored me. Maybe I was just a housekeeper with benefits, rather than a second chance at love.
Eventually, Francesca looked up and said, ‘Can that be enough for one day?’
I was knackered myself but given that we were doing this for my benefit I didn’t feel I could start moaning. ‘I don’t mind. Nico?’
‘We’ve broken the back of it. Let’s have a rest and pick it up again tomorrow.’
I pointed to an old-fashioned box file. ‘Do you want to take this down and see if you still need any of the paperwork?’
Nico laughed. ‘God, that’s from before Francesca was born.’ He prodded her. ‘Look, before we had you, I even had time to write little labels and file all my documents. Not quite as organised now.’
Halfway through wondering who would ever sit down in the evening and think, what I have time to do right now is write Car MOT/appliance guarantees/health insurance on neon pink labels, I realised, with a jolt to my stomach, why none of the keepsakes that fell out of the box resonated with the image I had of Nico. Nico’s handwriting had curly capital ‘I’s and funny tails on the ‘g’s and ‘y’s, like little handlebar moustaches.
It wasn’t Nico’s handwriting.
And if it wasn’t his writing, who was engraving little messages on jewellery boxes crammed full with love notes to his wife?
12
LARA
A month on, as we moved into May, Lupo was becoming huge. A much bigger, bitier, boisterous version that scared us half to death. When Massimo wasn’t around, I wouldn’t leave him alone with Sandro, who – to Massimo’s fury – flapped about and squealed whenever Lupo went near him. I wasn’t much better myself, shutting the dog in the utility room whenever I could, throwing in a disgusting bit of dried fish skin so I didn’t have to get too near. Massimo’s interest in Lupo was confined to parading him about in the park, like an expensive toy, with all the yummy mummies falling over themselves to chat about how to stop dogs jumping up/messing in the house/barking in the garden. And all the while, Massimo would be giving them the spiel about whistle-training and indestructible dog beds, while swapping ‘it was so mortifying when…’ stories.
He omitted to mention he’d never opened a single tin of dog food, picked up a poo or wiped up a puddle when Lupo got overexcited at Massimo’s return home.
What he did show a great interest in though, was that I now had something to keep me ‘occupied’. Effectively, he’d used the arrival of the dog as the death knell to any discussion about me returning to work, saying, ‘It wouldn’t be fair to leave Lupo shut up all day.’
On bad days, I wished I’d never given up my job to stay at home with Sandro, convinced that if I’d delegated his upbringing to a nanny or nursery, he’d be more confident. And perhaps I would be too. Accountancy suited me. I’d taken such pride in being ‘the one to watch’. The one they’d all teased Massimo about, saying I’d be snapping at his heels before long. There’d been more than one joke about ‘marrying the competition’ at our wedding. But after Sandro was born, Massimo stopped talking to me about work, encouraging me to stay at home and take it easy for a while.
When so many women in my postnatal group were frantically working out how they could have one day a week at home with their babies, fretting about nursery fees and drawing up complicated schedules involving in-laws and childminders, it seemed churlish to insist on going back to work. But it didn’t stop me hankering after it – the prospect of a couple of days a week, taking refuge in orderly columns of figures, the predictability of a rational outcome, the sense of a job well done. Rather than the illogical world that became my prison, trapped with a baby who wouldn’t sleep, so angry with the world he would refuse to feed, his fists balled with rage, while I walked, jiggled, sang, soothed – and failed.