The Silent Wife(24)
Every time I broached the subject, Massimo had put his arm round me and said, ‘You’ve only just started getting more than five hours’ sleep. I don’t want you getting run-down because you’re stretched too thinly. And Sandro is still a bit underweight. Why don’t you wait until he’s a year old?’ And then, ‘He’s still getting lots of chest infections; there’s no point in going back when you’d have to have so much time off.’ And so it carried on, right up until Sandro went to school. And by that time, I wasn’t sure I could load a dishwasher to Massimo’s satisfaction, let alone explain to senior executives why a company had failed its audit.
And now, because of Massimo’s ‘generous and thoughtful’ present, not only was it unlikely I’d ever make it back into the workplace, but I had more ground to cover to prevent the days disintegrating into tense recriminations.
Today I had failed to plug the gaps. Lupo had done a puddle on the floor just as I put the eggs in. While I was cleaning up under Massimo’s hawkeye supervision to his exact specification: kitchen roll, carrier bag, bleach on the floor, outside bin, nailbrush on my hands, Lupo darted about, trying to lick my face. I imagined him turning nasty, hanging off my cheek, biting my nose, disfiguring me forever. It made my hands shake, causing me to be clumsy and slow, forgetful of the damned eggs and the precise three and a half minutes Massimo required for his soft to medium yolks.
I stared into the pan, wondering what would set a worse tone for the day: to serve solid yolks or to tip them into the bin and risk a delay whilst I made some more with runny centres. I lost precious seconds dithering. And then it was too late. Massimo looked up from his newspaper. ‘Are my eggs ready?’
‘Just coming. More coffee?’
Massimo nodded and went back to The Times, idly scratching the dog behind its ears. I willed the kettle to boil quickly.
Fortunately he was distracted by a column in the paper about workplace equality. ‘What a load of old rubbish. Encouraging women to think they can do the same jobs as men for the same money. The women in my office are always having to leave early because their kid’s got earache or a bloody concert.’
I nodded along, as though I agreed with his antiquated views, suppressing my smile at the big fat cross I’d put next to the Green candidate in the local elections. Little rebellions saved me from total insanity.
I managed to get perfectly poached eggs onto the spinach, with a splash of cream and grating of garlic, just as he liked them, before he noticed how long it had taken me.
At that moment, Sandro sidled in, glancing first at Lupo who was now lying under the table, then at Massimo to check he was absorbed in his paper. He showed me the pictures he’d made with his Spirograph. I nodded, smiling and kissing him on the head before saying loudly, ‘Right, you’d better put your homework away and come and have some breakfast.’
‘But I don’t want any breakfast. I want to draw.’
Massimo looked up. ‘You’d better get a move on. You’re trying out the judo class at the leisure centre this morning.’
Sandro’s face fell. He looked down at the floor. ‘I didn’t know it was this week.’
I turned away and started wiping down the work surfaces, little starbursts of anxiety building. Without looking round, I went for a cheery ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy it once you’re there. What about some scrambled eggs to give you a bit of energy?’
Sandro moved into my line of vision, his shoulders slumping, his eyes beseeching me to make it better.
‘Perhaps this afternoon we can get out the paints that you got for your birthday?’
That wasn’t the making it better he wanted but it was the best I was allowed to do.
He shuffled out to the playroom.
Massimo slammed his knife and fork down. ‘So he’s happy to prat about on his own with his paints but doesn’t want to get stuck in and have some fun with boys his age? Let me go and talk to him.’
My heart leapt at Massimo’s chair scraping back, the predictable roar. ‘Sandro!’ The sound of little feet in slippery socks skidding across the parquet floor in the playroom. He’d be gathering up his precious pencils, the gorgeous Caran D’Ache crayons Nico had bought him as a surprise. A rattling of the door into the hallway. But no frantic thumping up the stairs. He wasn’t quick enough. I closed my eyes.
Massimo’s bellow reached me in the kitchen. ‘When are you going to get it into your head that the only way to do well in life is to learn lots of different skills? It’s no good sitting in the playroom messing about with your pens. You need to get out there and start joining in. Now go put your tracksuit on.’
Sandro scuffed upstairs to his bedroom. The familiar feeling of having my heart pinned in one place when it was straining to be in another swept over me. My poor boy, the loser – again – in the dynamics of Farinelli family.
I dried my hands and went to find Massimo in the playroom. He had that energy about him, that switch waiting to flick. I could still turn this round. I could.
I presented a neutral face. ‘I’ve just remembered I washed his tracksuit. It’s in the airing cupboard. You eat your eggs and I’ll pop up and find it so you’re not late.’ I hesitated a fraction of a second, weighing up whether I’d got away with my excuse to go to Sandro or whether I’d just unleash a rage about my ‘bloody mollycoddling’.