The Silent Wife(26)

I traced my fingers over the engraving in the bottom of the box, squinting at the postcards and notes, studying that unfamiliar writing and comparing it with Nico’s. I dithered. Whichever way I looked at it – and I was pretty sure there was only one way – Caitlin’s halo was hovering around her ankles, along with her pants.

It was madness to hang onto something that could only cause my husband pain. Surely the kindest thing would be to throw it out, pack it off to a landfill site, to keep its secrets forever among the rotting nappies, holey trainers and VHS tapes? Perhaps someone would get lucky in a hundred years’ time and come up trumps with a metal detector, but for now, knowing the truth could only bring up a whole load of questions to hurt Nico, with no possibility of answers. As well as adding yet another thing onto the bonfire of conflicting feelings Francesca was already trying to tame.

But still I kept it, unable or unwilling to part with it without being able to pinpoint why. As some kind of weird protection against Anna when she made me feel Nico would never be as happy with me as he was with Caitlin? To prove that I hadn’t dreamt it up, that it wasn’t the warped and bitter mind of ‘she who came next’, looking for treachery and betrayal where there wasn’t any?

I considered showing Nico. Maybe there was a simple explanation, though I couldn’t think what. But I didn’t want to humiliate him or hurt him by proxy. I couldn’t quite get my head round comforting him through the discovery that Caitlin had had an affair. It was easier to accept his grief that she’d died than his devastation that she’d betrayed him.

The irony of it falling to Nico’s second wife to protect him from the betrayal of the first wasn’t lost on me. It wasn’t so much keeping it from Nico that worried me. The real challenge was resisting the temptation to see the look on Anna’s face if I blurted out the fabulous first wife had been bonking her dodgy lover in Bath.

As May rolled into June, I thought about it less and less. Since I’d made Francesca a couple of dresses, she’d been a walking advert for my business. The first time she’d worn one to a party, she looked so stunning I wanted to send Sam with her to fight off the boys. Choosing ‘my’ dress to wear from the hundreds of outfits discarded on her bedroom floor was such a mark of acceptance that I had to work hard at not ruining the moment with my over the top enthusiasm. Word was spreading that ‘Francesca’s step-mum makes really cool clothes’. A few parents had contacted me about prom dresses for the end of July and I was becoming really busy. I’d even had a commission to make an evening dress with a peacock feather bodice ‘for a milestone birthday’. Every time I worked on it, I felt like a seamstress to a Hollywood star.

One of the things I loved about my little attic workshop were the two dormer windows where I could see out over the neighbourhood. When I’d been squinting over hooks and eyes or – truly evil – sewing on sequins as I was today, I’d readjust my vision by looking out into the distance, letting my eyes focus on the tops of trees. I could see right into Lara and Massimo’s garden, which looked like an upmarket park with a wooden treehouse, tyre swings and a trampoline. Sam pretended to be too old for all that, but when he was next door, I’d spy him racing out to the trampoline to do somersaults and back flips I was better off not seeing.

Today I could see Sandro lying on his side on the trampoline, playing with something. He sat up as their Rhodesian Ridgeback wandered out from the French windows at the back of the house. Such a majestic creature. Massimo told me they were bred to hunt lions in Africa, which made me wonder whether poor old Lupo felt a bit short-changed at finding himself confined to a suburban garden in Sussex.

There was something about the way Sandro moved that caught my eye. He was crawling tentatively across the trampoline, as though he was avoiding sniper fire. Then he suddenly jumped down and hared across the garden, clambering up the rope ladder to the treehouse with panicky gestures, missing his footing and dangling precariously. I realised why when Lupo raced after him, his deep bark reverberating around the neighbourhood. Sandro shrank back into the top of the treehouse, while Lupo launched himself onto his back legs, front paws scrabbling at the ladder.

I threw open the window and yelled as loud as I could. ‘Lupo! Lupo!’ But the dog was fixated on getting up that ladder as though an injured gazelle lay just within chomping distance. I could hear Sandro screaming. Where the hell was Lara? I scuttled down the attic steps as fast as I could without becoming a casualty myself. I’d have to worry about the embarrassment of admitting to spying on them later. I flew out of the house and ran round to Lara’s, hammering on the front door. Then hammered some more when no one arrived.

Eventually she came to the door with a feather duster in her hand. If I hadn’t been in such a panic, I might have made some off-colour joke.

‘Maggie?’ She didn’t stand aside or beckon me in, looking at me as though unexpected visitors were somehow confusing.

‘Lupo’s got Sandro trapped in the treehouse. He’s really frightened. I don’t think the dog can get up there but he’s definitely not acting friendly.’

‘Oh my god! I was hoovering upstairs, I didn’t hear him. I locked the dog in the utility room. He must have jumped over the stable door.’

She charged down the hallway and out through the French windows in the kitchen. I followed her, even though she still hadn’t invited me in. We belted down the garden to where the dog was dancing on its hind legs in frustration. Sandro was pinned to the back of the treehouse, crying.