The Silent Wife(32)
Maggie had the Midas touch. Her calm, no-nonsense approach, her expectation that Sandro was capable, that ‘everyone has to learn’, that he would – of course – get it wrong a few times but then get it right, seemed to rub off on him. After a series of shrieks and dashes behind Maggie and Sam when Lupo started to run towards him, Maggie persuaded him to whistle the dog and feed him a treat from his open palm. After two months of making sure the dog couldn’t get anywhere near Sandro when I wasn’t around, I had to force myself not to rush out and shout, ‘Careful!’
I was my father’s daughter.
From there, Sandro graduated to feeding the dog his dinner. Instead of me preparing it in the utility room and then diving out while Lupo charged in, Maggie decreed that Lupo would learn to eat to a whistle command.
Whistle, sit, stay, wait, eat was the new routine. Maggie would allow Sandro to throw the ball ten times, then put it away when Lupo still wanted to play. ‘You’re in charge, Sandro. You decide when and how long the dog can play for.’ And then she came up with some funny rule about not letting the dog walk through the door in front of any human.
But, weirdly, it seemed to work. Encouraged by Sam who had designs on making Lupo the star of Britain’s Got Talent, over the next month, the training regime slowly turned from survival into a hobby.
And all the while, Maggie’s bemusement that I hadn’t made Massimo get rid of the damn dog if my son was in danger hung over us like an organza canopy. A couple of times while she’d been standing watching Sam and Sandro teach Lupo to lie down, she asked leading questions like, ‘Has Massimo ever seen Lupo get aggressive with Sandro?’ ‘Did you tell Massimo that Lupo trapped Sandro in the treehouse?’
There was something so honest about her, so down-to-earth that I nearly told her the truth: that if I dared to question any decision Massimo had made, the stakes would rocket from just about manageable to unbearable. The disrespect he would feel if I dared to put forward an opinion different from his would deliver a consequence.
And never a pleasant one.
It wouldn’t be beyond him to decide Sandro needed more exposure to a variety of dogs. I had visions of him turning up with a posse of mongrels from the local rescue centre. The staff would forever talk about him as the kind-hearted, generous Massimo, ‘offering a home to some of our most challenging dogs’, while, in reality, he’d be berating both of us for our fear, screaming about how pathetic we were, how we just needed to get a grip.
She wouldn’t believe me. Who would? The man who anticipated everyone’s needs, pulling out chairs, opening doors, noticing new hairstyles, successful dieting, remembering children’s names, holiday destinations, elderly parents? The loving son-in-law who paid a fortune for my father to receive the best care? The man who modestly brushed away any praise with ‘It’s the least I can do. Anything that makes things easier for Lara…’
They’d think I was deranged, their faces screwing up in disbelief: ‘I can’t imagine him acting like that, can you? She must be making it up.’
If I hadn’t experienced every sorry little minute of the sham that I was living, I would have been the first to pull that face. Any intelligent woman knew no intelligent woman would stay with a man like that.
Or so I thought, before I had my life.
Once, when Maggie asked me whether we should have just bought another cat instead of a dog, I nearly blurted out what had really happened to Misty. Just for the satisfaction of testing whether what was merely pretty shocking for me was outrageous and demented to everyone else. I’d been living this way for so long, the point on my life barometer for normal was probably everyone else’s emergency appointment with a psychoanalyst.
I fantasised about watching her face change from puzzlement to horror as I told her what I’d discovered when I was washing Massimo’s car because he was running late to visit a client. ‘I can’t turn up looking like bloody Farmer Giles.’
As I stood on the drive, hosing down the wheels, I noticed something tucked behind the hubcap. Soft and grey. I pulled it out, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger. Fur. I craned my head closer. Dry rust-coloured blood on the inside edge of the chrome metal.
I sank back onto the tarmac, not caring that my jeans were soaking up mud and water. Massimo had known all along that Misty wasn’t coming home. He’d let me believe he was worried, sorry for me.
The expression on Massimo’s face as Misty scratched and snarled at him flashed into my mind.
I burst into the house, racing up the stairs to where Massimo was packing his shirts, smoothing the sleeves with precision.
My tongue felt thick, unable to form the words, as though they were forcing themselves out through a layer of loft insulation, my mind refusing to let my mouth articulate something that should never even have become a coherent idea in my brain.
‘You ran Misty over, didn’t you? I’ve found her fur on your wheel.’
I expected Massimo to laugh, to deny it outright. But he looked straight at me. ‘Stupid cat ran in front of me just up the road from the house.’
‘You bastard. You absolute bastard. You did it on purpose! Because she hated you and loved us? And you, you couldn’t stand it.’
I’d never sworn at Massimo. In any confrontation, I’d learnt the quickest route to calm was silence.
In the space of a few seconds, his face went from mild amusement at me, his meek, approval-seeking wife throwing a tantrum, to a twisted, sneering caricature of the handsome demeanour he took care to present to the world. But today I didn’t care. I was leaving him and taking Sandro with me.