The Silent Wife(42)

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, but motherhood is hard. Everyone is so quick to point the finger and have a go if your kids doesn’t eat peas, can’t spell onomatopoeia or, like Sandro, can’t swim. I think she needs a break. No one is tut-tutting at Massimo and saying he’s done a crap job. Somehow it’s Lara’s fault that Sandro isn’t a county swimmer like Francesca or doesn’t really like dogs.’

Nico started clearing the table. I felt an unexpected desire to start a row with him. It just seemed so unfair Lara was always putting herself through hoops to please everyone and no one could see what a lot she had on her plate.

But Nico, lovely man that he was, actually listened to what I was saying.

‘You’re probably right. Lara does put a lot of pressure on herself to be the perfect mother. Anyway, I’m sure they’ll sort it out. We’ve got our own kids to worry about.’

I did love it when he talked about the children as ‘ours’. He’d come to Sam’s parents’ evening with me the week before and I’d barely been able to concentrate on whether Sam had got the hang of metaphors and similes because I was ridiculously proud to have Nico with me, sporting him like the winning rosette. For the first time, I felt as though his teachers wouldn’t be seeing any failings on Sam’s part through the filter of single motherhood: no dad around, lives on that crappy estate, what can you expect? Even though deep down I knew he had more love from me and Mum than half the kids whose dads never looked up from their iPhones and still thought ironing was an activity defined by gender. But just for once, it was lovely to have someone else’s ears on whether Sam could get into the grammar school, someone who didn’t think education was an optional extra, who – unlike my mum – thought books weren’t just for propping up the broken leg on the sofa.

Thoughts of Lara continued to gnaw away at me. I wondered about having a quiet word with Massimo, to let him know how upset she was about her dad. She seemed to have some old shite going on about not bothering him. Personally, I hoped Nico would want to know if I was distraught about something. I’d take Lara over to see her father as often as I could, but once his foot was better, maybe she could have him over to visit for the day if I got Mum round to help. I was sure Mum would love to be involved.

But all these thoughts were wiped out when I went up to bed and saw the ladder to my workshop pulled down. I always put it back up when I’d finished. The light was on up there. I hesitated at the bottom of the steps, my imagination conjuring up burglars in balaclavas popping through the hatch waving machine guns. I shouted to Nico. ‘Someone’s up in my workshop.’ I heard a crash, the sound of something scattering across the floor. ‘Nico!’ He came charging out of the bathroom, my white knight in a stripy bathrobe, and hurried up the ladder.

I don’t think I’d ever heard him raise his voice before. ‘Francesca! What on earth’s happened up here?’

I couldn’t hear the response, just a low growl, followed by some sharp, then softer words from Nico. I started to climb up, but Nico appeared above me. ‘Don’t come up for the moment. I’m just sorting Francesca out. I think there’s been a bit of a miscommunication. Francesca thinks you’ve thrown out her mother’s jewellery box. She says she’s been asking for it and you keep fobbing her off, and it’s the design display tomorrow so she’s come up here to find it.’

My heart lurched. The image of me glancing around to see if anyone was watching, before flinging the box into the skip rushed into my mind. How could I admit what I’d done without connecting a gigantic tin opener to a writhing can of worms?

Maybe I could brazen it out with ‘I’ve looked everywhere for it and think it must have found its way into one of the bags I took to the charity shop. I’m so sorry. Let me buy you a new one.’ My heart sank at how much work I’d have to do to pay for that.

But I’d gone back on my word and now it was up to me to fix it. I’d sat there, that morning we’d cleared out the attic, and promised I’d never throw anything away without her permission. I’d insisted that she shouldn’t feel embarrassed about having her mother’s things around. Apart from Lara, none of us had any experience of losing a mother at a young age and she was entitled to handle it any way she wanted. Though of course, I hadn’t expected to discover an unexploded bomb amongst Caitlin’s belongings with the power to blast Francesca’s memories of her mother to smithereens.

I heard their feet crunching across the floorboards I’d painted white and sealed with ship’s varnish. My mind was puzzling over the unfamiliar noise. Then I realised. She’d overturned the printer’s letterpress tray with all the little compartments that held my beads, sequins and gems, the ones I browsed for at flea markets, bid for on eBay, scoured charity shops for. My own little haven of pearls, diamante and jewels, scattered everywhere and crushed underfoot. In that moment, I hated her. I was sick of being the grown-up, of accepting bad behaviour, of biting my tongue and letting Nico deal. Yes, of course, I was sorry her mother had died, sorry I couldn’t replace her, right now sorry I’d ever laid eyes on the Farinelli family. But even I would have to draw the line at a thirteen-year-old wrecking my business when all I’d been trying to do was protect her from the truth about her mother and her loose knicker elastic.

I wanted to clatter up those steps, bellow at Nico for being so bloody blind he hadn’t even noticed that every time his wife was trotting off clutching her flipping opera glasses, she was carrying on with some fancy man, crooking her little finger over her Earl Grey and cucumber sandwiches while Nico was disappearing off to the garden centre with no more on his mind than reducing the price of the geraniums before they were past their best.