The Silent Wife(47)

I remembered watching Maggie’s curly head next to Francesca’s smooth dark one as they pored over a pattern for a summer top Francesca wanted. I’d felt a little stab of envy about Maggie’s natural affinity with children. I found it hard to be spontaneous and relaxed with Sandro, my maternal instinct straitjacketed by what Massimo would find acceptable, my affection diluted by fear.

A mix of emotions dappled Maggie’s face, like leaves against summer sunlight. ‘We had a bit of an issue over a box belonging to her mum. She thought I’d thrown it out and got really upset.’

‘Was it a special box?’

‘It was quite pretty. Gold, studded with red stones in the shape of a heart. Probably worth a bob or two.’

My skin started to prickle, sick dread chiselling another slither of ballast from my already fragile universe. The insidious voices of suspicion I’d smothered over the years were clamouring to be heard.

‘So what did happen to it?’

She hesitated. I could see that, unlike me, lies weren’t the oil that smoothed her path through life. They were the things that tripped her up, stopped her in her tracks because of the infrequent need to tell them. Her answer when it came was thin and high.

‘I’m not sure. We can’t find it anywhere, so I think I might have thrown it out – accidentally, obviously – when I was clearing out some other stuff.’ She tried to make a joke. ‘It was a funny old thing, played some sort of opera when you opened it up, right old racket.’

‘Opera?’

‘Yeah. Apparently Caitlin loved all that stuff, though I don’t think Nico is very keen. Or if he is, he’s not telling me. Probably doesn’t want to make me feel a thicko.’

Red stones in the shape of a heart. Opera music when you opened it. The box I found tucked at the back of the drawer under some of Massimo’s jumpers.

The present I waited for him to give me on Christmas Day five years ago.





22





MAGGIE




After we’d finished sorting out the workshop, Lara couldn’t escape me quickly enough, coming up with the excuse that she ‘needed to walk Lupo’. Maybe she’d lost her nerve about driving, but all of a sudden, the dog she hated became a much greater pull than learning the difference between a clutch and an accelerator.

Once, I was a person that everyone liked. Customers at the shop used to chat to me long after they’d spelt out their requirements for hems, zips and necklines. I’d get thank you cards for saving the day from women who needed a dress letting out for a special event, flowers from men who’d split their one decent suit.

And now, everyone I knew ran from me as though an extra fifteen minutes in my company would bring them out in purple boils.

Nico had phoned me a couple of times to check I was okay, begging me to forgive Francesca, telling me ‘if we could just get through this rough patch, we’ll laugh about it in a few years’ time.’ Right now, it seemed highly unlikely I’d be ha-ha hee-heeing about having to spend a whole afternoon repairing a seam on a dress that Francesca had wrenched apart in her frenzy.

I wanted to find a way back to how we were before the jewellery box saga, when she sometimes laughed at my jokes, or even took my side against Nico when he teased me about my untidiness. When I no longer had to steel myself to go into a room she was sitting in. And I needed to do it before I didn’t care any more, before that little bit of self-preservation kicked in and guillotined off the ‘giving a shit about trying to make someone who hates me like me’ gene. Of courses she was still a child. Maybe I was immature myself. And poor Nico was caught in the middle. But my conversations with him ended with me feeling slightly more irritated than before.

I went to school to meet Sam, just to get out of the house, even though he preferred walking home on his own. As I stood waiting at the school gate, one of the mothers came up to me, the sort that wore 1950s-style dresses with ballerina pumps and little cardigans. ‘You’re Francesca’s stepmum, aren’t you?’

I managed a suspicious-sounding yes, as though I’d just picked up the phone and the other person had said ‘Are you the homeowner?’

‘I just wanted to say what an incredible swimmer she is. I saw her in the trials at the weekend. Amazing butterfly. And such a lovely girl, so polite whenever I see her.’

I made my brain override the ‘You are actually kidding, aren’t you?’ that was sitting so far forward on the tip of my tongue that I must have looked like a snake trying to make sense of my surroundings.

‘Thank you’ wheezed out of me. Obviously, I didn’t sound interested enough, as a whisper of offence passed over the woman’s face. I got a grip and said, ‘Yes, I’m really looking forward to seeing her swim.’

‘She’s qualified for the regionals, so perhaps we’ll see you there,’ the woman said, before giving me a little wave goodbye as Sam scuffed up and thrust a huge rucksack at me. Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if the next generation turned out to be shorter than their parents, the sheer weight of books on their back stunting their growth. But I knew better than to mention the word ‘locker’ and send laughter reverberating around the playground.

We walked home with Sam nattering on about Massimo and how cool he was. ‘Did you know he did the accounts for one of the big football clubs in the north? He can’t say which one, but he knows all the players. Anyway… can we go round tonight and sort out my birthday party with him?’