The Silent Wife(50)

Massimo wrenched me away. ‘It’s bedtime, Sandro.’

His chin would lift. ‘No bedtime, Daddy.’ And Sandro would wriggle out of the little dinosaur duvet, ready to clamber out of bed and into my arms.

And I’d try: ‘Let me just settle him down and then I’ll come downstairs.’

But Massimo would wrestle him back in, Sandro becoming more and more hysterical, with Massimo bellowing over him, trying to silence him with the sheer volume of his voice. Massimo would hustle me out of the room to a growing crescendo of screaming, slam the door shut and stand in front of it. ‘Go downstairs.’

If I tried to argue, pleading to go back in and calm Sandro down, Massimo would threaten to go in and smack him. ‘I’ll shut that boy up. I’ll show him who’s in charge.’

I’d watch the door handle rattling up and down from the inside while Massimo held it closed, every tiny piece of me yearning to rush in and tell him he was safe, that he didn’t need to be afraid, that Mummy was just outside the door. Eventually I’d stand in the kitchen humming to myself to mask the screaming, but not so loud that I wouldn’t hear Massimo going into Sandro’s bedroom. Massimo had never smacked Sandro but there was always that tenseness about him, as though he was holding himself back, a looming threat that might one day break loose.

Every night was the same. I’d start getting stressed about bedtime just after breakfast. But after two weeks, Massimo declared himself triumphant, cock-a-hoop about fuss-free bedtimes, crowing about Sandro just needing ‘a firm hand’.

I didn’t tell him that Sandro had started wetting the bed at night again after a good two months’ dry. That, I would handle myself. Quietly.

But just because Massimo had had an authoritarian take on bedtimes, it didn’t mean that he was a philanderer. I couldn’t remember him going missing for long periods. Instead I recalled how the house seemed to breathe around us when he wasn’t there, when I didn’t have to worry if I was being too soft or ‘not showing Sandro who’s boss’, when I could just enjoy a bit of time with my two-year-old son and follow my instincts instead of filtering them through the great avalanche of Massimo’s expectations.

But surely I would have noticed him having an affair. Wouldn’t I? Maybe I was so relieved to have a break from monitoring Sandro’s behaviour for Massimo’s approval that he never seemed gone long enough.

I put my teacup in the sink and got out my window cleaning stuff. Some women sang and danced to cheer themselves up, I cleaned windows. I found solace in removing dirt, fingerprints, everything that went before, leaving a sparkling view onto the world outside and the crisp smell of the recently polished.

I started in the guest bedroom. It was amazing that the windows got dirty in here, given that the last time anyone had stayed in it was Dad a few years ago, before he moved into the home. As I sprayed the window, busy with my duster, I stared over to Nico and Maggie’s house, admiring the clematis around their bedroom window. Nico really did have green fingers.

I scrubbed away at the corners of the window, my mind picking away at the possibility of Massimo having an affair with Caitlin. Massimo wouldn’t do that to his brother. He always looked out for Nico. A far more likely explanation was that Massimo had mentioned the present to me at the time and I hadn’t remembered. Back then, he was always telling me that it was high time I got over my ‘pregnancy brain’ and stopped forgetting things.

I tutted at my own stupidity. No wonder Massimo got frustrated with me: I was probably doing what I always did, getting over-anxious about everything, too quick to believe the worst. But after years of Dad saying, ‘Fear keeps you safe, darling, because, as we know, the worst can happen,’ it was a hard habit to break.

I’d have to take a lesson from Maggie. She always expected the best of everyone and laughed at people who let her down.

Today, at the age of thirty-five and a half I was going to make my own joy. I’d start with inviting Dad over for a day, maybe even to stay the night once we’d seen how he coped. I’d love to have him sleep in this bedroom again. It would take a bit of organisation, but with Beryl’s help, I was sure we could look after him. If I planned it when Massimo was away for work, then he couldn’t really object. In his own way, Massimo did want the best for Dad, he just found the reality of the nose blowing and toileting accidents a bit distasteful. Still, there weren’t many men who’d be prepared to shell out a fortune for someone they’d inherited through marriage. When the right moment presented itself though, I’d explore other options for Dad’s care. Somewhere closer, that maybe didn’t cost as much. Dad didn’t need fresh lilies in the hallway, he needed his family around him.

I finished off with a jaunty sweep of the windowsill, delighted to have a plan in place. Window cleaning, Dad to visit, nursing homes to investigate, driving lessons, banishing the ridiculous notion that my husband had had an affair with my sister-in-law… Lara ‘seize the day’ Farinelli.

I trotted off downstairs just as Massimo was coming in through the door. On a wave of newfound confidence, I threw my arms around him and kissed him.

‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ He pulled me close, his hands caressing my back. ‘Where’s Sandro?’ he whispered.

‘He’s gone over to your mother’s for dinner.’

‘Upstairs with you then, Mrs Farinelli.’