The Silent Wife(52)
I half-expected Massimo to burst into a song from The Sound of Music in honour of my saint-like status but he just harrumphed and started issuing instructions.
He sent Mum off to the garage to fetch paper cups, motioned to Lara to put the oven on, then steered me out to the garden to show me all the games he’d set up. I was itching to rush back in and help Lara, but I forgot all about her for a second when I took in what a huge effort Massimo had made. I had to work hard not to burst into tears and fling myself on him. He’d nailed hoops onto the side of the house, filled a dustbin full of footballs, set up an obstacle course with jumps and beams and buckets, with a couple of brand new goal nets at the end. I’d pegged my expectations at a couple of cheapo footballs and a few cones to dribble round.
‘This must have cost a fortune, Massimo. You must let me know what I owe you,’ I said, trying not to look shocked at the huge outlay for one day. He must have spent hundreds of pounds. I started doing quick calculations about how much money I had coming in from sewing in the next few weeks, forcing myself to focus on what a great party Sam would have rather than how long it would take to pay it off.
Massimo laughed. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. He’s a great lad and I just want him to have a brilliant birthday.’
‘Thank you. I don’t know what to say.’
He took both of my wrists and stared straight into my eyes, head on one side. ‘You don’t need to say anything. Sam’s a lucky boy and that brother of mine is a very lucky man.’
It had to be an Italian thing, this whole need to turn up the heat on emotions all the time, to dissect, comment and microscope on the detail of everyone’s relationships. I was beginning to see the appeal of Mum and her horror of public displays of affection. On our estate, men might take off a top of a beer bottle for you, but they wouldn’t get all touchy-feely unless they were planning on relieving you of a different sort of top later on.
We didn’t go without cuddles in our family but neither did we hang off each other like rucksacks. Touching any man who wasn’t my husband made me feel as though I was doing something I shouldn’t.
I waited a second before wriggling free, clocking Lara staring out of the window straight at us as I did so.
25
LARA
It was my own stupid fault. Of course I should have known a few silly little vol-au-vents weren’t going to be enough. Maybe I was losing it like my dad. No wonder Massimo preferred to stand in the garden with Maggie, staring into her eyes rather than prepare burgers with me.
I tried not to let a seed of resentment take root. Maggie hadn’t sought this. Massimo had done his usual trick of showering all his charm on everyone else, with none left over for me. I wished I could turn the clock back to the blissful fourteen months before we got engaged, when he couldn’t bear a cross word between us. When he was working so hard to win my trust, to convince me a man ten years my senior, with money, authority and charisma, really couldn’t live without mousey old me. When the slightest disagreement would provoke a flurry of texts all day, bouquets arriving at my desk to the envy of all the other girls, double-checking that we were ‘all good’, that I hadn’t gone off him. Once I’d agreed to marry him the following year, I noticed little flashes of temper, episodes of rage, which he put down to the stress of organising the wedding: ‘I just want to make everything perfect for you.’ I convinced myself he’d be calmer once I was his wife. But now I knew that ‘calm’ when applied to Massimo only came in the context of ‘before the storm’.
Fortunately, this morning Beryl was distracting everyone with a monologue about some woman who’d tripped into a basket of melons by the door in Aldi, and sent the whole lot rolling off down the hill outside. ‘It was like melon-bowling, people dodging out the way.’ And off she cackled, infecting me with her laughter and even Sandro who’d crept in and was sitting listening on a bar stool. He didn’t seem as shy with Beryl as he did with Anna. And then just as I’d had that thought, like some Medici queen, Anna let herself in. It did irritate me that she used her key even when I was at home. She’d barely put down her handbag before she started complaining.
‘I don’t know why Massimo decided to cause all this extra work. It wasn’t up to you to do a party for Sam. We’ve got enough with the birthdays in our own family.’
I wondered if she could actually see Beryl – Sam’s grandmother – standing there or whether her self-importance blinded her to the presence of other human beings.
I was just about to leap to Sam’s defence when Beryl took on the expression of a cow in a field that had happily been minding its own business before suddenly stalking in the direction of something that’s caught its attention.
She started jabbing a buttery knife in Anna’s direction. ‘Do you know what, love? I’ve got news for you. Sam is your family now, poor kid. So get used to it, get over it and stop floating about like your shit doesn’t stink. You should be encouraging your sons to support each other’s families, not do your best to set them at loggerheads.’
Anna looked as though she had a crisp stuck in her throat, her mouth open, her eyes bulging, but no words coming out. I’d never seen anyone stand up to her before – not properly – and I had to close my own mouth to stop a cheer escaping. I expected her to shout back, but she channelled her inner Maggie Smith, readjusted her gold bangles and said, ‘Beryl, no one champions my sons and their families more than me, but it simply isn’t fair to let outsiders divert energy from their own children. Nico has to concentrate on Francesca and Massimo has quite enough with Sandro.’