The Silent Wife(56)

A few parents lingered, sipping the wine Massimo pressed on them despite the ‘just a drop, I’ve got to drive’ protests. A handful of mothers remained, giggling at his stories, openly envious that I had a husband who got involved in children’s parties, let alone one who did all the shopping and preparing of games. ‘You’ll have to rent yourself out as a children’s entertainer.’ ‘When you see Tony, you tell him that he’s in charge of Louis’s eleventh birthday party. You won’t see him for dust!’

One mother bent down to Sandro. ‘Aren’t you lucky to have such an amazing dad?’

Sandro shrank away from the gaze of the little crowd in the kitchen and didn’t answer. After a few moments, he sidled out of the kitchen unnoticed. My heart sank. There’d be a price to pay for being too shy to speak and ‘making everyone think you’ve got the worst dad in the world!’

I busied myself sweeping up, while Massimo stood in the kitchen like a ringmaster, saying, ‘Excuse Lara tidying up, she’s a bit OCD. She can’t bear it when everywhere’s a mess. Come and sit down and have a glass of champers, darling. You’ve worked so hard today, done a fantastic job. I’ll help you clear up later.’ He patted the bar stool next to him.

There was a collective gasp of admiration as Massimo made a fuss about opening some more bubbles, rambling on about vintages and only the best for ‘my wonderful wife’. Massimo was holding court, calling the women by their names, singling out their children for ‘brilliant ball control’.

I looked at the faces turned rapt towards him. Which of these women with their diamond stud earrings and waxed eyebrows would believe he’d deliberately set out to injure his own brother?

I’d been washing my hands at the sink, tension tightening in my stomach when the chant of ‘loser’ started up. Massimo was the competitive firstborn. He wouldn’t lose to Sandro at a game of Snakes and Ladders, let alone to Nico in a football game. And certainly not with a crowd to witness the less sporty brother trouncing the mighty Massimo. I’d watched his face growing tighter, the pursing of the lips, the vigour with which he’d punched away the footballs, the fury every time he wobbled off the beam. When I saw him spring off and barge into Nico, I didn’t even register shock. Just resignation that events had unfolded as I’d expected. And as soon as Nico had staggered next door and the kids were all hero-worshipping Massimo, he was his jovial self in the spotlight again.

The giggling women finally simpered out with their offspring. My relief was tempered with the knowledge that the real drama was about to begin. The moment Massimo had stopped waving from the front door, he said, ‘Stop sulking.’

I tried to head him off. ‘I’m not sulking, I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.’

‘I can see it in your face. You blame me for what happened to Nico. It was an accident. So typical of you to think I did it on purpose, you always look for the worst in everyone.’

I knew not to contradict him directly. I carried on throwing paper plates and napkins into the bin. ‘We should probably pop next door and check that he’s all right.’

‘Off you go then. I’ll stay here and get Sandro ready for bed. I feel bad enough about what happened without all of you crowding round to point the finger.’

Yes, so absolutely gutted that he’d been laughing and joking for the last two hours with the little harem from school. He was waiting for me to do what I always did and spend the evening trying to defrost him. ‘Cup of tea?’, ‘Here’s the paper’, ‘You choose what you want to watch,’ until he’d reward me with a comment that wasn’t barked out or grunted.

But, for today, I’d run out of placating. And tomorrow, I’d not only go out with Maggie driving, I’d book my test.





28





Maggie




The morning after the party, just swinging my legs out of bed when the alarm went off felt like I’d exhausted my energy reserves for the day. It was incredible that before I’d married Nico, I never worried a jot about how late I went to bed, more afraid of missing out on an extra laugh with my mates or an outrageous antic that would be recounted for weeks than feeling a bit knackered the next day. Now though, I’d fallen into Nico’s rhythm of going to bed by ten-thirty. But the night before, we’d snuggled up watching films until late to make sure Nico wasn’t concussed. It was hard to believe that a post-midnight bedtime had left me quite so done in. I could only put it down to the exertion of dealing with the Farinellis en masse, with all their outright trickiness, not to mention their hidden undercurrents.

So once I’d sent the kids off to school and tried and failed to persuade Nico to stay at home to rest, I was hoping to have a quiet morning in the attic to finish off the final garments before we left for holiday.

But Anna had other ideas. She let herself in, then stood shouting in the hallway, ‘Helloooo? Anyone home?’

I’d been tempted to pull up the hatch to the workshop and hide up there with the suit jacket I was struggling to get right but in the end, I made my way down the steps. I wished I hadn’t bothered. Anna launched into telling me off for ‘letting Nico go to work’.

‘But Anna, how am I going to stop a forty-year-old man driving off in his car if that’s what he decides to do? He probably should have had a day at home but you know what he’s like about work. He was a bit sore, but he did seem all right.’