The Silent Wife(58)

29





LARA




We were flying to Italy on the first day of August. I’d left it to the last afternoon to pack, sitting on the carpet, scratching at the pile, willing myself to open the door to our walk-in attic and find the suitcases. A single click of a buckle would release a cloud of memories from previous holidays, a rush of na?ve expectations transformed into toxic accusations.

What would definitely get the holiday off to a bad start would be Massimo coming home and discovering that I was nowhere near ready, leading to one of his ‘Have you any idea how hard I work to keep your lazy arse in luxury?’ rants. He’d already flung down Sandro’s passport and said, ‘Don’t get any ideas.’

But now, with my mind scattering like a pack of rabbits hearing gunfire, it was difficult not to. So hard not to wonder what life could be like without Massimo and his moods, as variable as an unreliable thermostat. Instead, just like hundreds of times before, I squashed that train of thought and focused on anticipating every holiday need. I knew any oversight, any forgotten sunblock, hat or adapter would simply be further evidence of my ‘inherent stupidity’.

With a sigh, I forced myself to go into our dusty attic. As soon as I put my hands on those innocuous blue wheelie cases, a film of past holiday horrors flickered through my mind. Mosquitoes feasting on Sandro, which turned out to be my fault for contaminating the Farinelli Italian genes with my English skin. Making excuses to keep my clothes on after Massimo sneered at me in a swimming costume. Anna doing a complete about-turn on the seven o’clock bedtime, insisting on Sandro staying up till midnight – ‘We’re in Italy now’ – then leaving me to deal with the fallout the following day. Massimo losing his temper because Sandro was too shy to ask for a strawberry ice cream in Italian. Caitlin playing Scrabble, her wet hair swept up in a glamorous clasp, her skin a golden brown, while my nose peeled and my hair frizzed. Francesca butterflying up and down the pool as Sandro screamed to get out of the shallow end. Massimo refusing to eat a single forkful of pasta when it was my turn to cook, telling everyone he was feeling off colour, then hissing at me afterwards for my ‘disgusting English slop with no salt’.

Scattered through the memories were little crumbs of affection, tiny grains of approval that I’d clung onto. Massimo lifting my chin, staring into my eyes and pronouncing me, ‘Bellissima’. Pointing out the stars to me under the Tuscan sky. Gently rubbing sun cream into my shoulders, finishing with a flourish and a kiss. Picking some bougainvillea and tucking it behind my ear. But these little pinpricks of happiness were swallowed up, washed away by the unpredictable tides of Massimo’s temper.

I’d just heaved everything out of the attic when Maggie knocked on the door. She wasn’t as smiley as usual, definitely stressed around the edges. I felt a stab of surprise she wasn’t sashaying up to the holiday with nothing more pressing to think about than choosing a tie-dye wrap.

‘Can I come in for a minute?’

I stood back and waved her in, though really I wanted to block her path and crack on with packing before Massimo got home.

Her hair was even wilder than usual and her cotton smock top looked as though she’d fished it out of the bottom of the washing basket. She was twisting one of her curls around her finger, as though she was working up to saying something I might not want to hear. I scanned my mind for occasions when I might have let my guard down. Little truths she’d pieced together while I was chugging along, wondering whether to change into fourth gear. It was so hard not to confide in Maggie, she had a natural warmth, a way of making you feel she understood exactly, without any underlying arrogance that, in my position, she’d have handled it better. Her opinions didn’t drill into every crevice of my insecurities in the hope of finding rich compost to take root in. Unlike the Farinellis who assumed anyone with a different point of view just hadn’t listened to their compelling arguments closely enough.

Maggie’s eyes were flitting over my face, her tongue flicking to the corner of her mouth. I wanted to stop her before she could ask that question. If someone, anyone, asked out loud why I put up with Massimo, why I didn’t leave him, even hinted that they knew he was steadily eroding who I was until all that was left was a bucket of Pavlovian yes/no/sorry responses, I didn’t know whether I could continue to put on a performance of marital harmony and happiness. And if I couldn’t pretend any more, what then? The fallout from that was too horrible to contemplate.

My heart twisted at the thought of us wrestling over Sandro. Massimo would try everything to win. What if I actually had to leave Sandro behind, watching me walk – or drive – away, the only person who could protect him, holding his breath to stop himself crying. I couldn’t let that happen.

I started to pave the way for getting rid of Maggie quickly, before her words came out and forced me to face up to the insanity of my life. ‘I’m still packing, you know how it is, keep thinking of things to put in “just in case”, but if I don’t concentrate and do it in the peace and quiet when the others aren’t here, then I’ll end up forgetting something.’

She nodded. ‘I won’t be a moment, I just wondered if I could ask you something.’

Every bit of me wanted to put my hands over my ears and seal out what she was about to say. But I couldn’t be rude to her, not when she’d been so kind to me. Reluctantly, I let her into the kitchen, acutely aware of how unwelcoming the bare walls and empty surfaces were. Since she’d been married to Nico, she’d transformed Caitlin’s kitchen into somewhere you wanted to linger. Plants, furry cushions and bright ceramic bowls bought by Beryl in junk shops encouraged hidden thoughts to make their way out into the world, a comforting cave where conversation was in danger of bubbling along, unfiltered and unjudged.