The Silent Wife(62)
But just as I was relaxing into that tiny moment of connection with Nico, a little papering over the frightening amount of cracks that had crackle-glazed our marriage within a short space of time, we were interrupted. This time it was Massimo.
‘So Maggie, how’s the Italian experience so far? Living up to expectations? Let me show you the view from the ramparts, bring your mum.’
I looked at Nico, who nodded and said, ‘Go on. I’ll get Francesca to help me unload the car.’
I hesitated. ‘Are you sure?’ I wasn’t used to someone else doing all the donkey work. He waved me off, laughing.
Mum was busy deadheading the geraniums in one of the urns.
Massimo put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Now, now, Beryl, this is a holiday for you. They have gardeners to do that, so I want to see you with your feet up and enjoying the sunshine. Come on, let’s go and see the views.’
I felt a rush of gratitude that Massimo was including her. Anna had sat at the airport making barbed comments such as ‘Of course, we’ve all been backwards and forwards on planes forever. I simply can’t understand people who have no interest in travel. So parochial.’
I hated her for banging on about how ‘parochial’ we were. I tried to get my own back on her, adopting an evangelical concern for the environment, pointing out that air miles weren’t something to boast about, that plane exhaust fumes kill more than ten thousand people a year.
But Mum handled her brilliantly. She laughed and sucked noisily at the straw in her milkshake. ‘You can be interested all you like, but if you haven’t got the cash for it, then it’s not going to happen. We’d all like to be swanning about, hopping on this and that plane, and I wouldn’t say no to a bit of a cruise round the Mediterranean, but the reality is, I wouldn’t be here now if Nico hadn’t been so lovely and taken pity on his old mother-in-law.’
Anna had folded her face in but I’d be keeping an eye on her in case she hadn’t made the switch in her mind from Beryl, the carer/cleaner/general dogsbody, to Beryl, part of her extended family and holiday guest.
Other than Anna, all the other Farinellis had been very generous about the addition to their holiday. I’d got myself in such a state about telling Nico I’d invited Mum to Italy, fully prepared for a hands up in horror scenario, leading to an awkward withdrawal of the ill-advised invitation. Instead he’d just hugged me and said, ‘Maggie, of course she’s welcome. I hope she won’t mind sharing with Sam.’ I’d blathered on about paying for her flight and cost of accommodation and probably her share of the loo paper and hand soap as well. He’d just put a finger on my lips and said, ‘Sshh. It’s fine. Sam loves her and it will be nice for Sandro as well.’
I had to stop worrying so much. I’d never had a relationship longer than a year before I met Nico. My tough times with a bloke had tended to be less ‘We’ll work through this’ and more ‘Suit yourself, you know where the door is’. I turned my attention back to Massimo, who was still instructing Mum on how to have a proper holiday.
Mum wiped the sweat off her top lip. ‘Hot, isn’t it? Shan’t know what to do with myself. Not very good at putting my feet up, but I’ll give it a go.’
‘Where’s Lara? Will she want to see the view?’ I didn’t want to put up any black marks by taking over her husband at the wrong time.
Massimo waved the suggestion away, leading us through into a sunny courtyard, with faded frescoes and elaborate arches. ‘She’s seen it all before. She likes to unpack and get settled in. We’ll all come up later, but I just wanted to give my favourite new guests a little preview.’
Mum nudged him. ‘Right old smooth talker you are, Massimo.’
‘I do my best, Beryl, I do my best.’
Massimo called Sam over with a proper fingers-in-the-mouth, builder-up-a-scaffold wolf-whistle. I hoped some of Massimo’s exuberance would rub off on Nico this holiday. I wanted to recapture that sweet spot from about a year ago when Nico’s grief had dissipated enough to stop feeling guilty about falling in love with me but he wasn’t yet worn down by the realities of blending two different families.
Massimo stood back to let us go ahead up a narrow set of stairs.
Sam scampered up with the boundless energy of an eleven-year-old. Mum hauled herself up by the banister. ‘Jeepers. These steps aren’t made for old fatties like me with buggered knees.’
‘Would you like a push, Beryl?’ Massimo asked, managing to sound both cheeky and helpful.
‘Get away with you!’ Mum was giggling in between wheezes.
My worries about the holiday began to dissolve. I never used to be so pessimistic but I hadn’t had so much to lose before. A few steps up, I turned round to smile at Massimo, who was standing silhouetted at the bottom in the sunlight, so stereotypically Italian handsome, with his linen jacket slung over his shoulder. Yet again I wondered how Lara – who never seemed to relax completely – coexisted with a man who breezed through life, always looking for the fun and adventure. I told myself off. Better than anyone, I knew outsiders only saw a fraction of what a marriage was really like.
Massimo squeezed past us, pulling back a wrought-iron bolt and turning a key so huge it looked as though it should be hanging from the belt of a town crier. We burst out into bright sunshine, the sort that scorched your hair and made you want to shield your eyes in an exaggerated film star fashion. Down below us, fields shimmering with sunflowers, a frothy yellow sea, stretched for miles.