The Silent Wife(69)
I flicked him with my hand. ‘Too bloody right. I hope he’s not upset with me though. It was a bit tricky refusing to hand back his own son.’
Nico pulled a face. ‘I think Massimo’s got enough ego to see him through it. Anyway, let’s have a drink and leave them to sort themselves out.’
I sat myself down at the dining table in the castle courtyard. Nico nipped down to the wine cellar and reappeared with some sparkling Prosecco ‘made from the grapes in the vineyards you saw from the ramparts’.
He handed me a glass and clinked his against mine.
‘Where are the others? I thought we were all meeting at six?’ I said.
‘Relax, bride of mine. We’re on Italian time.’
I reached for his hand. ‘I’m not complaining. I’m very happy to have you to myself.’ I didn’t add, ‘And hoping to be too late for the opera.’
He kissed my head and sat down next to me. ‘And I am very happy to have you here.’ I listened for any reservation in his voice, any leftover residue of suspicion that I was running a sideline in melting down precious metals. I could only hear tenderness. Thank God.
Lara appeared from her room with Sandro in tow. ‘Evening.’ There was something brittle in her voice, as though she’d had to steel herself to face us all. She did have a knack for approaching life as though it was a crossword of fiendish difficulty.
Nico handed her a glass of Prosecco.
I watched her take a huge gulp. I’d barely seen her take a sip of a shandy before. My Parker genes associated good times with wine, and less reliably, vodka. Or wince-makingly, Pernod. But I’d love to do a run of the optics with Lara. See what lay beneath that restrained exterior once the shot glasses were on the table.
Massimo had come back a couple of hours ago. Secretly, I’d hoped the big row might linger on long enough for us to somehow have to stay at the castle that evening. If it was my husband, I’d be thinking up all sorts of revenge involving gardening shears and delicate anatomy for daring to call me hysterical. I wondered if Lara usually stood up to Massimo in private. It was certainly the first time I’d seen her have a go at him in public. However, if we still had to go to the blooming opera, I hoped they’d ironed it all out so we didn’t have to deal with the double hell of a load of people squawking on stage as well as trying to look oblivious to the Massimo and Lara drama off stage.
Massimo had been a right dickhead but Lara could help herself by not taking motherhood quite so seriously. Sandro was a bit shy and awkward but her hovering over him every second of the day must make him feel the whole world was one giant buzzer just waiting to deliver an electric shock. Lara really did obsess over what she ‘should be doing’. We all knew kids needed the odd grape and a few apples to stay healthy, but I was far too lazy for the ‘just three more peas’ shenanigans. And that whole cooking from scratch thing – ‘Massimo wants Sandro to see preparing meals as part of his Italian heritage.’ All very well for him but I didn’t see much evidence of Massimo farting about chopping onions and garlic and slow-simmering sauces. By the time Lara got dinner on the table, Sandro would probably have been happy to share a few dry biscuits with Lupo.
Thank God I didn’t have all that cultural stuff weighing me down. I didn’t rush to announce at the school gates that sometimes Sam just had chips for dinner, but that was mainly to save myself the ‘quinoa or die’ lecture from all the mums who were competing to see which disgusting lentil/chickpea/avocado ice cream concoction they could force down their children.
I topped up her glass. ‘Have you been asleep this afternoon? It’s been so hot, hasn’t it?’
‘Too hot.’
Pause.
‘Are you okay?’ I said in an undertone, just to let her know I was on her side.
She bit her lip and looked away. ‘Yes, fine.’
Clearly I was more like Mum than I thought, failing to see the cue to shut the fuck up even though Lara was busy putting up ‘Don’t go there’ signs as big as billboards. ‘Don’t worry about this morning. You should see some of the ding-dongs Nico and I have, right, Nico?’
He tried to make a joke. ‘Well, you shout and I listen and absorb your wisdom.’
Lara did something funny with her mouth as though she didn’t quite have the muscle tone to form a smile.
I felt a pang of disappointment. Just when I thought Lara was beginning to relax with me, she was back to her closed-off self, tightened like a jar of jam against mould-carrying spores. Couldn’t even admit that she was a bit pissed off. I’d really hoped we’d built a bit of a friendship, two outsiders mounting their own little rebellion, bonding over shared secrets and the dubious joys of integrating into the Farinelli family. But I was beginning to feel duped.
Right now, rather than a newfound warmth between us, she was looking as though she’d pencilled in dates on the calendar to have emotions. Wednesday three-thirty p.m.: small burst of joy when Sandro comes out of school. Thursday ten a.m.: surge of frustration at having to pick up Lego yet again. Saturday eleven p.m.: allow excitement at prospect of intercourse with gorgeous Italian husband. I wondered if she was ever spontaneous with Massimo. I couldn’t imagine her banging the bedroom door shut and jumping on him out of sheer lust and love.
The air in the courtyard became more and more oppressive. She sat at the end of the table, saying things like ‘Let’s hope the weather cools down slightly,’ and ‘The bougainvillea is quite something.’ The sort of ‘take your mind of it’ stuff you might say if you were waiting to go in for a hospital scan, rather than sitting around a table hoovering up olives and wine, with a whole stretch of sunny days ahead. Sandro was drawing, occasionally whispering something to Lara. She’d become animated for a moment then slump back into silence.