The Silent Wife(70)
Nico stepped in. ‘So Lara, before the dreaded opera, where should we take Maggie in San Gimignano?’
‘The squares.’
Nico waited for her to elaborate after she’d taken another slug of Prosecco but silence gathered around us again. I pushed back the disloyal thought that I wondered if I’d have had a bit more fun at family gatherings if Massimo was still married to Dawn. From the way Anna snorted if anyone was brave enough to mention her name, I’d gathered she was pretty feisty and more than a challenge for Anna’s dictatorship. We could have formed a great little expats’ army, sniper sisters covering each other’s arses and gunning down Anna’s pomposity.
I tried to help out Nico’s valiant efforts at ‘the loosening up of Lara’ by asking loads of questions about San Gimignano but had to stop before I got the giggles at her monosyllabic answers.
Thankfully, Mum came wheezing down the stairs looking like a tie-dye target, with a red central circle blurring out into turquoise, bright pink and yellow. We could take up holiday archery.
Nico caught my eye. ‘Glass of bubbles, Beryl?’
‘Oh lovely, don’t mind if I do, thanks.’
She leant over to Lara.
‘You all right, lovey? What’s with Massimo this morning? I haven’t ever seen him like that,’ Mum said, tiptoeing around tricky subjects as usual.
‘He’s fine now.’
I watched Lara with admiration. Before I died, I would master the technique of not expanding on my thoughts just because the other person had their eyebrows raised in expectation.
Mum squinted at Lara through sunglasses that made her look like a podgy John Lennon. ‘There’s a reason I never bothered with a husband. Didn’t want anyone telling me what I thought and what was right for me and Mags. To my mind, it can’t be right to get a child half-frightened out of his wits, practically drownded, then call it teaching him to swim.’
Nico rolled his eyes and reached for my hand. ‘Bloody hell, Beryl, not all husbands are the devil’s spawn. Don’t put Maggie off me with your scaremongering.’
Mum batted him away. ‘Get off with you. You’re not so bad as a son-in-law.’
Nico laughed. ‘Thank God for that. Massimo’s all right as well. He just gets frustrated because he’s sporty himself and he finds it hard to accept the rest of us mere mortals struggle. But we’ll get you swimming like a dolphin by the end of the holiday, won’t we, Sandro?’
Mum harrumphed. ‘Leave the poor kid alone. You’ll do it when you’re good and ready, won’t you, lovey? But can you imagine your dad’s face if you learn and surprise him at the end of the holiday? Then you could duck him under until he’s spluttering and get your own back.’
God knows what un-PC view on life Sandro would have after a fortnight with Mum.
Just then Massimo swept in, an expansive whirl of kisses, handshakes and hugs. He dropped a kiss onto Lara’s head with a ‘Hello gorgeous one. This is where you disappeared to. I was worried you’d run off with the gardener, leaving me lonely and broken-hearted.’
I guessed that was Massimo’s way of apologising publicly. I admired his ability to articulate his feelings in front of everyone, even if he covered them in a veneer of humour. Yet again I found myself making a comparison between the two brothers. I wished Nico was a bit more out there. A bit of broadcasting about how the only way we’d split up would be when one of us was carried out in a wooden box might help Anna stop seeing me as an optional extra, like, say, a sun roof or sat nav.
Lara almost ignored him. In fact, her fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass and she became engrossed in Sandro’s drawing. She’d obviously decided she wasn’t going to let him off that easily. I wanted her to forgive him. Say her piece, have a blow-up and then move on. That whole mooching about with a long face, an undercurrent of unresolved anger tightening the tension round the table, just spoilt the evening for everyone else.
But Massimo barely seemed to notice, turning his attention to us.
‘See you’ve got started on the Prosecco, salute. Mum’s making enough pasta to keep the whole of Tuscany going for a month.’
He leaned over to see what Sandro was drawing. Sandro flicked his sketchbook shut.
Massimo said, ‘Let me have a look, buddy.’
Sandro glanced at Lara, who nodded and said, ‘He’s been drawing the castle.’
Massimo lifted up the book and started leafing through the pages. Sandro tensed, as though an invisible drawstring was pulling his features taut. He was biting his lip, desire for approval blaring out of his eyes. He was his mother’s son, all right, approaching life as though it was something to endure rather than embrace.
Massimo was doing that logical bloke thing of assessing the drawing rather than looking down at Sandro’s eager little face and realising that he had a chance to even the stakes a bit, shift the glittering halo of glory away from Francesca with her county freestyle medals and make up for his misjudged ‘swimming lesson’ this morning. I wanted to thump the table until the olives jumped out of the ceramic bowls. Never mind Anna running round to their house with ‘research’ she’d cut out of the newspaper about how bicycles harbour more bacteria than a toilet seat and giving Lara yet another thing to worry about, they could all benefit from the Dorky Guide to Establishing A Tiny Smidge of Self-Esteem.