The Silent Wife(79)
I called Sandro over, feeling nervous he wasn’t within grabbing distance of my sun lounger. ‘Are you all right, lovey? What are you drawing?’
‘That’s the nurse who looked after me. And that’s me with water coming out of my mouth.’
I wondered what his teacher would make of the ‘show and tell’ on the first day back at school: ‘This is a picture of me in hospital after I nearly drowned.’
Time to move on. ‘Would you like to learn how to draw a flower? I think you’d be brilliant at it. Come on, let’s go and find a good one for you.’
After instructing Nico to keep his eye on the other two kids even though Francesca was a better swimmer than any of us, I took Sandro’s hand and walked around the side of the castle where I’d spotted some large rose bushes. The simplicity of their flowers would be perfect. I looked up at the sky, a proper postcard blue, and thought how lucky we were that we could simply enjoy the day, fiddle about choosing a flower to draw rather than be making plans to transport a body back to England.
As we came round the corner I heard a noise, perhaps a voice. I scanned the formal gardens for any signs of life, but could only see a few stone busts and a small fountain. I pointed towards the rose bush – ‘Look, they’re the flowers I think you could draw.’
Then out of the corner of my eye, tucked inside the little summer house Beryl had called ‘that bus shelter thing’ and received a proper dirty look from Anna, I saw Lara and Massimo. He was leaning towards her, holding both her hands, everything about him intense and focused, almost as though he was trying to convince her of something. That she wasn’t to blame? That he wasn’t? She was tucking her hair behind her ears, looking at the floor. Then Massimo pulled her into a kiss, not a little peck, but a full-on snog. I didn’t wait to see any more in case Massimo had a bit of al fresco nooky planned for the afternoon.
I hurried Sandro to the other side of the garden, exclaiming that the roses looked a bit past it and perhaps a cactus would be better.
As Sandro and I inspected the plants for one with simple leaves, I wished that Nico would find little corners for us to get naughty in. Outside of the bedroom it already felt like a triumph if he held my hand. Francesca still looked as though she’d found a rancid green loaf in the bread bin if she ever caught us cuddling, which just about killed off any spontaneous touching.
And made me feel strangely envious of Lara and Massimo’s little rendezvous in the summer house.
37
LARA
If it were possible, Sandro nearly drowning had rocked Massimo more than me. We’d clung to each other that evening, too shocked to persist in our opposing positions in our marriage, the whole Caitlin affair paling into insignificance compared with almost losing our son. My body craved the comfort of the only other person in the world who shared the same visceral love for Sandro, however imperfectly he displayed it. We fell asleep, wrung out, sandwiched against each other, unified in our relief, our rejoicing that fate hadn’t chosen us to punish. Every time I moved, Massimo startled himself awake, pulling me close again.
The following morning we’d made love, passionate but gentle, a delicate exchange of emotion, a liberation from fear, a wordless preamble to a conversation we weren’t yet ready for. I didn’t ask myself any questions, I just gave into channelling all that energy, that adrenaline, into a physical release without worrying about what tomorrow would look like. Massimo was tender in a way that he hadn’t been in such a long time, I could no longer recall whether he ever was.
Afterwards I wanted to freeze time, to keep us locked in that moment when nothing jagged, spiteful or unexpected would hurt me again.
But far too soon the last few calm days passed and it was the roll call for Anna’s traditional family photo before we drove back to the airport. Massimo’s arm was tight around my shoulder as though I was a treasure to protect. In turn, the mere thought that it could all have been so different made me squeeze Sandro’s hand until he squirmed free. I chased away the idea that instead of the current rabble Anna was attempting to herd into her viewfinder, we could have been gathering together a procession of devastated relatives preparing to face a painful journey home, one child short. The familiarity of Anna bossing everyone around soothed and comforted me.
‘In! In! Nico, you’re blocking Lara. Sam – out of the way of Sandro. Francesca, just pull your skirt down, I do want to be able to show my friends at least one photo of the whole family.’
I had to smile when Maggie defended her. ‘Come on, Anna, she’s got a lovely figure. Wouldn’t look good on me, I grant you, but it is the fashion.’ I expected Francesca to show some sign of gratitude but her face didn’t flicker. Poor Maggie really did need the patience of a saint for that particular dynamic.
When Anna was satisfied she had a photograph to rival the very best of the ‘Look at us with our sunset/cocktail/bikini bodies/perfect children with their violins and sporting cups’ photos on Facebook, we all scattered for a last-minute sweep of the garden area for rogue sunglasses and flip-flops. Although I went through the motions, I was more worried about how close Sandro got to the pool than leaving a half-used bottle of factor fifty behind.
Massimo walked with me. ‘So, Mrs Farinelli? Are you prepared to give me another chance?’