The Silent Wife(8)

I’d inherited Misty when my dad had gone into a nursing home three years earlier. Every time I looked at her, I saw Dad as he was when I lived at home, his fingers stroking her back while he watched Question Time or listened to The Archers. Not the confused man who struggled with buttons and whose face paused in concentration before breaking into a smile when I walked into the residents’ lounge.

Since she’d come to live with us, Misty had resolutely ignored Massimo’s efforts to lure her in with little treats of tuna, fondling her ears, shaking stuffed mice on sticks. On the other hand, she snuggled up to Sandro as though his lap had been tailor-made for her grey bottom. Initially, Massimo joked about it. ‘That cat doesn’t know when it’s well off. Ungrateful moggy. Who does she think keeps her in chicken liver? Good job my wife appreciates me.’

I’d laugh and tease him that Misty was the only woman who didn’t think he was wonderful. He’d throw down the gauntlet, promising she’d love him more than me once he’d subjected her to his irresistible charms.

Every few months or so, he’d take up the challenge, unable to believe that there was a single living thing impervious to the force of nature that was Massimo Farinelli. But Misty greeted every bout of mackerel-waving, wool-whirling, ‘puss, puss, puss’ enticements with disdainful stares, before stalking off to hop onto Sandro’s knee.

Sandro even tried to encourage Misty over to Massimo, tempting her with little bits of chicken. She’d perch on Massimo’s knee for about five seconds while she gobbled down her treat and then, with a dismissive flick of her tail, she’d be off, leaving Massimo half-laughing, half-cursing, with Sandro secretly pleased there was one thing he could do better than his father.

Now, four weeks after she’d disappeared, I still lay in bed every night, thinking I’d heard the telltale tinkle of her bell through the cat flap or a plaintive cry on the garage roof. I’d tiptoe down to check but find no sign of her. When I slid back into bed, Massimo would stretch out his hand to squeeze mine, pulling me to his chest while I sobbed. I couldn’t give up on her: just today Sandro and I had done another round of our neighbourhood, pinning up little pictures of her staring into the camera with her gorgeous amber eyes, urging people to search their sheds and garages.

Somehow her disappearance brought all my grief about my dad slowly losing his memory frothing up into a frenzy of feelings I found it hard to control. Every drawing pin I pushed into a gatepost, every poster I blu-tacked into a shop window made me feel as though I was trying to recover myself, not just the cat. It was like offering a reward for the woman I was ten years ago, before Massimo wooed me with his Victorian home, his senior position at work, his desire for children. Back then, as a twenty-five-year-old, living at home in the 1930s semi I shared with Dad, Massimo had offered me a vision of belonging to a new tribe. A family that held impromptu barbecues, popped champagne for the smallest celebration, always had enough in the pot for one more. Nothing like our home with its net curtains, butter knife and Tupperware, my whole outlook constrained by my dad’s well-meaning advice: ‘Don’t take on too much.’

And part of Massimo’s charm had been his insistence that ‘You’re the only woman in the world I want to make babies with.’

How flattering, how straightforward it had all sounded.

I hadn’t realised that Massimo wanted a specific type of child: robust, sporty and confident, a mirror image of his tastes, his abilities, his intellect. Not, apparently, a son like Sandro – thoughtful and artistic – whose very presence seemed to irritate rather than enchant Massimo.

But now, Misty’s disappearance had presented us with an unlikely silver lining. Massimo had become much kinder to Sandro, as though he’d finally started to get the measure of our sensitive little boy. It had been several weeks since Massimo had raised his voice over an errant sweet paper on the sofa or a stray sock on the stairs. Tentative seeds of hope gathered; perhaps Sandro’s devastation had reminded Massimo how much he loved him.

And contrarily, I had to fight not to feel excluded as they sat down to build Lego sets together, jaunted off to the cinema or went out for ice cream ‘to take his mind off it’. Massimo never invited me along. Instead he winked and said, ‘What Sandro needs is a bit of Dad time.’

I’d watch them walking down the street, Sandro’s slight frame next to Massimo’s muscly bulk, so different in build, gait and colouring. Except Sandro, for once, was walking tall, as though this unexpected attention from Massimo was feeding into his confidence in a way I couldn’t. Instead of making himself scarce when Massimo came home, Sandro was seeking him out to suggest films he wanted to see, to mention when he’d done well at school, without looking over to me and saying, ‘You tell Dad.’

And Massimo was the only one who could talk to Sandro about Misty without him becoming hysterical. I tried to avoid the subject in case I started crying myself. The last time Sandro mentioned the cat, Massimo smoothed Sandro’s hair back from his face and said, ‘Listen, son, cats can be funny creatures. Sometimes they just go off for a bit, then come back. And sometimes, even though their own families really love them, they find another family they’d rather live with. And you’ve got to keep in mind that Misty is eleven. She’s had a lovely life. It might be that she’s gone to sleep somewhere and not woken up again.’

Sandro’s lip wobbled. ‘Misty will turn up. She wouldn’t go and live with another family. Even if someone else starts feeding her, she’d miss us too much. Eleven isn’t really that old anyway. There wasn’t anything wrong with her.’