The Silent Wife(85)

I left Lara to settle Robert and went off to fetch Mum. By the time I got back, Sandro was teaching Lupo to give a paw to Robert, who seemed to like the feel of Lupo’s coat and kept stroking him. There was a reason old people with dogs lived longer. I was delighted to see Sandro taking charge of Lupo, so far removed from that little boy who’d been cowering in the treehouse. Lara was taking a video, her whole face lit with cheery anticipation as though she’d walked onto a sunny beach on the first day of a fortnight’s holiday.

Mum was thrilled to be involved, fussing around Robert, singing little tunes she knew from the sixties and encouraging him to join in. I could see his mind working like a jukebox, spinning round, often failing to grab the right disc, but sometimes coming up with the goods. The atmosphere reminded me of a street party, with Mum swaying her hips and Robert croaking out ‘Hello, Dolly!’ A bit of Union Jack bunting and some Victoria sponge and we’d be good to go.

I was just getting into the swing of it, when Nico came round, his face taut with tension.

‘They’ve discovered a break-in at one of the storage facilities for the garden centre. I need to talk to the police and give them a rundown on what’s missing.’

‘What about Francesca’s regional finals?’

‘She’ll be devastated if she misses them, but I’m not going to be finished with the police in time. Such a bugger that Massimo’s away.’

‘Do you want me to take her?’

His face shifted between relief and that little giveaway flick of ‘How am I going to sell this to Francesca?’ I was a bit tired of the do-si-do ‘three steps to the right!’ dances we were still having to do just to keep Francesca on an even keel.

I wasn’t busting to spend my Saturday driving to Portsmouth with someone pouting away next to me, so I said, ‘She’s got two choices. Either she goes with me or she’ll have to miss them.’

Nico nodded. ‘I’ll go and tell her.’ He kissed me. ‘Thank you.’

I said goodbye, resentfully readjusting my expectation of a fun day with everyone else in favour of dusting down my dutiful stepmother/chauffeur cap.

Nico had obviously read the riot act because Francesca did have the good grace to thank me when I got home. It was pathetic how little watering I needed. ‘Shall I make you some eggs to give you a bit of energy?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’ve had some Nutella.’

I raised my eyebrows at Nico, telepathically transmitting my ‘That won’t keep her going beyond the first five strokes’, but he shrugged and said, ‘Take a banana with you.’ I knew there was no point in trying to reason with her.

I asked Sam if he wanted to come with us, in the vain hope he might fancy a two-hour round trip to Portsmouth but he laughed and said, ‘Why would I want to do that? I’d rather stay here with Nan.’

When we got into the car, it was a bit like being on a first date with someone who’d already decided you were too fat, too ugly or too boring, but had made the mistake of signing up to a seven-course meal.

I made an effort anyway. ‘Do you want to tune the radio into a station you like?’

I swear she’d never listened to heavy metal in her life. But there we sat, in radio purgatory until we passed the A3 when the signal got so poor I just tuned into Radio Two. In between times, I asked her questions, questions I already knew the answers to, valiantly trying to create the illusion there was a fragment of a relationship there, she had some connection to me, something we could build on.

‘Are you nervous?’

‘Not really.’

‘Which is your favourite race?’

‘Crawl.’

‘Isn’t that the stroke Uncle Massimo won the Regional Championship with?’

‘Yep. But that was in, like, 1986.’

Then the radio would fill the silence and I’d remind myself not to sing. Francesca never felt any need to fill the quiet enveloping the car. I wondered if it was because she didn’t think I had anything worth saying. Or because she didn’t know what to ask me. Or whether I was so far down on her list of things to think about, it simply didn’t occur to her to waste five seconds on making me feel comfortable.

Just before we got out of the car, I said, ‘Will you know many people there?’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, as though I was trying to catch her out.

‘Other competitors, their parents, coaches, supporters?’

‘There’ll probably be a few people I know from the county championships. Why?’

‘I just wondered how you wanted me to introduce myself? As a friend? Your dad’s wife? Your stepmother?’ There was a pause. I tried to make a joke. ‘Perhaps stepmother sounds a bit “Come on, dearie, have a nice bite of the apple”.’

Francesca looked at me as though she thought I might try and hold her hand or kiss her goodbye. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Anyway, I’ve got to go and get changed.’ And she scooted off, leaving me trailing behind.

The trouble was, I didn’t know either. Despite my best intentions, Nico and Francesca were falling onto one side of the Farinelli fence, with Sam happy in either camp and me left isolated on my own.

I followed the crowds and settled myself into the viewing gallery. Everywhere I looked there were parents with clipboards and stopwatches. Nothing about them said, ‘Just thought I’d pop along and see how little Johnny is getting on with his breaststroke.’ The heat was stifling. By the time Francesca came out, my back was prickling with sweat. But as soon as she started to line up, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her face was so determined, filled with that same concentration I saw on Nico when he was assessing which particular element of the garden wasn’t working. The same look Massimo had when he was trying to teach Sandro to throw a rugby ball.