The Silent Wife(87)

The woman gasped. ‘Oh my god! Poor Nico and Francesca!’

I hoped I wasn’t going to witness yet another person raising their eyebrows as they looked at me and thought, ‘Christ, he’s gone for a completely different type.’

But before I had to supply any more details, a boy about Francesca’s age walked up to us, his dark hair a tangle of wet curls. Francesca would have called him ‘fit’ for sure.

‘Hi Mum. That’s it. I’ve finished. They’ve cancelled the last few races because the electronic timing system has broken. We can go.’

The woman smiled and said, ‘This is my son, Ben. He swims for the Tyne and Wear under-fourteens.’

I said hello and tried not to stare. I didn’t feel as though I was meeting him for the first time. My brain was ferreting about, searching for where I’d seen him before. There was something so familiar about the way one eyebrow lifted higher than the other when he smiled, the front tooth that just crossed slightly over the other, those huge dark eyes.

‘Does that mean the girls’ under-14 freestyle 50m isn’t happening?’ I asked.

‘Nope. Everyone was packing up to leave down there.’

I was torn between disappointment at not seeing Francesca race again and pleasure that I could spend a bit of time with Lara and her dad before he had to go home.

Ben’s mum opened her handbag and fished out her purse. ‘Do you want to go and get a sandwich from the cafe before we drive home?’ she asked, handing him a fiver.

He took the money. ‘All right. Do you want anything, Mum?’

‘No, I’m fine. I’ll wait for you outside the front.’ She picked up her coat. ‘Nice meeting you. Have a safe journey home.’

I stood up. Some desire to prove I was as classy as Caitlin made me stick out my hand. ‘I’m Maggie, by the way.’

She hesitated, just for a second. ‘I’m Dawn.’





42





MAGGIE




I didn’t manage to get my filter in place in time. Or even rein in my index finger. I pointed straight at her, mouth open, which of course allowed the words, ‘You’re Massimo’s first wife’ to escape.

She nodded. ‘That’s me.’

There was something defensive in her reply, as though she expected me to have an opinion about her already. I recognised her shift in attitude. It was the same one I felt when someone said to me, ‘Ah, you’re Nico’s wife…’ ending the statement with a little gasp of relief that they’d managed to omit ‘new/second/latest’ from the sentence.

I stood there for a moment, my brain like a pinball zinging around the machine, triggering a raft of bonus points. I knew why I thought I recognised Ben. He was the spitting image of Massimo. I pursed my lips together to stop that particular thought blurting out into the air before I’d had time to process it properly. But not before I’d glanced over to where he was walking up the steps to the cafe, the very set of his shoulders, the way his arms swung at his side, a smaller, slighter version of Massimo.

A look of weary resignation passed over her face. ‘He told you I didn’t want children, didn’t he?’

I didn’t want to be disloyal to Massimo with a woman I’d only met for five minutes, even if her natural warmth made me think that in other circumstances we could easily find ourselves comparing how many men we’d been to bed with over a few vodkas and lemonade.

While I stood there trying to field an answer that kept family loyalty intact without telling a fat lie, Dawn’s eyes filled with tears.

She swiped at her face. ‘Sorry. I should never have come over. I couldn’t resist it when I heard Francesca’s name. I’m my own worst enemy. I keep thinking that it can’t get to me any more.’

‘I assume Ben is Massimo’s son?’

Dawn gave a little laugh. ‘Yes, there’s a bit of a family resemblance, isn’t there? Right chip off the old block.’

‘Does he know he has a son?’

The woman’s face twisted into something harsh. ‘Of course he knows. If he’d had his own way, he wouldn’t have one, but he does. Not that he’s ever had anything to do with him.’

‘I thought Massimo was desperate for children,’ I said, thinking back to every conversation I’d had with Lara about how quickly she’d got pregnant after they got married, how much Massimo wanted a second child.

‘Massimo did want children. He insisted on me having a private scan early before we told anyone I was expecting.’

Sam’s dad had handed me a hundred quid in grubby ten-pound notes, saying, ‘Up to you what you do, but I’m not really father material,’ before he disappeared off.

I was just thinking I would have loved someone to be interested enough to pay for an early scan when Dawn said, ‘The scan showed a high probability of a heart problem so he made me swear to keep my pregnancy a secret. He didn’t want a “defective” child, as he put it. I wanted to keep the baby no matter what, but he was furious, insisting that I’d have to have an abortion if the twenty-week scan confirmed the problem.’

I didn’t want to believe her. Massimo – the man who taught Sam new football tricks, who got up early to give Francesca extra swimming training before he went to work – forcing his wife to abort their baby? It was like she was talking about someone else entirely, not the man who waved me in for coffee, who greeted me with extravagant kisses on the cheek, who always asked about my latest tailoring commissions, one of the few people who didn’t treat my sewing business as something I dabbled in when I had a spare moment or two.