The Silent Wife(10)

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.’

Massimo scooped him up and hugged him to his chest, patting his back. ‘Don’t worry. It’s normal to feel upset when someone – or something – you love dies. If she doesn’t turn up, we’ll get you another pet.’

Sandro had managed a tiny smile, grateful for Massimo’s kindness. Even in my distress, I’d experienced a little burst of pleasure that Massimo didn’t rush to tell him to stop crying and man up, and just allowed him to express his feelings without being told how to manage them. One word of understanding from Massimo, the faintest fatherly compliment, the smallest paternal hint of approval trumped any amount of ego-bolstering praise from me. I forced myself to be delighted we’d reached a turning point where Sandro had matured enough to become interesting to his dad, rather than just a demanding child who diverted my attention from Massimo.

Yet again my naivety was astounding.





5





MAGGIE




After Anna getting all Godfatherish over my moving suggestion, I waved a white flag and left it to Nico to break the news to Anna that we’d be holding the lunch at ours on the anniversary of Caitlin’s death. With an admirable ‘stick it in your pipe and smoke it’ attitude, he’d declared, ‘Oh for God’s sake. Mum is so irrational sometimes. If we decide moving is right for our family, she’ll just have to get over it. And if she doesn’t want to come here for lunch on Saturday, then she’ll have to eat a boiled egg on her own. It’s bad enough trying to win Francesca round. I’m not pandering to Mum as well. And you mustn’t either.’

The anniversary that didn’t need to be ringed on the calendar, the twentieth of February, arrived, bitterly cold and overcast. Yet again, I felt apologetic for my very existence, a living, breathing reminder of all that Francesca had lost, without yet persuading her that I could add any value. Although Francesca had inherited Nico’s golden skin and dark hair, she was every bit Caitlin’s daughter, with her angular features and waif-like build. She’d definitely be on my mum’s ‘needs feeding up a bit’ radar. I offered to make her scrambled eggs.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You’ll need something substantial inside you to keep you warm. It’s going to be cold at the cemetery.’

‘I know it’s cold at the cemetery,’ she said, stuffing a handful of Quavers into her mouth.

Nico glanced at me, asking for my understanding. I left them to it. Today wasn’t a day to win any wars. My heart ached for Francesca, with her wan face and restless fingers, picking away at her cuticles until they were sore and bleeding.