I watched Sam go, glancing over at Nico grinning away, a man at peace with the world. These days he’d lost the tense look he used to have, no longer braced for bad news or another problem to resolve.
He leaned over and squeezed my hand, whispering, ‘Grow old with me, the best is yet to come.’
I wasn’t really into fridge magnet romance but since we’d moved into a home we’d chosen together, I’d finally stopped expecting him to realise there was a thinner, prettier, smarter wife hiding round the corner ready to do a better job than me. When I’d suggested my plan for this evening, he’d blown out his cheeks in surprise. ‘Crikey. That will make it a birthday to remember.’
‘Do you think I’m mad?’
He’d laughed, kissed my nose and said, ‘No. I think you’re kind-hearted and brave.’ He paused. ‘And sometimes a little over-optimistic. Which is all part of your wonderful charm.’
And now there was no going back. Despite my belief it would all turn out fine, I was jittering about, counting napkins and straightening forks as though it might make a difference to the outcome.
Although Anna had softened towards all of us in the wake of her perfect son turning out to be a complete shit, she hadn’t quite lost her desire to get the room to skip to her needs and wants. When Sam appeared with the chocolatey tower he’d made with Mum, she threw her hands in the air and said, ‘My goodness. Are you going to eat that before dinner?’
Mum got up to light the candles. She acted as though Anna was a small buzzing noise in the corner of a room that no one could identify. I took the stance of ‘It’s my birthday and it’s cake before carrots if it suits me.’
I nudged Nico. ‘Where’s Francesca?’
He got to his feet. I put out my hand. ‘I’ll go. Just hold the cake pyrotechnics for a minute. Let me see if she wants to join in.’
When we moved to Moneypenny Cottage – or as Sam called it ‘The James Bond Love Shack’ – the happy new start Nico and I imagined away from the bad memories of Siena Avenue wasn’t quite the party-popping triumph we’d hoped for. Francesca turned in on herself, acting as though she was a guest who’d overstayed her welcome but didn’t have anywhere else to go. None of her old posters made it up onto her bedroom walls. In fact, the general skankiness that had driven me mad in the old house – dirty plates, piles of clean clothes mixed with discarded underwear, make-up spilt on the carpet – had given way to a clinical and impersonal bedroom, despite us offering to take her shopping for a new lamp, duvet set and rug.
On the upside, she was no longer downright rude to me. I couldn’t deny it was a pleasure to be able to whip out the Bisto without being told that Caitlin made her flipping gravy with the chicken juices and flour. And she’d never brought up the flaming jewellery box again. In fact, Francesca was so furious about Caitlin having an affair with Massimo, she never mentioned her at all.
Nico tried to talk to her but she either blanked him or gave him both barrels, leaving him subdued and distant for days afterwards. ‘You let her do it! How could you not notice that she was screwing Uncle Massimo? Did you even care? She probably wouldn’t even have stayed with you for so long if you hadn’t had me. I bet she wished I’d never been born, then she could have gone off with Uncle Massimo.’
Initially, a small walnutty bit of my mean little heart had been glad Caitlin was no longer the pinnacle of all things wonderful. But when I fished all of Francesca’s photos of Caitlin out of the kitchen bin, I managed to locate my inner grown-up. It was a fair bet that, long term, equating your mother’s affair with your uncle with proof that she didn’t love you would more than likely lead Francesca into the path of unsuitable men, ill-advised cocktails and dodgy substances.
I started up the oak staircase. I suddenly became aware of the sound of my flip-flops slapping on the wooden treads. No music from the landing. My heart leapt. It was all too quiet. With the exception of Sam, none of us had made any real connection with Francesca for months. A great wave of foreboding surged through me. All sorts of horrible headlines about teenage suicide ran through my head until a scream started gathering in my throat. I burst into her bedroom without knocking, my eyes scanning the beams. I nearly fell to the floor with relief when I discovered her sitting on the other side of her bed, flicking through the photos of Caitlin I’d rescued from the bin and put in an envelope in her dressing table.
‘Francesca!’ I knew by the way she looked so startled I’d shrieked rather than spoken. I concentrated on getting my words out at a normal volume. ‘Are you all right, love? There’s cake downstairs if you want some. We’re being very rebellious and eating it before the barbecue.’ Relief made me rattle on without waiting for a reply. ‘Anna’s doing her nut but trying not to say anything…’