So now I couldn’t see Dad at all.
But recently, Massimo seemed more amenable to everything. Perhaps he was just less stressed at work, but cups of tea in bed were becoming the norm, shoulder massages, even rational conversations about exploring possible jobs at his firm for me – ‘Let’s look into it after the summer when Sandro’s back at school.’ It was a change from his usual ‘The firm’s become so much more cut-throat than when you were there. I don’t think you’ll cope.’
Tonight, too, he was in a good mood. He’d read a story to Sandro at bedtime, opened a lovely bottle of Sancerre and I’d roasted some monkfish with garlic, just as he liked it. The perfect evening for broaching the subject of Dad.
‘I know it won’t be your favourite day out, but I really need to go and see Dad over Easter. I hate the thought of everyone else spending time with their families and him sitting there on his own with a nursing home Easter egg.’
Massimo forked in a piece of fish, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. ‘I don’t want you getting upset over Easter. You know how depressing you find going to visit him. I’ve only got the four days off and I thought we could have a little trip to London, take Sandro to the London Dungeons or the Tower of London? Get a hotel up there?’
I stared at him, being careful not to sound dismissive. The London Dungeons? Sandro would have the screaming abdabs for months afterwards. ‘That sounds great. I’ll have a look and see what’s on. Perhaps we could go to a show if you fancy it. Is there any chance we could perhaps pop over to Dad’s on the evening before Good Friday if you finish work early enough?’
‘I’m going to be right up against it on the Thursday, just to get everything done so I don’t have to work over Easter. Your dad won’t know it’s Easter, will he? You could go any time. The week after or the one after that.’
Massimo was pleating his napkin. Swigging at his wine. His knife was tapping a little tune on the edge of his plate.
It was three months since I’d seen Dad. I had to go. I tried to keep my voice calm, to stop it veering into begging or demanding. ‘Would you be okay if I got a bus to Worthing and then a cab from there, one day next week?’
‘That’s a pretty expensive cab journey. I’ve just had notice the fees are going up in the home. I think we should try and rein in unnecessary expenditure where we can.’
I took a deep breath. ‘You’ve been incredibly generous paying for his care until now, but it might be time to get some proper legal advice and get permission to use the money from the sale of his house to fund his care. That way the whole burden wouldn’t fall on you.’ I stopped myself from adding, ‘And we might be able to free up fifty pounds so I can actually visit him.’
Massimo sighed as though he was talking to someone with limited intellectual capacity. ‘I don’t think you have any idea how much it costs for him to be in that home.’ He patted my hand. ‘He could live to be ninety-five. If I don’t bankroll him, he’ll run out of money in no time. And I’d hate for him to end up in some shitty place that stinks of cabbage, where they all sit around in nappies.’
My stomach clenched. I couldn’t let that happen to my dad with his cufflinks and his ‘little spritz of aftershave’. He still insisted on struggling to his feet whenever a female nurse walked into the room. I should have worked out how to make proper provisions for Dad when we sold his house, instead of relying on the knife edge of Massimo’s goodwill. But then, as now, my husband had been so hard to refuse: ‘You’ve got enough to worry about. I’ll deal with the money side of things. It’s what your dad would want. After all, people pay me a fortune to look after their affairs. Let me share some of the stress, otherwise you’ll end up on antidepressants again.’
And because Massimo always fluttered his fingers at me when I asked to see the paperwork – ‘I’ll take care of all that, it’s my pleasure’ – I had no idea how long Dad would be able to pay for himself even if I did manage to wrest financial control from Massimo and get access to Dad’s money.
Massimo was mashing his fish hard against the side of the plate. I was in danger of spoiling the evening. I’d try again tomorrow.
He looked up. ‘Anyway, if you’ve got so much free time, why don’t you get yourself off to the doctor’s and get to the bottom of why you can’t get pregnant again? You seem to have found plenty of time to send out search parties for the bloody cat but haven’t quite got round to finding out why there’s no brother or sister for Sandro.’