The Silent Wife(39)

Then I flew at him, desperate to run to the safe and see whether it was true, that we were now reduced to warfare over Sandro’s passport to define the shape of the next few years of our lives.

Massimo held me off, keeping me at arm’s length. But I saw something I hadn’t seen before. Shock. Shock that I still had enough spirit to go against him, that even now he hadn’t worn me down completely. I tried to channel the sharp edges of my energy into a barb I could dig in deep and gouge at his heart.

‘What would your family think if they knew what you were really like? Anna’s always boasting about you to the woman at Waitrose: “Such a family man. Absolute rock to me when my husband died. And such a good father to that little boy. Not afraid to roll up his sleeves and help out.” What would she say if she knew what a bully you were? Do you think Nico would want you hanging around Francesca, giving her tips on her swimming if he knew that you were such a headcase you ran over cats that didn’t like you?’

He screwed his face into a sneer, a rush of defiance clenching his jaw before a little flash of fear, a glimmer of uncertainty replaced it.

‘You wouldn’t dare. They wouldn’t believe you. Blood’s thicker than water, remember.’

And then he opened the door with a flourish. ‘After you. I’m off to take some selfies of my chin in case I need them in court.’

Yep, I wondered what the hell Maggie would make of a man who ran over the pet cat and decided to buy a dog because he knew it would terrify his wife.





16





LARA




I couldn’t believe how quickly Thursdays came round, carrying the great gloom cloud of dread for Sandro and me. I bet Maggie never counted down the days, wincing on a Tuesday at the inevitability of Thursday and the dreaded swimming lessons. I wished I was more like her. Resourceful. Optimistic. Confident. Able to brush any obstacles out of the way with minimum drama.

Maggie had made great strides in sorting out Lupo. She was still coming round several times a week, helping Sandro to rein Lupo back in whenever he started to slip back into his boisterous behaviour. I couldn’t run to her again. She had enough on her plate adjusting to Anna sticking her nose in, getting used to having a stepdaughter and a husband, let alone keeping on top of her own son and running a business.

And even if I could rely on her for advice, it was hard to imagine anyone in the world had the solution to Sandro and his fear of water.

It didn’t help that the spare bedroom was lined with swimming cups, medals and photos of Massimo, hands raised in triumph, his dark hair hanging in wet curls.

Sandro, on the other hand, had a full blown tantrum every time I got his face wet in the bath as a baby. Massimo accused me of transmitting my own anxieties to him. ‘You make him like that, you’re always so stressed about everything’, convinced that without my negative vibes, Sandro would have been an Olympic swimming gold medallist in the making.

By the time Sandro was three, Massimo decided to take control of my stop-start attempts to teach him to swim.

‘He needs to learn before he loses his nerve all together.’ And as always Massimo was the man to ‘make it happen’. With a wave of his hand, all ‘experienced swimmer heading to the pool to show off family man credentials’, Massimo arranged lessons for Sandro every Saturday morning. The first time, I’d made the mistake of going to watch. Initially I’d felt a little burst of pride when I’d seen Massimo stroll out with our son, looking so handsome in his swim shorts, tanned and muscly, nothing like the other men splashing about in the adult pool with their paunches and tattoos. I’d watched the women in the toddler class adjust their swimming costumes and suck in their stomachs, brightening up at this novelty, a modern man joining their ranks. No doubt they were wondering which lucky wife was sipping lattes with her friends while her husband took charge of Freddy frog floats.

My pride turned to distress when Sandro started to scream as soon as he touched the water. Massimo did all the right things, tried to make a game of it, peek-a-booing and ‘Here comes the shipping’ for all he was worth. But as the other two- and three-year-olds kicked their feet, some of the braver ones even jumping off the side, the rigidity of Massimo’s smile increased in line with Sandro’s wailing.

Massimo kept scowling at me as though I was sending Sandro ‘squawk louder’ vibes. Eventually, to my relief, the swimming teacher suggested they try again next week and Massimo carried Sandro out, waving a laughing goodbye to all the mothers whose faces suffered the loss of animation I’d seen so many times before: Massimo frowning off back to the footbath deprived them of a focal point, leaving them bumbling about like earwigs plunged into the light after months under a flowerpot.