Clearly I’d been far too Disney and nowhere near enough Jeremy Kyle.
20
MAGGIE
The next morning, the only person with any bounce at breakfast was Sam, who wanted to know whether he could have a party for his eleventh birthday.
‘Massimo offered to help, Mum. He said he knew loads of ball games and he’d do it all if you didn’t want to.’
I didn’t know whether to give into irritation that Massimo had raised Sam’s expectations or be grateful that with all the shit going on with Francesca, at least someone was taking notice of Sam. He never complained, but it seemed a long time since I’d sat down with him and he’d had my full attention. When we lived at Mum’s we seemed to have so much more time to chat, watch telly together, just be. Now, I was so busy trying to make headway with Francesca, it felt as though I just patted Sam on the head now and again, saying, ‘All right, love?’ as I ran past, rather than standing still long enough to hear the answer. But maybe it was good for him to separate from me a little, forge relationships with other people who could show him another world beyond my narrow horizons.
But if Sam even noticed that I wasn’t as focused on him as I used to be, it hadn’t dented his confidence. He was nothing if not tenacious. ‘So can I have a football party? Can I, Mum?’
Given the general atmosphere in the house that morning, it didn’t seem quite the right moment to discuss plans for a birthday party involving football games among the precious plants Nico deadheaded and doctored with such care.
‘Can we talk about this another time, darling? I’ve got a lot to think about today.’
Like how I was going to cope in a family that felt like those unpredictable fountains spurting up in a random sequence, sometimes a dribble, sometimes a full blown water jet, knocking me off my feet just when I thought I was beginning to fit in.
Francesca hadn’t apologised and Nico hadn’t made her. I’d been so upset the night before, we’d just gone to bed, Nico cuddling me and telling me we’d sort it out, there’d be a solution and perhaps now she was ready to go the cemetery, she might find it easier to accept he’d married again. But this morning, with perfect bloke timing as I was struggling to do up the zip on my jeans, he’d asked me what had ‘really’ happened to the jewellery box with something a bit dodgy in his tone, as though I’d slipped it out of the cloakroom window to a waiting hoodlum. Even though I had taken it, I still felt insulted that he considered the possibility. He’d furrowed his brows and said, ‘I remember it being on your work table, then I don’t think I saw it after that. Has anyone else been up there who might have moved it?’
I couldn’t work out whether he was insinuating Sam or Mum had snaffled it, thought I’d pinched it myself or was simply trying to eliminate potential scenarios. Giving him the benefit of the doubt didn’t rush to the top of my tick list. Resentment that bloody Caitlin had caused all this trouble and it had fallen to me to cover for her did.
‘For Christ’s sake, I don’t know where it is. I put it to one side and it must have got swept up in another bag that we dumped. Why does everything that doesn’t go quite right for Francesca have to be my fault?’
There was a little pause while we both adjusted to the fact that, whatever the provocation, I’d never been openly hostile to Francesca before, always taken the grown-up line of ‘She’s had so much to cope with,’ even when her behaviour was so bratty and spoilt it was hard to focus on anything beyond it. But suddenly it seemed that if I wasn’t running along in front of the Farinellis, smoothing the ice like the sweeper in a game of curling, it wouldn’t be long before we all ended up in a huge tangle of bubbling resentment, individual agendas erupting out of their hiding places and into the daylight.
Nico stood there doing up his tie, looking knackered and done in.
I’d stomped downstairs, too livid to give a shit what Nico thought. I was tempted to run down the road and start burrowing in the skip. I entertained the idea of producing the box and all those little opera ticket stubs, love notes and menus, the evidence of Caitlin’s secret life, shoving it at him with ‘Here, look, not such a bloody perfect wife and mother after all.’
But I wanted to think I was better than that.
I hoped I was.
Francesca slammed off to school, plunging straight out into a summer downpour without a coat. Sam hugged me and skipped out of the door, oblivious to anything other than the fact that Massimo had promised him an England football shirt for his birthday. Thank God someone in the family liked us. Nico was definitely a bit off me, going to work with a subdued, ‘Back around six tonight. I’ll help you tidy up the attic.’