The Silent Wife(57)

I sieved through my memory for any standout moments of ‘Ah-ha!’ but could only find a jumble of possibilities that could easily be a product of what Massimo would describe as my penchant for ‘blowing everything out of proportion’. Was Massimo reading out loud to her when she was ill, suspicious or an act of kindness? Going to the opera with her because Nico hated it and he loved it, a subterfuge or a practicality? Guiding her hand while she added truffles to the mushroom risotto he’d taught her to cook on our last Italian holiday together, blatant betrayal or his usual tactile nature?

I made myself a cup of tea and tried to think straight. Five years ago, when I’d discovered the gold box in the drawer just before Christmas, Sandro had been two and a half. And it was fair to say Massimo and I weren’t quite seeing eye-to-eye, though I’d never envisaged it might lead to him hopping over the garden fence for a bit of ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ therapy with Caitlin.

That Christmas had coincided with a period when bedtime – or Sandro’s rebellion against it – had become the subject of all Farinelli gatherings. Anna led the ‘bedtime by seven or great calamity will ensue’ campaign, shrugging off my counterargument that kids in Italy seemed to be up till all hours. She simply sniffed and said, ‘But Sandro lives in England, Lara.’

Caitlin would then launch into her own ‘Research shows…’ diatribe and I’d be left isolated in the useless parent corner, with Massimo placing the blame firmly on my shoulders for the fact Sandro would only fall asleep if I sat with him until he dropped off.

But in the lead-up to Christmas, Massimo had decided that, as he was on holiday for a couple of weeks, he was ‘going to get on top of all this night-time nonsense’.

I sipped my drink, raking up memories of that particular ‘festive season’, then regretting it and trying to blank them out. I didn’t want to remember Massimo’s footsteps on the landing, his fingers closing round my wrist as I stroked Sandro’s forehead, my ears alert for the regular deep breathing that would signify he’d finally given into sleep.

‘You’re not sitting here all night.’

‘Ssshhhh. He’ll be off in a minute.’ And then it would start. Sandro disturbed by Massimo’s harsh tones, flinging open his eyes: ‘Mummy, Mummy, stay me, stay me.’

Massimo wrenched me away. ‘It’s bedtime, Sandro.’

His chin would lift. ‘No bedtime, Daddy.’ And Sandro would wriggle out of the little dinosaur duvet, ready to clamber out of bed and into my arms.

And I’d try: ‘Let me just settle him down and then I’ll come downstairs.’

But Massimo would wrestle him back in, Sandro becoming more and more hysterical, with Massimo bellowing over him, trying to silence him with the sheer volume of his voice. Massimo would hustle me out of the room to a growing crescendo of screaming, slam the door shut and stand in front of it. ‘Go downstairs.’

If I tried to argue, pleading to go back in and calm Sandro down, Massimo would threaten to go in and smack him. ‘I’ll shut that boy up. I’ll show him who’s in charge.’

I’d watch the door handle rattling up and down from the inside while Massimo held it closed, every tiny piece of me yearning to rush in and tell him he was safe, that he didn’t need to be afraid, that Mummy was just outside the door. Eventually I’d stand in the kitchen humming to myself to mask the screaming, but not so loud that I wouldn’t hear Massimo going into Sandro’s bedroom. Massimo had never smacked Sandro but there was always that tenseness about him, as though he was holding himself back, a looming threat that might one day break loose.

Every night was the same. I’d start getting stressed about bedtime just after breakfast. But after two weeks, Massimo declared himself triumphant, cock-a-hoop about fuss-free bedtimes, crowing about Sandro just needing ‘a firm hand’.

I didn’t tell him that Sandro had started wetting the bed at night again after a good two months’ dry. That, I would handle myself. Quietly.

But just because Massimo had had an authoritarian take on bedtimes, it didn’t mean that he was a philanderer. I couldn’t remember him going missing for long periods. Instead I recalled how the house seemed to breathe around us when he wasn’t there, when I didn’t have to worry if I was being too soft or ‘not showing Sandro who’s boss’, when I could just enjoy a bit of time with my two-year-old son and follow my instincts instead of filtering them through the great avalanche of Massimo’s expectations.

But surely I would have noticed him having an affair. Wouldn’t I? Maybe I was so relieved to have a break from monitoring Sandro’s behaviour for Massimo’s approval that he never seemed gone long enough.