The Silent Wife(79)

I bent my head to whisper in Sandro’s ear. ‘Would you have a little go at swimming with me?’

Sandro nodded, his sobs slowing down to shallow rattle.

But Massimo wasn’t having any of it. ‘I don’t want to fall out with you, Maggie, but I do know what’s best for my own son.’

I was just about to try another tack but hadn’t bargained on Mum.

‘What’s the matter with you both? That poor little mite needs to get out and get over his fright. Mags, bring him over here now and me and him will go and have a walk down the village for an ice cream. That’s enough of this swimming nonsense for one day. He can have another go tomorrow. I’ve managed to get to nearly sixty without learning and it hasn’t done me any harm.’

Mum got to her feet, heaving her bulk out of the water. I glanced over at Lara, who was standing on the side, her eyes darting about, rooted to the spot like a mother duck whose weakest duckling was in danger of being sucked down a weir. I felt a flash of irritation that Mum and I were doing her dirty work. There was no bloody way I’d let Nico half-drown Francesca without stepping in, let alone my own flesh and blood. Sure, not everyone had the gobby Parker attitude to life, but I couldn’t ever imagine Minnie Mousing about when it came to keeping Sam safe.

Massimo stood firm and held his arms out for Sandro, who was squashing into me so hard, it would be like ripping off a plaster when I finally put him down. Just as I was debating whether I really had the guts to tell Massimo that no, I wouldn’t be handing his own son over to him, Lara finally jumped in.

She swam over to us, grabbed Sandro from me with a ‘Come on, come to Mummy.’

But Massimo wasn’t going down without a fight. ‘No wonder women never make it to the top in business. The slightest difficulty or setback and you’re running down the corridor screaming.’

And then Lara really did surprise me.

‘At least I don’t need to bully a seven-year-old to feel good about myself.’





33





MAGGIE




I hadn’t seen Lara since the swimming pool ‘incident’ that morning. I’d walked past her bedroom but hadn’t wanted to knock in case she was having a nap with Sandro. I’d heard Massimo screech off across the gravel before lunch and had been ridiculously pleased to have an hour alone on my sunbed, dozing in the sun while the kids dived for pebbles in the pool.

With the opera starting at nine, we were having an early dinner, which delighted Mum who thought anything later than five was eating ‘just before bedtime’. Nico and I were at the table as instructed on the dot of six. I’d filled him in on Massimo’s foray into swimming coaching and was gratified to hear him pronounce Massimo ‘a knob’. I didn’t launch into agreeing too heartily as I knew from experience the Farinellis drew up the drawbridge the second an outsider breathed a criticism.

‘Honestly, I don’t know what gets into him sometimes. But I also don’t get why Lara doesn’t put her foot down more often. I can’t imagine you letting me get away with behaving like that.’

I flicked him with my hand. ‘Too bloody right. I hope he’s not upset with me though. It was a bit tricky refusing to hand back his own son.’

Nico pulled a face. ‘I think Massimo’s got enough ego to see him through it. Anyway, let’s have a drink and leave them to sort themselves out.’

I sat myself down at the dining table in the castle courtyard. Nico nipped down to the wine cellar and reappeared with some sparkling Prosecco ‘made from the grapes in the vineyards you saw from the ramparts’.

He handed me a glass and clinked his against mine.

‘Where are the others? I thought we were all meeting at six?’ I said.

‘Relax, bride of mine. We’re on Italian time.’

I reached for his hand. ‘I’m not complaining. I’m very happy to have you to myself.’ I didn’t add, ‘And hoping to be too late for the opera.’

He kissed my head and sat down next to me. ‘And I am very happy to have you here.’ I listened for any reservation in his voice, any leftover residue of suspicion that I was running a sideline in melting down precious metals. I could only hear tenderness. Thank God.

Lara appeared from her room with Sandro in tow. ‘Evening.’ There was something brittle in her voice, as though she’d had to steel herself to face us all. She did have a knack for approaching life as though it was a crossword of fiendish difficulty.

Nico handed her a glass of Prosecco.

I watched her take a huge gulp. I’d barely seen her take a sip of a shandy before. My Parker genes associated good times with wine, and less reliably, vodka. Or wince-makingly, Pernod. But I’d love to do a run of the optics with Lara. See what lay beneath that restrained exterior once the shot glasses were on the table.