The Silent Wife(9)

Anna emitted a fabulous snort. ‘Of course you did. Maybe not with a gun to his head, but Nico was always easily influenced. Far too soft. His brother has far more sense. Got rid of that silly first wife who didn’t want children and found someone who understood what it takes to be a Farinelli.’

Any vain hope that Lara might be an ally seemed as misguided as my brilliant idea of selling up and finding somewhere new for our funny little mismatched family. There I had it: the whole deck of cards spread on the table curling at the edges under the brutal spotlight of the truth. Anna didn’t approve of me. Thought Nico was weak and I had forced him into marriage, charging in as soon as Caitlin had deigned to die. Never had I missed a shared sofa bed and my mum singing into a sauce bottle more.





4





LARA




After nearly a month of searching for our cat, I still couldn’t accept that she might have simply found another home with a more plentiful supply of mackerel, or worse, that she was dead in a hedge somewhere. I tried to be brave for Sandro, but I’d had to put Misty’s bowls in the cupboard to stop myself bursting into tears every time I walked past them.

I’d inherited Misty when my dad had gone into a nursing home three years earlier. Every time I looked at her, I saw Dad as he was when I lived at home, his fingers stroking her back while he watched Question Time or listened to The Archers. Not the confused man who struggled with buttons and whose face paused in concentration before breaking into a smile when I walked into the residents’ lounge.

Since she’d come to live with us, Misty had resolutely ignored Massimo’s efforts to lure her in with little treats of tuna, fondling her ears, shaking stuffed mice on sticks. On the other hand, she snuggled up to Sandro as though his lap had been tailor-made for her grey bottom. Initially, Massimo joked about it. ‘That cat doesn’t know when it’s well off. Ungrateful moggy. Who does she think keeps her in chicken liver? Good job my wife appreciates me.’

I’d laugh and tease him that Misty was the only woman who didn’t think he was wonderful. He’d throw down the gauntlet, promising she’d love him more than me once he’d subjected her to his irresistible charms.

Every few months or so, he’d take up the challenge, unable to believe that there was a single living thing impervious to the force of nature that was Massimo Farinelli. But Misty greeted every bout of mackerel-waving, wool-whirling, ‘puss, puss, puss’ enticements with disdainful stares, before stalking off to hop onto Sandro’s knee.

Sandro even tried to encourage Misty over to Massimo, tempting her with little bits of chicken. She’d perch on Massimo’s knee for about five seconds while she gobbled down her treat and then, with a dismissive flick of her tail, she’d be off, leaving Massimo half-laughing, half-cursing, with Sandro secretly pleased there was one thing he could do better than his father.

Now, four weeks after she’d disappeared, I still lay in bed every night, thinking I’d heard the telltale tinkle of her bell through the cat flap or a plaintive cry on the garage roof. I’d tiptoe down to check but find no sign of her. When I slid back into bed, Massimo would stretch out his hand to squeeze mine, pulling me to his chest while I sobbed. I couldn’t give up on her: just today Sandro and I had done another round of our neighbourhood, pinning up little pictures of her staring into the camera with her gorgeous amber eyes, urging people to search their sheds and garages.

Somehow her disappearance brought all my grief about my dad slowly losing his memory frothing up into a frenzy of feelings I found it hard to control. Every drawing pin I pushed into a gatepost, every poster I blu-tacked into a shop window made me feel as though I was trying to recover myself, not just the cat. It was like offering a reward for the woman I was ten years ago, before Massimo wooed me with his Victorian home, his senior position at work, his desire for children. Back then, as a twenty-five-year-old, living at home in the 1930s semi I shared with Dad, Massimo had offered me a vision of belonging to a new tribe. A family that held impromptu barbecues, popped champagne for the smallest celebration, always had enough in the pot for one more. Nothing like our home with its net curtains, butter knife and Tupperware, my whole outlook constrained by my dad’s well-meaning advice: ‘Don’t take on too much.’

And part of Massimo’s charm had been his insistence that ‘You’re the only woman in the world I want to make babies with.’

How flattering, how straightforward it had all sounded.

I hadn’t realised that Massimo wanted a specific type of child: robust, sporty and confident, a mirror image of his tastes, his abilities, his intellect. Not, apparently, a son like Sandro – thoughtful and artistic – whose very presence seemed to irritate rather than enchant Massimo.