Just before we got out of the car, I said, ‘Will you know many people there?’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, as though I was trying to catch her out.
‘Other competitors, their parents, coaches, supporters?’
‘There’ll probably be a few people I know from the county championships. Why?’
‘I just wondered how you wanted me to introduce myself? As a friend? Your dad’s wife? Your stepmother?’ There was a pause. I tried to make a joke. ‘Perhaps stepmother sounds a bit “Come on, dearie, have a nice bite of the apple”.’
Francesca looked at me as though she thought I might try and hold her hand or kiss her goodbye. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Anyway, I’ve got to go and get changed.’ And she scooted off, leaving me trailing behind.
The trouble was, I didn’t know either. Despite my best intentions, Nico and Francesca were falling onto one side of the Farinelli fence, with Sam happy in either camp and me left isolated on my own.
I followed the crowds and settled myself into the viewing gallery. Everywhere I looked there were parents with clipboards and stopwatches. Nothing about them said, ‘Just thought I’d pop along and see how little Johnny is getting on with his breaststroke.’ The heat was stifling. By the time Francesca came out, my back was prickling with sweat. But as soon as she started to line up, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her face was so determined, filled with that same concentration I saw on Nico when he was assessing which particular element of the garden wasn’t working. The same look Massimo had when he was trying to teach Sandro to throw a rugby ball.
When the whistle went, Francesca shot off the block and powered her way down the pool. Suddenly I wanted her to win so badly, my biceps were flexing in time with every stroke. For most of the length she was neck and neck with another girl. I wished excruciating cramp on her competitor. Then Francesca edged half a body length ahead. I couldn’t sit still. The crowd around me was starting to cheer and rumble, various names being bandied about, ‘Go on, Katie!’ ‘Come on, Olivia!’ I couldn’t hear anyone shouting for Francesca. I ran down to the front, leaning over the barrier. ‘Get a move on, Francesca! She’s catching you up. Come ONNNN!’
Francesca slipped into second place at the turn. I bloody hoped she never made it to the Olympics, I’d end up in an early grave.
I cheered and shouted her name, willing her on. God, this was more nerve-wracking than the Grand National when Mum had bet the rent on it and won.
There must have been about ten strokes left when she suddenly found another gear and touched the side first, maybe just by a nail-length but definitely first.
As she got out, she turned to look for me in the crowd. I waved wildly, screaming ‘well done’ at the top of my lungs, oblivious to everyone around me as her name was announced. She broke into a huge smile and waved back, her fist in the air in triumph. A true Farinelli.
I sat back down, adrenaline and excitement still coursing through me, subsiding slightly into embarrassment as I became aware of the mums and dads on either side of me, doing that British ‘how undignified’ pursing of the lips. Presumably, I should have been tapping my fingertips together without actually making any sound. I wanted to jump on my chair again and give another ‘FRAN-CESCAAAAA’ bellow for good measure. But instead I looked at my programme to see when her next race was.
One woman a few seats down was having a really good gawk at me. If I’d have been on the estate, I might have done a ‘What you looking at?’ As it was, I fiddled with my phone, texting Nico to tell him how well Francesca had done, wishing he was there so we could talk loudly about his daughter. I felt a sense of ownership, a rush of pride that surprised me. After all, she hadn’t inherited her sporting genes from me – luckily. I stole a sideways glance to see if the staring woman had put her eyes back in. But she was still looking at me. I felt a prickle of irritation.
She smiled, stood up and walked towards me. Brown curly hair framed her freckly face. ‘Hi there. Are you here with Francesca Farinelli?’
I nodded.
‘Are you her coach?’
I laughed. ‘God no! I’m her stepmum. Got a bit overexcited there.’
The woman frowned. I waited to see if she’d have the guts to give me a lecture on parental etiquette at swimming competitions. If she thought I was bad, she should come to one of Sam’s football matches: the dads had completely lost touch with the fact they were watching the under-elevens and not a relegation match between two Premier league teams.
‘Stepmum?’