Nico shrugged. ‘Or there’s a book bank down at Morrisons’ car park.’

We sorted through a couple more crates, putting all the photo albums to one side. I promised myself I would never be tempted to open them, concentrating instead on the idea that if we tied up Caitlin’s loose ends as soon as possible, I’d feel less like an impostor bluffing my way in through the door with a stick-on moustache. But despite my best intentions, my mind kept drifting back to the postcard. The depth of devotion Nico had for Caitlin had floored me. Maybe I was just a housekeeper with benefits, rather than a second chance at love.

Eventually, Francesca looked up and said, ‘Can that be enough for one day?’

I was knackered myself but given that we were doing this for my benefit I didn’t feel I could start moaning. ‘I don’t mind. Nico?’

‘We’ve broken the back of it. Let’s have a rest and pick it up again tomorrow.’

I pointed to an old-fashioned box file. ‘Do you want to take this down and see if you still need any of the paperwork?’

Nico laughed. ‘God, that’s from before Francesca was born.’ He prodded her. ‘Look, before we had you, I even had time to write little labels and file all my documents. Not quite as organised now.’

Halfway through wondering who would ever sit down in the evening and think, what I have time to do right now is write Car MOT/appliance guarantees/health insurance on neon pink labels, I realised, with a jolt to my stomach, why none of the keepsakes that fell out of the box resonated with the image I had of Nico. Nico’s handwriting had curly capital ‘I’s and funny tails on the ‘g’s and ‘y’s, like little handlebar moustaches.

It wasn’t Nico’s handwriting.

And if it wasn’t his writing, who was engraving little messages on jewellery boxes crammed full with love notes to his wife?

12

LARA

A month on, as we moved into May, Lupo was becoming huge. A much bigger, bitier, boisterous version that scared us half to death. When Massimo wasn’t around, I wouldn’t leave him alone with Sandro, who – to Massimo’s fury – flapped about and squealed whenever Lupo went near him. I wasn’t much better myself, shutting the dog in the utility room whenever I could, throwing in a disgusting bit of dried fish skin so I didn’t have to get too near. Massimo’s interest in Lupo was confined to parading him about in the park, like an expensive toy, with all the yummy mummies falling over themselves to chat about how to stop dogs jumping up/messing in the house/barking in the garden. And all the while, Massimo would be giving them the spiel about whistle-training and indestructible dog beds, while swapping ‘it was so mortifying when…’ stories.

He omitted to mention he’d never opened a single tin of dog food, picked up a poo or wiped up a puddle when Lupo got overexcited at Massimo’s return home.

What he did show a great interest in though, was that I now had something to keep me ‘occupied’. Effectively, he’d used the arrival of the dog as the death knell to any discussion about me returning to work, saying, ‘It wouldn’t be fair to leave Lupo shut up all day.’

On bad days, I wished I’d never given up my job to stay at home with Sandro, convinced that if I’d delegated his upbringing to a nanny or nursery, he’d be more confident. And perhaps I would be too. Accountancy suited me. I’d taken such pride in being ‘the one to watch’. The one they’d all teased Massimo about, saying I’d be snapping at his heels before long. There’d been more than one joke about ‘marrying the competition’ at our wedding. But after Sandro was born, Massimo stopped talking to me about work, encouraging me to stay at home and take it easy for a while.

When so many women in my postnatal group were frantically working out how they could have one day a week at home with their babies, fretting about nursery fees and drawing up complicated schedules involving in-laws and childminders, it seemed churlish to insist on going back to work. But it didn’t stop me hankering after it – the prospect of a couple of days a week, taking refuge in orderly columns of figures, the predictability of a rational outcome, the sense of a job well done. Rather than the illogical world that became my prison, trapped with a baby who wouldn’t sleep, so angry with the world he would refuse to feed, his fists balled with rage, while I walked, jiggled, sang, soothed – and failed.

Every time I broached the subject, Massimo had put his arm round me and said, ‘You’ve only just started getting more than five hours’ sleep. I don’t want you getting run-down because you’re stretched too thinly. And Sandro is still a bit underweight. Why don’t you wait until he’s a year old?’ And then, ‘He’s still getting lots of chest infections; there’s no point in going back when you’d have to have so much time off.’ And so it carried on, right up until Sandro went to school. And by that time, I wasn’t sure I could load a dishwasher to Massimo’s satisfaction, let alone explain to senior executives why a company had failed its audit.

And now, because of Massimo’s ‘generous and thoughtful’ present, not only was it unlikely I’d ever make it back into the workplace, but I had more ground to cover to prevent the days disintegrating into tense recriminations.

Today I had failed to plug the gaps. Lupo had done a puddle on the floor just as I put the eggs in. While I was cleaning up under Massimo’s hawkeye supervision to his exact specification: kitchen roll, carrier bag, bleach on the floor, outside bin, nailbrush on my hands, Lupo darted about, trying to lick my face. I imagined him turning nasty, hanging off my cheek, biting my nose, disfiguring me forever. It made my hands shake, causing me to be clumsy and slow, forgetful of the damned eggs and the precise three and a half minutes Massimo required for his soft to medium yolks.

I stared into the pan, wondering what would set a worse tone for the day: to serve solid yolks or to tip them into the bin and risk a delay whilst I made some more with runny centres. I lost precious seconds dithering. And then it was too late. Massimo looked up from his newspaper. ‘Are my eggs ready?’

‘Just coming. More coffee?’

Massimo nodded and went back to The Times, idly scratching the dog behind its ears. I willed the kettle to boil quickly.

Fortunately he was distracted by a column in the paper about workplace equality. ‘What a load of old rubbish. Encouraging women to think they can do the same jobs as men for the same money. The women in my office are always having to leave early because their kid’s got earache or a bloody concert.’

I nodded along, as though I agreed with his antiquated views, suppressing my smile at the big fat cross I’d put next to the Green candidate in the local elections. Little rebellions saved me from total insanity.

I managed to get perfectly poached eggs onto the spinach, with a splash of cream and grating of garlic, just as he liked them, before he noticed how long it had taken me.

At that moment, Sandro sidled in, glancing first at Lupo who was now lying under the table, then at Massimo to check he was absorbed in his paper. He showed me the pictures he’d made with his Spirograph. I nodded, smiling and kissing him on the head before saying loudly, ‘Right, you’d better put your homework away and come and have some breakfast.’

‘But I don’t want any breakfast. I want to draw.’

Massimo looked up. ‘You’d better get a move on. You’re trying out the judo class at the leisure centre this morning.’

Sandro’s face fell. He looked down at the floor. ‘I didn’t know it was this week.’

I turned away and started wiping down the work surfaces, little starbursts of anxiety building. Without looking round, I went for a cheery ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy it once you’re there. What about some scrambled eggs to give you a bit of energy?’

Sandro moved into my line of vision, his shoulders slumping, his eyes beseeching me to make it better.

‘Perhaps this afternoon we can get out the paints that you got for your birthday?’

That wasn’t the making it better he wanted but it was the best I was allowed to do.

He shuffled out to the playroom.

Massimo slammed his knife and fork down. ‘So he’s happy to prat about on his own with his paints but doesn’t want to get stuck in and have some fun with boys his age? Let me go and talk to him.’

My heart leapt at Massimo’s chair scraping back, the predictable roar. ‘Sandro!’ The sound of little feet in slippery socks skidding across the parquet floor in the playroom. He’d be gathering up his precious pencils, the gorgeous Caran D’Ache crayons Nico had bought him as a surprise. A rattling of the door into the hallway. But no frantic thumping up the stairs. He wasn’t quick enough. I closed my eyes.