‘Sorry, sorry, Mags. I don’t want to come here and blub. I’m happy for you, really I am. I suppose I miss you and Sam. I’m a bit lonely without you.’ I’d expected her to be pleased to have her flat back, with room to move again. But now, an image of Mum sitting on her couch with no one to discuss the disastrous meringues on the Great British Bake Off came into my head. Guilt at my selfishness, dancing off to my new home with barely a backward glance, made me want to cry myself.

Mum rubbed the little patches of dry skin on her knuckles, as if weighing up whether our relationship could withstand what was coming next. She sniffed. ‘I think you’re ashamed of me now you’ve married into the Farinellis and “bettered” yourself. That’s why you don’t want me to come round.’

‘I’ve never stopped you coming round!’ I braced myself for Mum’s next comment, wondering what other bloody thing I’d done wrong, what other flaming shortcoming I had, what other little gap I’d failed to fill.

‘So when was the last time you phoned me and invited me for anything?’

‘You’re family. I don’t need to invite you. You can come any time.’

There was a pattern developing here. Last time I’d gone out with the girls for a drink, they’d teased me about whether I’d deleted their numbers from my mobile. And I’d felt a bit offended though I knew I didn’t go out as much as I used to. But wasn’t that the same for everyone who got married? Otherwise I might as well have stayed single.

My stomach knotted as Mum shook her head. We did rub each other up the wrong way sometimes, but we never really fell out properly. And I didn’t want to start now that life was supposed to be getting better.

‘You might say I’m always welcome, but if I do pop in, you’re always like, just hang your coat up, just put your mug on a coaster, just wash your hands before you help me with dinner, just be careful not to knock over that glass, like I’m a five-year-old who can’t be trusted to have a drink without spilling it everywhere.’

I sighed, feeling my annoyance subside. Where to start? How could I even begin to explain the burden I felt of looking after everything that belonged to Caitlin, so Francesca could never say, ‘I loved that table/glass/bowl/tea bloody spoon but Maggie’s family ruined it’? How could I tell her that I dreaded Anna coming in, taking in the avalanche of Sam’s shoes and boots, the carrier bags I didn’t quite finish emptying of groceries, the pens without lids scattered on the kitchen table, the shabby, slovenly second wife? That I spent my whole life sweeping up after myself and Sam, but never quite managed to tidy us away enough to feel that we weren’t somehow a tickling hair of irritation caught in the collar of the Farinelli glamour?

It wasn’t that Mum didn’t belong.

It was that I didn’t.

I took her hand. ‘I’m sorry that I’ve made you feel like that. It’s a bit of an adjustment period for all of us, isn’t it? We’d been a little unit of three for so long that I feel a bit caught in the middle, trying to please everyone.’

A more accurate description would have been stretched like a frayed elastic bungee cord that was about to snap and hook someone’s eye out.

Mum’s face relaxed. ‘You know Daphne that I’m looking after? Her son is taking her on holiday for the first two weeks of August, so I can have some time off. I’ve been saving up my car boot money. I’ve got enough for a caravan in Cornwall. Do you think Nico would let you and Sam come away?’

‘Of course he will. He’ll be pleased for us to spend time with you. It’s not really a case of him “letting” us anyway… we’re a bit more equal than that.’

Even Mum had fallen into the trap of thinking that I needed to throw myself on the floor, grateful for a husband. I wondered if anyone thought Nico was lucky to have me. But Mum was so thrilled about our Cornwall adventure she didn’t notice my sharp words.

‘We can go to the Eden project – I think I can swap my Tesco vouchers for tickets – and I saw on telly that there’s surfing down there, perhaps Sam can try it, there are some lovely beaches, with a bit of sun, it’ll be as good as going abroad.’

The word ‘abroad’ woke me up. God. Tuscany. First two weeks of August.

Mum was still extolling the virtues of Cornish cream teas and planning to hire a windbreak if it was a bit blowy. I couldn’t tell her we couldn’t go. Not now. Not when she was already feeling as though we were looking down our noses at her.

But I couldn’t allow her make plans then let her down at a later date. I sat there, my face, my heart burning. I needed to get the words out.

‘Actually, Mum, I’m really sorry but I’ve just realised Sam and I are flying to Tuscany then.’

She looked at me as though I’d said we were off to America on a private jet. ‘Tuscany?’

I nodded, hoping today wouldn’t be the day that I would have to articulate the words, ‘We’re staying in a castle’.

Something shifted on her face, as though Sam and I were drifting further and further out of her reach. I wanted to row back towards her and scoop her into the boat with us, not leave her stranded, an unwilling spectator of a life she couldn’t share.

Which is probably why the next sentence flew out of my mouth, a crazy idea formulated by an unbalanced mind, a suggestion with ‘disaster’ written all over it, flashing about the kitchen in strobe lighting.

‘Why don’t you come to Italy with us?’

21

LARA

My provisional licence arrived after five days. I stared at my haunted face on the little photocard, feeling terrified. I’d somehow imagined it wouldn’t turn up for a month or two. I’d managed to get the cash out of Massimo by telling him Sandro was going on a school trip. Riddled with guilt, I’d schooled Sandro in the lie. It couldn’t be helped. Dad had to come first for the moment.

Before I lost my nerve, I walked into town and bought some magnetic L-plates, shoving them into my bag as though I’d bought a leopard skin thong I didn’t want anyone to see. I went straight round to Maggie’s, feeling nervous in case she’d gone off the idea. She came to the door looking as though she hadn’t been to bed for a week.

‘Are you okay?’

And this time, it was her turn to burst into tears.

‘What’s the matter?’ I wanted to hug her, but instead I shuffled about in the hallway, embarrassed. I was so out of practice at the warts and all of friendship. When I was at work, boyfriend bust-ups, being bawled out by the boss and IVF failures had me shouting through loo doors on a regular basis. Now I was so busy keeping a lid on my own life, I’d got lulled into thinking everyone else was so happy they did a little disco dance in front of the mirror every morning.

She started to fill me in on what had happened the night before.

‘Oh my god. What did Nico say? Was he furious?’ I asked.

‘I don’t think he realised how important it is to me to keep working. I don’t earn anything like he does, so I think everyone assumes I’m just titting about sewing on a few buttons. But I want to pay my way. Everyone already thinks I just married Nico for his money.’ She gave a little sob.

I felt a rush of shame for getting sucked into Anna’s little power-play. ‘No one thinks that.’

Maggie broke away. ‘I love you for saying that, Lara, but I could name at least one person who does. You and Massimo have made me really welcome though.’

Thank God she hadn’t overheard Massimo when Sandro had let slip that he’d been to Beryl’s last week instead of going swimming. He’d ranted on about ‘fat-arsed Fanny next door coming up with the brilliant idea of leaving our son in a bloody drugs den while you two go gallivanting off to see a bloke who doesn’t know what day of the week it is.’

‘Can I help you tidy up?’

‘I’m not sure how bad it is yet. I couldn’t face looking at it properly last night. I was just about to go up.’

‘Come on, let’s do it now. The sooner you’re shipshape again, the less angry you’ll feel.’

Maggie gave me a little ghost of a smile. ‘Thank you. And as soon as we’ve finished, let’s head out of town and find somewhere quiet to turn you into Lewis Hamilton.’

God knows how Maggie felt, because I nearly screamed when I saw the state of her workshop. But, unlike me, Maggie was made of tough stuff. She closed her eyes, took a big breath and handed me one of the printers’ trays.

‘Could you pick up the blue and green beads, and anything diamante?’

We worked in silence for a bit, until I couldn’t bear it any more.

‘Was there a particular trigger for this? When I saw you with Francesca a few weeks ago, I thought you were getting on really well?’

I remembered watching Maggie’s curly head next to Francesca’s smooth dark one as they pored over a pattern for a summer top Francesca wanted. I’d felt a little stab of envy about Maggie’s natural affinity with children. I found it hard to be spontaneous and relaxed with Sandro, my maternal instinct straitjacketed by what Massimo would find acceptable, my affection diluted by fear.

A mix of emotions dappled Maggie’s face, like leaves against summer sunlight. ‘We had a bit of an issue over a box belonging to her mum. She thought I’d thrown it out and got really upset.’

‘Was it a special box?’