With a sigh, I forced myself to go into our dusty attic. As soon as I put my hands on those innocuous blue wheelie cases, a film of past holiday horrors flickered through my mind. Mosquitoes feasting on Sandro, which turned out to be my fault for contaminating the Farinelli Italian genes with my English skin. Making excuses to keep my clothes on after Massimo sneered at me in a swimming costume. Anna doing a complete about-turn on the seven o’clock bedtime, insisting on Sandro staying up till midnight – ‘We’re in Italy now’ – then leaving me to deal with the fallout the following day. Massimo losing his temper because Sandro was too shy to ask for a strawberry ice cream in Italian. Caitlin playing Scrabble, her wet hair swept up in a glamorous clasp, her skin a golden brown, while my nose peeled and my hair frizzed. Francesca butterflying up and down the pool as Sandro screamed to get out of the shallow end. Massimo refusing to eat a single forkful of pasta when it was my turn to cook, telling everyone he was feeling off colour, then hissing at me afterwards for my ‘disgusting English slop with no salt’.

Scattered through the memories were little crumbs of affection, tiny grains of approval that I’d clung onto. Massimo lifting my chin, staring into my eyes and pronouncing me, ‘Bellissima’. Pointing out the stars to me under the Tuscan sky. Gently rubbing sun cream into my shoulders, finishing with a flourish and a kiss. Picking some bougainvillea and tucking it behind my ear. But these little pinpricks of happiness were swallowed up, washed away by the unpredictable tides of Massimo’s temper.

I’d just heaved everything out of the attic when Maggie knocked on the door. She wasn’t as smiley as usual, definitely stressed around the edges. I felt a stab of surprise she wasn’t sashaying up to the holiday with nothing more pressing to think about than choosing a tie-dye wrap.

‘Can I come in for a minute?’

I stood back and waved her in, though really I wanted to block her path and crack on with packing before Massimo got home.

Her hair was even wilder than usual and her cotton smock top looked as though she’d fished it out of the bottom of the washing basket. She was twisting one of her curls around her finger, as though she was working up to saying something I might not want to hear. I scanned my mind for occasions when I might have let my guard down. Little truths she’d pieced together while I was chugging along, wondering whether to change into fourth gear. It was so hard not to confide in Maggie, she had a natural warmth, a way of making you feel she understood exactly, without any underlying arrogance that, in my position, she’d have handled it better. Her opinions didn’t drill into every crevice of my insecurities in the hope of finding rich compost to take root in. Unlike the Farinellis who assumed anyone with a different point of view just hadn’t listened to their compelling arguments closely enough.

Maggie’s eyes were flitting over my face, her tongue flicking to the corner of her mouth. I wanted to stop her before she could ask that question. If someone, anyone, asked out loud why I put up with Massimo, why I didn’t leave him, even hinted that they knew he was steadily eroding who I was until all that was left was a bucket of Pavlovian yes/no/sorry responses, I didn’t know whether I could continue to put on a performance of marital harmony and happiness. And if I couldn’t pretend any more, what then? The fallout from that was too horrible to contemplate.

My heart twisted at the thought of us wrestling over Sandro. Massimo would try everything to win. What if I actually had to leave Sandro behind, watching me walk – or drive – away, the only person who could protect him, holding his breath to stop himself crying. I couldn’t let that happen.

I started to pave the way for getting rid of Maggie quickly, before her words came out and forced me to face up to the insanity of my life. ‘I’m still packing, you know how it is, keep thinking of things to put in “just in case”, but if I don’t concentrate and do it in the peace and quiet when the others aren’t here, then I’ll end up forgetting something.’

She nodded. ‘I won’t be a moment, I just wondered if I could ask you something.’

Every bit of me wanted to put my hands over my ears and seal out what she was about to say. But I couldn’t be rude to her, not when she’d been so kind to me. Reluctantly, I let her into the kitchen, acutely aware of how unwelcoming the bare walls and empty surfaces were. Since she’d been married to Nico, she’d transformed Caitlin’s kitchen into somewhere you wanted to linger. Plants, furry cushions and bright ceramic bowls bought by Beryl in junk shops encouraged hidden thoughts to make their way out into the world, a comforting cave where conversation was in danger of bubbling along, unfiltered and unjudged.

Maggie perched on one of our bar stools, twisting the bottom of her smock. ‘Can I say something to you, something you won’t repeat, not to anyone?’

I didn’t respond, just felt myself gearing up to answer a question that hadn’t yet been asked. I prepared one of my lines, my laughing dismissals, my casual ‘nothing to see here’ shrugs fermented to perfection over the years. I could go for ‘That’s just his sense of humour; he doesn’t mean anything by it.’ Or perhaps ‘It’s his Italian blood, all that Mediterranean passion. The Farinellis all have a bit of fire in them. He gets over it quickly though.’ Or a simple blank look and an ‘I didn’t really notice. I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about’.

Maggie rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry to dump this on you, Lara, but I’m so stressed about this holiday. Francesca has been so rude to me over the last month or so. It’s bad enough when we’re at home, but I just want to bawl my eyes out every time I think about her speaking to me like a piece of shit in front of Anna. And Mum won’t put up with Francesca being mardy and horrible, so then she’ll get involved and I’ll be caught in the middle. I don’t even want to go.’ And with that, she started crying, not the restrained hiccupping I did, but full-on sobbing.

All that adrenaline I’d been storing up to release as bemused indignation directed itself into making my legs tremble. I sat down on a stool, struggling to comprehend that Maggie with her joyful heart was even giving a second thought to what Anna might think.

I was so used to containing my own emotions, repackaging them into acceptable shapes to present to the world that it took me a moment to realise someone like Maggie might have her own demons. I must have looked absolutely astonished because Maggie stumbled on.

‘Sorry, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I can’t say anything to Nico because he’s already worried out of his mind about Francesca. I know how hard it’s been for her – but she just hates me.’

Finally, the bit of my brain that operated without weighing up ‘what Massimo would say if he knew’ cranked into action.

‘Oh my god. I had no idea you felt like that. I’ve been so full of admiration for you. You’ve been so lovely to Sandro – he adores you – and you seemed to be handling everyone so well. Honestly, it’s so hard to come into a family as close-knit as this one – it took me ages to feel comfortable with them all. But Nico adores you, and Massimo thinks you’re wonderful.’ I concentrated on keeping the edge out of my voice. I forced a laugh. ‘Anna, well, we’d be a little deluded if we thought anyone could be good enough for her boys.’

Maggie’s shoulders relaxed slightly. ‘Really? I don’t want to sound ungrateful, really I don’t, I know how lucky I am, but I feel like I’m permanently on trial. In the beginning, I was doing okay with Francesca, but then there was all that to-do with the jewellery box.’

I felt as though I had a balloon full of water that I was squashing between my hands, seeing which little pocket of rubber burst first. ‘She’s not still going on about that, is she? It’s not like you know what happened to it. It might not even have been you that threw it away.’

Maggie bit her lip. ‘It was me.’

‘Really? Why?’ As soon as the words were out, I wanted to run away. I couldn’t find out that the only person I trusted to be on my side was a thief.

‘I can’t tell you why. It was for a good reason, though.’

I wanted to be the judge of that, wanted to be sure my judgement wasn’t so flawed, so damaged after ten years with Massimo that I could no longer spot a decent person in a slimy, putrid barrel of rotten apples. The see-saw of upper hand shifted slightly. I’d always been looking up to Maggie, in awe of her joie de vivre, her resilience, her cheeriness. But now she was turning to me for reassurance. I owed her. Her generosity – taking me out driving, finding things to love about Sandro, sorting out Lupo – had, little by little, made my life a less lonely place.

‘Why can’t you tell me?’

I winced as she wrapped one of her curls around her finger so tightly I saw her skin lift up from her hairline. ‘It would hurt Nico. I did it to protect him. And Francesca.’

Bile burned in the pit of my stomach. Maggie had obviously worked out that the box was some sort of love token that hadn’t come from Nico. I felt as though I was staggering along on the deck of a ferry during a particularly nasty crossing, careering between finally obtaining proof that Massimo had had an affair with Caitlin and a desire to bury my head in the sand.

I stared at her, searching her face for any indication that she knew Massimo was involved. It was no good. I couldn’t let her off the hook without finding out what she knew. ‘What do you mean?’