‘That one, bacio, that means “kiss”, it’s sort of hazelnut, then that one zuppa inglese is “English soup”, a bit like custard…’

As we wandered through the square, Nico and I swapping ice creams – liquorice – yuk – tiramisu – yum – I felt a surge of happiness I hadn’t felt since before ‘Boxgate’. Sam and Francesca kept scooting off to look in clothes shops, trying to give Anna, who thought she was the last word on style, the slip. Mum was walking on ahead with Sandro, arm-in-arm. Every now and then he’d stop to look in a window of a ceramic shop with all the mini reproductions of San Gimignano. I looked forward to seeing his drawings later on in the week.

I’d deliberately walked off ahead of Massimo so that he couldn’t spoil my evening. He was following behind with Lara, though judging by the way they were scuffing along in silence, she hadn’t yet decided to forgive him. But Massimo wasn’t going to let anything blight our opera experience, trotting up and chivvying us along, determined to make sure we didn’t miss the start. ‘Honestly, nothing beats sitting under the stars with fabulous singing, surrounded by the towers. It’s just magical.’

I decided to offer an olive branch by showing some enthusiasm, despite wishing we could just sit and have a drink in one of the little squares.

‘Remind me which one we’re seeing again?’

‘Debussy’s Pelléas and Mélisande. It’s about a woman married to the wrong brother.’ He nudged me. ‘You never know, you might realise that you made a duff choice.’

‘Oy! Cheeky sod,’ Nico said, pretending to throw a punch at Massimo.

Massimo ran his fingers through his hair and turned up the collar on his jacket. ‘Who would turn me down, suave, sporty, sophisticated?’

Nico countered with, ‘Yes, but I’m much kinder than you, more sensitive, more in tune with what women want.’

‘I’m much more manly.’ Massimo did a Popeye pose. ‘Aren’t I, Lara?’

She didn’t reply. I looked at her, struck by the expression on her face, as though she was about to cry or perhaps throw a tantrum. I barely heard the rest of Nico and Massimo’s silly banter. I tried to work out if she was jealous: I didn’t have her down as one of those women who thought everyone was after her husband. Although, to be fair, lots of women probably were floating about with their fishing rods hoping to reel Massimo in.

Nico carried on, oblivious. ‘But I listen, that’s what a girl wants.’

‘I’m a sex-god though. When it comes down to it, a woman will choose a good time between the sheets over you and your cup of tea and biscuit any day. Isn’t that right, Maggie?’

I tried and failed to find a way to steer the conversation in a different direction and did a non-committal grunt.

Massimo threw his arm round Lara’s shoulder, which looked about as welcoming as a strip of barbed wire. ‘Come on, La-La. Tell them how important it is for a man to be good at sex.’

Silence.

He peered round at her. ‘So, what’s the answer? Perhaps I’ve been doing it wrong all these years. We don’t seem to be able to make another baby. Perhaps you need me to listen more. Maybe I’ll sit opposite you while you tell me all the exciting things you’ve done in your day. Maybe that’s the secret to getting pregnant, because nothing else has worked.’

And with that, the temperature of the evening changed, catapulting us from light-hearted teasing into one of the tangled issues that creep like knotweed through the heart of any relationship, as likely to divide as bind.

Lara turned to face us, her eyes darting about, as though we’d all been whispering about her failure to provide baby number two. I’d assumed that they hadn’t wanted any more children and Nico had never suggested otherwise.

Lara shrugged. ‘Who knows what the problem is? Just the way things are.’ Her voice was trembling, as though an earthquake was sending out an advance warning. She probably didn’t like their personal problems being aired which, added to her fury about Massimo throwing Sandro in the pool, had combined into a cocktail of unfortunate ingredients that could only result in a bust-up.

But interesting as it would be to see what Lara was like when she lost it, I knew she’d hate a public fracas.

So I walked along wondering whether to keep quiet rather than risk making it worse. In the end, the Parker horror of silence won the day. The awkward pause while we adjusted to something private being broadcast in the middle of a bit of fun was killing me. I gave it a go. ‘Who wants to go back to nappies and sleepless nights and all that making up bloody bottles anyway?’

Massimo responded straightaway. ‘Lara breastfed for ages and loved it,’ which just made me feel as though somehow I’d not only insulted her, but had yet another judgement go against me for daring to suggest a baby might be bottle-fed – and survive.

Lara’s face closed down. She wriggled out from under Massimo’s arm and wandered over to where Mum and Sandro were peering at a large scale model of San Gimignano in a nearby shop window. ‘Look at that. Can you see the gates in the town walls? They used to be closed when the people went to bed to keep the baddies out.’

I bit my lip and looked at Nico, who did a ‘How could we possibly have known that?’ face.

Massimo didn’t seem at all bothered that Lara was upset, ushering us along and saying, ‘Right. Shall we go in then and see which brother triumphs?’

34

LARA

Massimo speaking so glibly about the opera, even daring to tease Nico about the fact Maggie might fancy him summed up how smart he thought he was. Or how gormless he considered the rest of us. I’d never felt rage like it. It reminded me of a friendship cake that I’d been given, a pot of sourdough sitting on the side in the kitchen, fermenting and bubbling away, fed with sugar, flour and milk at regular intervals. Except it was injustice, jealousy and resentment stoking my anger. Usually I was so adept at disguising my feelings, putting on a face to keep the peace. But as Massimo filled in Maggie on what was happening on stage, my stomach was churning as though the sourness inside me might burrow out and gush forth in a spectacular explosion of truths, lighting up that starry sky with a firework display of expletives.

Anna was singing along, her fingers bending and stretching as she conducted an invisible orchestra. Every now and then, she’d hiss at Sam and Francesca who were flicking little bits of torn off programme into the audience, then killing themselves laughing when people started peering around to see where the spit-covered missile had come from. Beryl kept looking at her watch and slipping toffees to Sandro. I loved her for being so totally on his side. Nico looked as though he’d fallen into a sea of memories, sitting back, his eyes flickering about the stage, as though each note, each gesture was taking him back in time. Opera had to remind him of Caitlin, the hundreds of evenings when it seeped out into the garden, filling the neighbourhood with rousing notes of thwarted love, broken dreams and untimely deaths.

I hoped Nico would never have to find out what she’d done.

What Massimo had done.

I couldn’t wait for the opera to be over. I wasn’t alone: over half of our party displayed more animation at the final encore than at any other moment during the whole show. I tried not to feel betrayed by Maggie’s enthusiasm as we walked back to the car.

‘Oh my god, that was amazing! I’m not going to lie, I thought I’d be half-dead with boredom. But you were right, Massimo, the way they act almost tells you what the story is, even if you don’t understand. And that lead woman’s costume was incredible. I’d love to know what stones they’d used to make them sparkle like that. The music seemed a bit familiar to me, though God knows when I’ve ever listened to any opera.’

On and on with questions and observations, like the swotty girl in the class. And Massimo at his best, the teacher, the holder of the knowledge, patiently explaining. I wanted to shake Maggie, tell her not to get sucked in, not to fall for that veneer, that layer so fine that the slightest irritation, obstacle or differing opinion would rub it away to reveal the vindictive unpleasantness beneath.

When we reached the cars, Anna waved the children away. ‘Nico, Beryl, Maggie, you come with me. I cannot stand their screeching any more.’

Sam and Francesca bundled into Massimo’s car, with Sam demanding that Massimo put down the roof. ‘We’ll be like James Bond!’

Sandro squeezed in next to them, pale and listless as though he should have been in bed several hours ago.

Massimo always drove hard on the accelerator and brakes, but this evening, he was testosterone in overdrive, revving through the outskirts of the town before shooting off into the countryside, swinging around the corners with Sam and Francesca egging him on. Sandro’s face kept flashing up, wide-eyed and terrified in my wing mirror, his hair flying about all over the place like a demented puppet.