But it was as though Dawn was reading my mind. ‘I wouldn’t believe me either if I was in your position. I’ve no doubt that when you talk, Massimo stands there with his head on one side, making you feel as though what you have to say is the most interesting thing he’s ever heard. But believe me, the way he behaved over Ben was the final straw, not the starting point.’

I didn’t want to know any more. I wanted to be able to walk away and rationalise what she’d told me into something less awful, something that wouldn’t have me forever watching out for clues, signs of nasty behaviour, like an undercover cop at the heart of the family. I felt like I did when I was acting as goalie for Sam and he belted a football straight into my stomach, knocking all the air out of me. Every time I thought I’d got a handle on my new family, I’d come across another bloody skellygog in the cupboard.

And yet again, I’d have to decide whether or not to tell everyone else. I was becoming the left-luggage storage facility for family secrets, the ones with the broken zips and dodgy wheels no one wanted to reclaim.

I stood, torn between a desire to dig much deeper and to run away, kicking up a cloud of dust to blank out the new information I couldn’t now unknow.

Did Nico know? Did Lara? Anna? Were they all in on some kind of weird joke? Perhaps just Massimo knew, so ashamed of himself, he had buried it deep, hoping the rest of his family would never need to find out. I still found it difficult to accept the version of Massimo Dawn was presenting to me. The man I knew was always up for a laugh, swinging Sam onto his shoulders, ready with the jump leads whenever my knackered old Fiesta gave up the ghost.

I forced a smile. ‘He’s a lovely boy and I’m sorry you’ve had such a terrible time. I don’t really know what to say.’

Dawn surprised me by giving me a huge and heartfelt hug. ‘Take care in that family. Nico is lovely but the rest are a nest of vipers. Just answer me one thing: did Massimo marry again?’

I nodded, expecting her to make some catty comment. But instead she sighed. ‘That poor, poor woman. She’s going to have an unbearable life.’

Without saying anything else, we walked out to reception, where Ben was eating great chunks of a baguette in a way that would have had Anna tutting. I tried not to stare at him, tried not to put him on weirdo woman alert, but there was absolutely no mistaking who his father was.

At that moment, Francesca arrived, tossing her bag over her shoulder.

‘You did really well!’ I gushed.

For once she responded like a normal person and said, ‘Thank you. Shame I didn’t get to do the other race.’

Dawn congratulated Francesca on swimming so well and pride surged through me as she chatted and laughed. Then I had the horrible thought that Francesca might fancy Ben and it would all be a bit odd as he was her cousin, so I didn’t prolong the goodbyes and hurried her off to the car.

I hoped – unusually – she would do what she always did, plug herself into her headphones so I could think through what I’d just heard. But Sod’s law, she wanted to talk.

‘That Ben, the one whose mother you were just speaking to, he’s an amazing swimmer. His freestyle time was faster than the age group above. I bet he gets scouted for the national team eventually.’

As she was talking, the image of Sandro unconscious on the edge of the pool kept coming into my mind. The whole fuckedupness of it all: one son petrified of water who Massimo wanted to turn into an Olympic swimmer, and one son he wouldn’t acknowledge who had the potential to be just that.

And what did Dawn mean about the way Massimo behaved over Ben being the final straw, not the starting point? Granted, if what she said was true about how Massimo had treated her, it didn’t show him in a good light. But that was only her side of the story. Maybe she’d been an absolute nightmare to live with; maybe the whole Ben saga had been the last unhappy chapter in an already disintegrating relationship? But somewhere in the back of my brain, there was an anxious swirling, my mind straining to brush it out of the way so I could deal with the facts, not flimsy feelings or instincts.

A sense of unease was starting to creep through me, my thoughts turning to Lara, the watchful urgency about her, as though the pasta was about to boil over or she’d left the bath running. The frenzied rush to get the mop out if anything got spilt, even when it was just on the kitchen tiles.

But was she really like that because of Massimo? He was always so affectionate towards her, embarrassingly kissy-kissy. I could see that he was pretty dominant, a man who liked things just so and had an opinion on everything. On the other hand, I reckoned a straw poll of a cross-section of married women would prove the world hadn’t moved on as much as we’d all expected by now. That given a choice and enough cash, men would still rather go hunter-gathering and come back to a woman in a polka dot pinny, serving up a steak Diane and a slab of Black Forest gateau. Nico had been a revelation to me – a man who not only knew what a Hoover was used for but could change a bag in one. Massimo expecting his wife to keep his house to show-home standards wasn’t a reason to start thinking he’d bullied his ex-wife and shirked his parental responsibilities.

Thankfully this was one secret I could discuss with Nico. I’d have to be very careful not to present it as a criticism of Massimo. One of the things I loved about Nico was his loyalty, but the whole lot of them were like Shire horses with their blinkers on when it came to each other’s faults. But maybe it wouldn’t end up being a big deal.

Something in me sagged. Everything in the Farinelli family was always a big deal.

Anyway, it could wait. If no one had known about Ben for thirteen years, a couple of days wouldn’t make much difference. But I knew the bit of me that was hacked right out of my mother would be noseying away, picking through conversations for clues that it was one massive conspiracy, that everyone else was whispering, ‘Sshh, Maggie’s coming,’ whenever they were talking about Ben.

My mind carried on whirling around, interspersed with the occasional ‘How much longer till we get home?’ from Francesca.

We drew up outside our house just before four-thirty. Francesca turned to me: ‘Can’t wait to tell Uncle Massimo that I won. Thanks for taking me, Mags.’

‘Wouldn’t have missed it. You blew the competition out of the water.’

Then we both laughed and said at the same time, ‘Literally’.

And despite the fireworks fizzing round my head until I was worried some vital grey matter would come smoking out of my ears and I’d lose the knack of doing up my bra or cleaning my teeth, I still wanted to do a little happy dance.

But that really would have spoilt the moment.

43

LARA

When Massimo had phoned from his conference in Liverpool, I told him I had two surprises for him when he got home on Saturday afternoon.

‘Does it involve you taking your clothes off and having a go at making a baby?’

As always when the topic of another baby came up I felt a rush of guilt. Despite Massimo continuing to be a great advert for marriage, I didn’t yet trust him enough to feel capable of bringing another child into the world, another being to consider – and to protect – if necessary. Although I was edging towards accepting that an overdone steak, a failure to record his favourite TV programme, one of Lupo’s hairs in the butter might no longer be the disasters they once were, I still wasn’t ready to stop having contraceptive injections. Every time he brought up the subject of going for tests to see why we were unable to conceive, I experienced a rush of nausea so overwhelming, throwing up became a real possibility. I’d come up with a whole raft of excuses to put him off getting a medical opinion. My latest stalling tactic was to keep referring to the fact that sperm quality declined after the age of forty. His desire to have another child was currently equalled by his fear of finding out the problem lay with him, not with me. A middle-aged man with sub-standard rather than romp-home, spear-carrying sperm would not fit Massimo’s image of himself.

When I knew Massimo was on his way home, I couldn’t stay still. I kept telling myself he wouldn’t have a problem with Dad being here. That he’d be thrilled I’d learnt to drive. But I couldn’t settle. I kept walking past the hall window, watching for his car. I’d allowed myself to get dragged back into my old habits, making sure there was white wine of every possible grape variety chilled in the fridge, every hand towel in the house was freshly laundered, Sandro had secured his curtains with the tie backs.

In between times I kept pausing at the door to watch Sandro with Dad. One of the things that had captured and held Dad’s attention was Sandro’s electric keyboard. Sandro was showing him how he could play chopsticks. And from nowhere, Dad took over and started to play ‘Hey Jude’, singing along in his croaky voice.