‘Well, whatever. As long as you’re happy.’ She paused, her eyes narrowing. ‘You are happy, aren’t you?’

I took a deep breath. I struggled to find my no-nonsense voice, didn’t want Mum to think I’d lost my Parker grit and gone all soft now I was a ‘wife’. ‘Of course I’m happy! Nico is really lovely. Just need to win over the rest of the Mafia now and we’ll all be riding off into the sunset on fat little ponies.’

My mum patted my hand. ‘Oh pet. It’s early days. Francesca’s had two years without a mum but Caitlin was ill for nearly a year before that. It’s a lot for any child of her age, poor little mite. Give her time. She’ll come round.’

I nodded. ‘I hope so.’

Mum sniffed. ‘And don’t worry about that Anna. She was all for standing there wringing her hands, but I never saw her roll up her sleeves when there was puke to clear up. None of the women were any cop. That daughter-in-law, what’s her name, Lara, didn’t help out much. Just left it to me to sit with her and tell her that Francesca would be fine, she’d done enough, she could go peacefully.’

I felt a twinge of shame for cringing when I’d heard Mum say ‘Hello duck’ to Anna; for wishing that she’d get her weight under control; for frowning at the woolly hat that made her look old. The ability to be kind, practical and stoic was worth so much more than any amount of draping skill with a scarf.

‘Was Nico really distraught?’ I wanted to take that question back as soon as I’d asked it.

Mum frowned. ‘Don’t get yourself into a “Who did he love more?” competition, Mags. I know Nico loves you. He did find it hard at the end. Everyone did. She was so young. Nico relied on his brother a lot though; Massimo was always popping in to give him a break. Made me feel guilty that you’d never had any brothers or sisters for when I go.’

‘Oh God, Mum, let’s not even go there!’

I cut off the oxygen to that conversation by sticking my head in the fridge to find the vegetables for the soup. We soon fell into an easy rhythm of peeling and chopping, while Sam dashed in and out, telling Mum how he was goalie in the school football team, how Nico was going to take him to a proper match, how he was enjoying walking to school now we lived nearer.

As the soup bubbled away, I laid the table, wondering whether Anna would faint onto the floor if I put out paper, rather than cloth, napkins. Mum was buttering bread rolls, with Sam giving her chapter and verse about the cars Sandro had for his Scalextric next door. ‘I like the Ferrari best, which is an Italian car. I’m half-Italian now, aren’t I?’

I kissed his head. ‘It doesn’t quite work like that. Still, it’s nice Lara’s happy for you to go round there and play with it.’ Although I found the way she delivered exact timings so uppity: ‘Would Sam like to pop round at three-thirty? Till five o’clock?’ On our estate the kids just wandered in and out of each other’s houses until the parents called them home for tea.

‘She likes me going because Sandro hasn’t got the hang of the Scalextric Massimo bought him yet. Every time he goes round a corner the cars fling off and I help him sort it all out. She said I couldn’t go when Massimo’s there, though.’

‘Why not?’ Mum asked.

Sam shrugged. ‘Dunno. I think he finds me too noisy.’

‘Surely not! A little mouse like you!’ Mum said. ‘Mind you, anyone would seem like they were making a right racket after their little boy. Never seen a child so quiet.’

I was just about to ask her what she knew about Lara when we heard the front door open. I wiped my hands on a tea towel. ‘That was quick,’ I whispered to Mum.

It didn’t seem right to fly out into the hallway and say, ‘How did you get on?’ all cheery, as though they’d been on a little outing with tea and scones, so I waited in the kitchen.

I heard footsteps clattering upstairs, then Nico came in, his cheeks red with cold, his face pinched and weary.

‘Are you okay? Where are the others?’

‘Still there. Francesca had a meltdown at the entrance to the cemetery, started stamping on the roses and crying.’ He sighed. ‘She just can’t accept Caitlin’s not coming back. I thought it would help her but maybe it’s still too soon.’

Conscious of my mother looking at me as though I should be whipping out some wifely magic to make everything better, I hugged him. As he sagged into my shoulder, I wondered whether I’d ever stop being the one who came ‘next’, if ‘Nico and Maggie’ would trip off people’s tongues in the same way that ‘Nico and Caitlin’ had.

‘Shall I go up and find Francesca?’ Mum asked. If anyone could talk round a hysterical child, Mum could.

Nico nodded gratefully, as though he was clean out of coping. As Mum went out of the kitchen, Nico said, ‘This is bloody awful. I don’t know what to do. I feel as though she’s stuck in no man’s land. Caitlin would have known how to handle this; she was much better at all this stuff.’

Yet again my stomach lurched as though praise for Caitlin was criticism for me. Deep down I knew Nico was just raw with frustration that he couldn’t help his daughter. But when I’d imagined our lives together, I’d seen myself as the friend, the one Francesca would confide in, the bridge between her and her dad, helping Nico understand the mind of a teenage girl. Instead, I was an enemy to barge out the way so that Francesca could claw her way back to the status quo, trapping her and Nico in a constant homage to Caitlin.

Nico disappeared upstairs. I imagined him lurking outside Francesca’s bedroom, waiting to see if Mum could work her magic.

I was stopped from plunging into even murkier misery by the arrival of the other Farinellis.

Massimo was first into the kitchen, rubbing his hands. He came bundling up to me, threw his arm round my shoulder and in an undertone asked, ‘Francesca all right?’

I grimaced. ‘Mum and Nico are upstairs with her now.’

He nodded. ‘It will get better, you know.’

I bloody hoped he was right.

He sniffed the air. ‘Smells good in here. Vegetable soup? Brilliant. We’re ready for something hot. It was freezing at the cemetery.’

I was so grateful to Massimo for acknowledging I had something to bring to the party. ‘It won’t be long. Have a seat and I’ll make some tea,’ I said, feeling embarrassed, as though I had no right to be welcoming people into Nico’s house.

‘I tell you what – I’ll pop next door and fetch some wine. I think everyone could do with a little pick-me-up,’ he said.

I hovered in front of the kettle, not wanting to ignore his offer but afraid of being too enthusiastic and coming across as graspy or inhospitable. The wine rack in the sitting room was full but I wouldn’t know if I was uncorking a valuable vintage or insulting him with a bottle of plonk destined for a beef stew. ‘If you just hang on a mo, Nico has got plenty of wine, he’ll sort you out when he comes down.’

Massimo smiled, a glittering grin, so like his brother’s but without the hint of reserve that tempered Nico’s. ‘No worries, you save that for another day. I’ve got plenty. Do you like Picpoul?’

I wasn’t sure whether we were still on wine or had switched to a discussion about a new form of snooker. I was trying to decide between ‘I like any white wine’ and ‘I’m a dab hand at bar billiards’, when I was saved from answering by Anna sweeping in with Lara and Sandro. As I stepped forward to welcome them, Anna was already handing me her trench coat without even bothering to say hello. I half-expected her to wait for a cloakroom ticket.

I reminded myself Nico had enough to deal with without a second wife showdown, so I muttered some juicy rude words to myself and did a curtsey in the coat cupboard while flicking the Vs in the direction of where I imagined she was standing.

When I emerged from my secret swearfest, Nico and Mum were coming down with Francesca. The desolation on her face made me call into question the wisdom of marking anniversaries with miserable pilgrimages to gravesides. No wonder the poor girl had had a meltdown. Since I’d read that David Bowie didn’t have a funeral, I’d resolved to instruct Sam to donate my body to medical science and to celebrate random memories of me as they popped up without the stress of a big gloomy date rolling round every year.

I dithered between racing over to her to see if she was all right and not wanting to look as though I thought I could replace her mother in any way. Very softly, I said, ‘Hot chocolate, Francesca?’

She nodded.

Nico mouthed, ‘Thank you.’

I delegated the task to Mum then called Sam to fetch Sandro. He wasn’t as keen on Sandro coming round to us, as the real pull for him was Sandro’s Scalextric. And watching Sandro make his way up the stairs, sliding shyly along the wall, I understood. It was astonishing how little of his dad’s exuberance he’d inherited, a pastel watercolour of the bold and bright outline of Massimo.