After the Lie: A gripping novel about love, loss and family secrets (16 page)

‘
H
ome’ ringing
my mobile broke into my slumber. I glanced at the pillow next to me.

Phew.

Jamie’s voice came on the line. ‘Mum, it’s me.’

‘How are you? Are you surviving without me?’

‘Yeah. Izzy’s being a dickhead but otherwise it’s all right.’

I overlooked the language. I was grateful that he wanted to talk to me at all.

‘What was the party like?’ Open-ended question. Get me on the parenting skills.

It didn’t produce a pay off. His response of ‘fine’ held the impatience of a rigmarole to get through until he could nail the purpose of his call.

‘Is Dad okay?’

‘Yeah. He told me to phone you.’

‘Did he? Is there something I need to know?’

‘The McAllisters have booked a last-minute holiday to Suffolk for half-term and they’ve invited me to go with them. They’re leaving this afternoon.’

I pulled myself into a sitting position. ‘Where are they staying?’

‘They’ve rented a cottage.’

‘How many bedrooms has it got?’

‘Mum! I dunno. But they’re not going to let me share with Eleanor, are they?’ I could hear the telltale tapping of the computer, with Jamie probably scrolling down his Facebook feed doing stupid quizzes about what his ideal job would be, his hippie name, his true nationality.

‘I’d rather you didn’t go. What does Dad say?’

‘He says it’s up to you. He doesn’t have a problem with it but he knows you don’t like the McAllisters.’

Nicely passed, Mark. I’ll be the bad guy then, shall I? I wondered when we’d stopped working as a team.

Jamie’s voice was pleading. We hadn’t been able to afford a holiday this year. He’d watched while his friends went off to Greece, St Lucia, Boston and not said a word. Given that I’d become quite friendly with Katya, it was the height of hypocrisy to have a problem with Jamie hanging out with Eleanor. Was it so bad if he went?

My gut said a definite ‘terrible’. Even taking Sean out of the equation and the possibility of family secrets leaching out into the atmosphere, there was still Eleanor, temptress of teenage boys, to worry about.

‘I’m sorry, lovey. I don’t think it’s appropriate.’

‘Why not?’ He kept his voice low but I heard the angry resignation. I was the mother who said ‘No’. No to him taking the computer out of the kitchen, no to Call of Duty, no to Grand Theft Auto and a definite no to holidaying with slapperish fifteen-year-old girls.

‘I have a fundamental problem with you going away with girlfriends at your age. You’re too young. Your hormones are all over the place and I don’t want you to get into a situation you’re not ready for.’

I knew his face would be a mask of disgust.

‘What situation? Sex? Don’t be stupid.’

‘I’m trying to keep you safe.’

‘No, you’re not. You’re just being difficult, like you always are. You’ve always got a “fundamental problem” with something.’

‘Jamie, don’t be cross with me, love. I’m trying to do what I think is right.’

‘Bye.’ Astonishing how a single word could neatly encapsulate resentment, despair and ‘you’ve got no bloody idea’. I hoped hate wasn’t in the mix. The line went dead.

I dragged myself towards the shower. If I could have bottled it, the lowness of my mood would have been an excellent weapon in warfare to wipe out the morale of invading armies. The pointlessness of motherhood. I’d spent all that time saying, ‘Look both ways’, ‘Don’t go off with anyone’ and ‘Here’s a Haliborange and Omega-3’ and all that my kids would remember about me was my ability to ruin their lives.

I grizzled through the morning, with none of the anticipation and enthusiasm I usually felt in the lead-up to a wedding ceremony. I tugged on my go-to dress for weddings – light grey wool for maximum fade-into-the-background effect – and knocked at my mother’s door. We’d agreed that while Tomaso and I were at the wedding, she’d take herself off to the Uffizi, then to the Duomo to climb the steps up to the cupola. As she opened the door, she looked me up and down. There was no doubt that she could slot right into Florentine life.

‘You’re dreadfully pale. Here, let me put some blusher on you.’

‘No, I’m fine, Mum. See you later.’

She tutted and mumbled, ‘Just trying to help.’ I marched down the corridor to fetch Tomaso, the prospect of freedom already loosening the tension in my shoulders. Something went weak in my legs as Tomaso appeared in a lilac shirt and dark suit, like some demi-god from an aftershave advert.

He waved to my mother, who was still beaking round her door. ‘See you later, Dorothea. Have a wonderful day.’

I felt her eyes on my back as we walked away.

We didn’t speak until we left the hotel. I was fighting my urge to skip, twirl and sing.

Tomaso said, ‘You look beautiful.
Bellissima
.’

‘So do you.’

So easy to be honest.

We walked along the Via de’ Calzaiuoli dodging in and out of the Saturday shoppers. I began to understand how Jamie felt when he was with Eleanor, sealed in a private bubble, the power of raw emotion isolating them in a crowd.

‘Thank you for putting up with my mother.’

‘It’s my Italian blood. We’re much better at the older generational stuff. She’s quite a character. I heard her checking up on you last night.’

I didn’t want to give the impression I’d been peering hopefully through the spy hole, so I murmured something non-committal and changed the subject.

‘Are you ready to tell me about Giacomo? You don’t have to.’

‘Raffaella eventually calmed down enough to take me to him. I didn’t even know whether Giacomo would remember me. Raffaella was probably hoping he wouldn’t and she could prove her new boyfriend would be a better father figure.’

I was conscious of our footsteps keeping perfect time as I waited, braced for his hurt. I shifted closer to him, wanting to absorb some of his pain. ‘So…?’

‘We met at the lake at the Fortezza da Basso. He just ran straight over to me and said, “
Babbo
”, which is Tuscan for ‘Daddy’. And then he took my hand to show me the ducks.’

I heard the words shrivelling in his throat, like cling film too close to the hotplate.

Tomaso ran his hand through his hair. ‘I’ve spent all this time thinking that I was a terrible father, that I couldn’t cope with the responsibility, that I deserved for Giacomo to reject me.’

He looked so wretched that I wanted to comfort him. The other part of me, the bit that mainlined my mother, was thinking,
Poor old Raffaella. She’s done all the heavy lifting through the toddler years, the broken nights, the sheer relentlessness of having to be there, and you pop up because circumstances bring you to Florence and expect to reclaim your role.

Tomaso must have read my thoughts. ‘I guess it’s far more than I deserve.’

I could be a serious contender for
Britain’s Got Talent
with my award-winning sidestepping skills. ‘How was Raffaella?’

‘She said she still loves me. She was ridiculously jealous of you.’

Our arrival at the hotel prevented me from having to answer that. But not before registering a mean-spirited jolt of pleasure that a stunning Italian woman, fifteen years my junior, could find something to envy about me.

As I pushed open the door to the hotel, I clicked into professional mode. The bride and groom were London-sophisticated, no family, just friends, and had vetoed the idea of arriving separately. I dispatched Tomaso to walk the twenty guests up to the Palazzo Vecchio, while I helped the couple into the waiting horse and carriage. I set off before them in a cab so I could video their arrival in the Piazza della Signoria, a square of such beauty that it even housed an open-air sculpture gallery in an exquisite arched
loggia
.

Katya would have loved it, particularly the gruesome statue of Perseus holding up Medusa’s severed head. Despite everything, I felt a rush of affection for her quirky ways.

Very soon, there was no time for any more introspection. The arrival of the horse-drawn carriage, the photos in front of the replica of Michelangelo’s David, the obligatory guest jokes about the size of the statue’s penis kept me fully focused on directing everyone to be seated and settled by two-thirty. Tomaso came into his own dealing with the impatient registrar, who herded us into the Red Hall as though the mere frippery of lifelong commitment was standing between him and his next espresso.

And then we were off, a new story of hope, promise and unity unfolding before us, their words echoing around the ornate room. I loved the certainty in their voices. I’d felt nervous all the way through the ceremony when I married Mark, in case someone suddenly shouted out, ‘Do you know what sort of family you’re marrying into?’ When the vicar pronounced us man and wife, relief made me giddy, as though I’d just shoplifted a bracelet without getting caught. And then within a matter of moments, I’d felt safe.

I should have known it couldn’t last.

Tomaso hit just the right note of warmth and solemnity with his translation of the vows. The groom looked so ferociously protective of his bride that every other wedding I’d seen resembled two people promising no more than to take into account their spouse’s TV-watching preferences. The registrar unfurled slightly at the sheer force of feeling displayed before her.

A few times Tomaso caught my glance, unleashing a bucket of emotions that was threatening to spill over. When the registrar got to the part about ‘forsaking all others’, I stared at the floor. The solidity of the pair in front of me contrasted so strongly with the life I’d built out of sand, just waiting to be washed away in a storm.

Then they were kissing. And another couple cast away on the matrimonial sea, blissfully oblivious to how many life rafts they might need.

B
y the time
the reception was safely underway and Tomaso and I had taken leave of the wedding party, it was gone six-thirty. We were both exhilarated at the success of the day and burst into the hotel foyer, giggling and flirtatious. Yet again the receptionist appeared to be taking a forensic interest in our arrival. She gabbled something to Tomaso, who pulled a face and turned to me. ‘Your mother’s through there. She’s had a fall.’

I rushed through to the area the hotel described as a lounge, though you’d have been hard pressed to find a comfy seat to snuggle up with a book. Perched on one of the über-stylish chairs was my mother, her foot raised on a stool.

‘Mum! Are you okay? What happened?’

My mother launched into her tale of woe, involving the steps at the Duomo, the unexpected drizzle making them a bit slippery, the ‘unruly’ children charging past with ‘no parental control’. The net result was a sprained ankle.

‘Poor you. You should have phoned me.’

‘I didn’t want to disturb you at work. And anyway, all the numbers have disappeared off my phone. I don’t think you can have put them in properly.’

I didn’t even bother responding to that. My mother and mobile phones were as compatible as a penguin and a piano. She filled me in on how a lovely nurse visiting Florence from Bologna had come to help and brought her back to the hotel.

She carried on, ‘The hotel staff have been wonderful at bringing me ice packs and tea. Though Italian tea’s not quite PG Tips, is it?’

I loved the way my mother always focused on the big picture.

Having ascertained that there was definitely nothing broken and that she wasn’t in agony, I turned to practical issues. ‘Going out to dinner will be a bit tricky. Shall we get room service?’

‘I shan’t want anything. They’ve been bringing me biscuits, cakes and cheese all afternoon. I’ve made rather a piglet of myself actually.’

‘Tomaso and I need to eat, though. We’ve been on the go all day without so much as a biscuit. Will you be all right if we pop out for some food?’

My mother frowned as though needing to have some dinner was a fatal character flaw rather than a basic human necessity.

Tomaso stepped in. ‘The best thing for that ankle is rest. Would you like us to help you upstairs?’

She looked about to argue. But Tomaso simply draped her arm round his shoulder with a ‘Come on, Dorothea’, hauled her up to her room and then disappeared while I helped her get undressed.

Owing to my mother’s prudishness – ‘I’ll do this bit, just turn your back’ – the whole process took forever but eventually I propped her up in bed with pillows, instructions for the Sky remote, a dose of Ibuprofen and a promise to pop back in on her after a speedy dinner.

I told Tomaso that we couldn’t be long and was caught between relief and disappointment when he said, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll just have a quick bite somewhere close by.’

And he kept his word. Just around the corner from the hotel, Tomaso pushed open the door to a bar with barely room to squash in among the bodies. Bursts of laughter and loud voices were careering round the tiny space. I persuaded myself that this was the perfect venue, with no risk of intimate conversations taking us to places we shouldn’t go.

Suddenly, the florid-faced man behind the bar gave a shout of recognition, thrust a gnarly hand over the counter and launched into a deafening exchange with Tomaso. He kept looking over at me.

I couldn’t make out whether it was in a ‘Is this the new girlfriend?’ sort of way. Or maybe the Italians simply opted for a full-on gawp whenever anything interesting crossed their vision rather than pretending to be glancing out of the window like the Brits.

Their decibel-filled banter ended with a bottle of red wine being brought down from a shelf that required a ladder. The old man stroked it and drew attention to the gold-bordered label, pointing at the date. He made a big show of opening it and sniffing the cork, selecting two huge goldfish bowls of glasses.

Tomaso picked up a couple of scruffy paper menus and smiled his way through the crowd. Traitorously, my mood lifted as I saw a staircase leading down into a cellar bar, hung with old movie posters, Pinocchio puppets and cast-iron frying pans. Tomaso slipped into a candlelit alcove. I took a seat under a wooden cartwheel on the wall.

‘Are you happy to try this red? It’s pretty special.’

I nodded and glanced down at the menu. Tomaso said, ‘There’s an English translation, but I’m not sure that helps.’

I read: ‘
Lampredotto
: Cows entrails (bottom stomach) boiled.’ Yum yum. Next: ‘
Porchetta
: Big slice of roast pig with his crunch skin.’

I felt Tomaso’s eyes on me.

‘You should have been an actress, you know. Your face is so expressive.’

I tried to deflect the emotion that was closing in around us. ‘So what shall I order? I’m ruling out anything to do with stomachs.’

‘I’ll get a selection. No guts.’

I sipped my wine. I babbled on about how it was remarkably smooth, how Mark liked heavy reds…

Tomaso put his hand up. ‘I know you have a husband. I won’t forget, even if you don’t keep mentioning him. Are things okay with him?’

I blushed. I hoped he couldn’t see my cheeks blaring and flaring in the low light. Speaking about Mark to someone I kept wanting to touch seemed so disloyal. ‘Everything’s fine, thanks.’

I saw the exasperated sigh that escaped Tomaso’s lips even if he tried to stifle it.

I raised my glass. ‘Cheers and well done for your wonderful interpreting today. Is it a double-edged sword being back in Florence?’

But before I got the answer to that, my phone rang. I glanced down expecting it to be my mother who’d miraculously located my number in the magical mystery tour of her mobile. But it was ‘Home’.

I hesitated. I prayed it was one of the kids with a ‘Where are my trainers?’ question. ‘Sorry, I’ll be quick,’ I said, getting up.

It was Mark. I headed up the stairs, squeezing through the noisy throng at the bar.

‘Just ringing to see how it all went.’

I babbled an apology, citing a late finish and my mother and her ankle as an excuse for not calling.

‘Where are you now?’

I finally managed to make my way out into the street. ‘I’m just getting something to eat before I go back to the hotel.’

‘Are you on your own?’

‘No, the interpreter bloke just brought me to a bar to get a quick snack. We hadn’t eaten all day.’ I forced myself to stop talking, which wasn’t difficult as panic was making my voice come out in staccato bursts.

‘Out on the town with a young Italian. Not sure I like the sound of that.’ But he was laughing. His trust in me, the sort of trust built up over years, was so complete that only a truly despicable person would betray it. As soon as the phone call was over, I’d hoof down my dinner and take myself out of temptation’s way.

I tried to steady my voice. ‘Are the kids okay?’

‘Izzy’s watching the
X Factor
. And I haven’t heard from Jamie since he went off to Suffolk but I’m assuming no news is good news.’

‘Suffolk? What’s he doing in Suffolk?’ I thought I might start running up and down like Mabel when she thinks someone has said ‘Walkies’ but then no one makes a move to open the front door.

‘He’s gone with the McAllisters, remember? You spoke to him about it this morning.’

Frustration and fear united to produce a wave of anger. ‘For god’s sake! I’ve been saying for weeks that I didn’t want him spending time round there. Why would I suddenly agree to him going off on holiday with that precocious little monkey? Use a bit of common sense.’

‘He told me you’d said it was okay.’

‘And you didn’t think that was slightly out of character? A bit strange that I’d suddenly said yes to Jamie spending five days with the McAllisters when I don’t even let him spend an hour round there if I can help it?’ I was yelling now, attracting glances from passers-by but unable to stop.

‘All right, Lydia, don’t blow it out of proportion. Of course, he shouldn’t have lied to me but it is only a few days by the seaside with the McAllisters.’

‘God, you just don’t get it, do you?’

There was a pause. ‘No, Lydia, you’re right. I don’t. And I’m getting pretty fed up with trying.’

I cut the call, so furious I could hear the blood pounding in my ears.

I shoved my way back downstairs to find our table crowded with rosemary potatoes, garlicky calamari and spinach and ricotta cannelloni.

Tomaso pulled out my chair for me. ‘I waited for you. Is everything all right?’

I struggled not to cry with the relief at being able to tell someone the entire story, not just a fragment of the whole that would make them hate me. Tomaso held my hand while I burst out with the sorry tale. In-between forkfuls of delicious food, I slugged back great mouthfuls of the ripe berry Chianti, dulling the harsh edges of my conversation with Mark and filling me with a soporific warmth. Just hearing Tomaso’s words, ‘I can really see where you’re coming from,’ soothed the sting of Mark’s words, which underlined, yet again, how he would never understand what my problem was. How could he?

I glanced at my watch. Nearly nine o’clock. ‘I’d better go back.’

‘Just stay for coffee.’

I suddenly became very conscious of my hand in his. ‘No, I’d better not. My mother might be waiting up for me.’

Tomaso flicked his hands up in frustration. ‘You sound like a teenage girl. Just another twenty minutes. You can’t go to bed this early on your last night in Florence.’

The ‘teenage’ barb skewered deep. ‘It’s all right for you. You’ve got nothing to lose. My mother’s got a sixth sense for anything not quite right.’

He nodded an apology. ‘Why don’t we pop to the hotel and see if she’s okay, then come back out for a coffee?’

I let go of his hand. As soon as air filled the space between us, my whole body strained towards him, like a puppy trapped behind a fence, desperate to get to its owner. ‘Go on, then. If she’s all right, I’ll go wild and have a coffee.’