Though she had no memories from before Peter had come into their lives, she knew that her mother had brought her to England when she was little more than a month old. They’d lived in Highgate then, with a distant relative of Alessandra’s, a great-aunt once removed called Giovanna who’d treated her great-niece and the infant kindly, insofar as she was able to treat anyone in any way, given her many afflictions. In lieu of rent Alessandra had taken care of her old aunt and run the house, while Gayle, a young Australian nurse who’d come each day to give the old lady her vital insulin shots, returned on three evenings a week to babysit Lainey while Alessandra went to work as a waitress.
That was when she’d met Peter.
The question of why Alessandra had left Italy with such a young baby was one that had haunted Lainey for years, along with who her natural father might be. She’d searched the Internet, over and over, but it had yielded no answers so she’d created stories of her own. He’d been killed in a tragic accident and her mother had been so heartbroken that she could never bring herself to speak of it. Or maybe he’d been married to somebody else, so Alessandra had been banished from the country to save her Catholic family from the shame of having to bring up a
bastarda.
Though the latter seemed a more likely scenario, if it were true surely her mother would have admitted to it eventually, at least to Peter, but as far as Lainey was aware her mother’s past life had always been as closed to him as it had to her.
‘It’s not something she’s comfortable discussing,’ he’d tell her, ‘so we shouldn’t try to force her.’
Now, even if he had been protecting her from some terrible truth, he probably couldn’t remember what it was anyway.
Reaching into the cupboard beside the bed, Lainey pulled out her mother’s handbag and sat with it on her lap, holding it in both hands. She knew if she opened it she’d smell the Chanel No 5 Alessandra had always used, probably with a faint tinge of mustiness now. She wasn’t sure if she had the heart to do it. She missed her mother so much, in spite of – or maybe because of – the difficult relationship they’d shared. She felt sure Alessandra had loved her really, she’d just found it hard to show it – until the end, of course, when Alessandra had clung to her desperately, as though Lainey, and Lainey alone, could somehow make the demons go away. Maybe Lainey could have, if Alessandra had named them, but she never had, perhaps not even to the priest who’d come to hear her final confession.
Hearing the phone ringing elsewhere in the house, she kept hold of the bag as she ran along the landing to her and Tom’s room. It was going to be him. He was ready now to explain what was happening and everything was going to be all right.
It turned out to be the mother of one of Zav’s friends, asking if Lainey could do the school run on Monday instead of Tuesday.
After assuring her she could, Lainey rang off and quickly picked up again as another call came in.
‘It’s me,’ Stacy told her. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Kind of.’
‘No news, I take it.’
Feeling the words like small blows, Lainey said, ‘Nothing.’
‘And you’ve cancelled the dinner?’
‘I rang everyone about an hour ago. I said there was a problem on set that Tom had to attend to, and I seem to be coming down with something that I don’t want to pass around. Anyway, tell me how you’re feeling about meeting Martin’s mother tonight.’
They talked on for a while, mostly about Martin and Stacy’s prospective job, since Lainey didn’t want to talk about Tom – if she did, she’d be in danger of giving life to the awful scenarios she was concocting in her head. Finally she said, ‘Don’t forget to call in the morning to let me know how it went.’
After ringing off she sank down on Tom’s side of their bed, still clutching her mother’s bag and trying not to imagine where he might be now. Was he thinking of her, worrying about how she was taking this sudden change to the day, perhaps to their lives? Had he stopped to consider what conclusions she might be jumping to? Was he at all concerned about what she might be going through? Did he intend to come back? If he did, would she end up wishing he hadn’t?
Pressing a cheek to the soft leather of her mother’s bag, she wondered what Alessandra would do if this were happening to her. Had Peter ever made her feel this anxious and vulnerable? He’d angered and frustrated her at times, that was for sure, but Lainey couldn’t imagine her father ever giving Alessandra any concerns for his loyalty – or his love. They’d always seemed so close, so together in spite of Alessandra’s fiery nature. Strangely, the only person who’d never fallen victim to her mother’s often vicious tongue was Tom, probably because even she hadn’t had the nerve for that. More than anything, Tom had made her laugh, or caused her to rethink an impulsive opinion or decision. She’d enjoyed battling wits with her son-in-law and husband, often running them round in circles in spite of having very little of their intellectual might.
Though Tom had his theories about Alessandra’s past, he’d never attempted to draw her on the subject. As far as he was concerned it was none of his business, which didn’t mean he wasn’t interested, or unsupportive of Lainey’s need to know more about her roots. If anything, he was as curious as Lainey was to find out what had caused Alessandra to abandon her native country. However, he saw no point in quizzing her when she’d made it so abundantly clear that she had no desire to be reminded of her life before coming to England, or of whatever family she might still have in Tuoro.
If there was anyone – a mother, father, grandmother, brothers, sisters, cousins – they certainly hadn’t come looking for Alessandra, or not as far as Lainey was aware. In fact, all Lainey had to link herself and her mother to the small town on the edge of Lago di Trasimeno were their birth certificates. There was also the single page of a letter, which Lainey had found amongst her mother’s papers following her death. It was in the handbag, along with Alessandra’s crimson lipstick, her grey ostrich-skin purse containing fifteen pounds in cash, her silver and onyx rosary beads and a small phial of her favourite perfume.
Though Lainey probably knew the contents of the single page by heart, she slipped it out of the bag anyway and felt a wave of longing sweep through her as the scent of her mother came with it. It was when she was feeling at her lowest ebb that she missed her the most, which was odd really, given how rarely she had turned to Alessandra for comfort and advice.
The letter was written in Italian, but Lainey had paid to have it translated, and kept the neatly typed English version clipped to the handwritten original.
Tuoro, 8th September 1984
My dearest bambina,
Thank you for informing me of Giovanna’s death. I was very sad to hear the news, but of course it was not a surprise as I know she has been ill for many years. May our dear Lord bless her eternal soul and take it into his keeping.
You write very lovingly of your new husband. He must be a good man to take your daughter as his own, as this is not always an easy thing for a man to do. Would you like me to tell your mother that you have named your child after her? I have not done so yet as I am unsure how she will receive the news.
I was disturbed to hear that you find it hard to look at the child without thinking of what happened, but please remember that she is not to blame. I know in your heart you are still angry, and I understand that, but I pray every day for . . .
This was where the page ended, and though Lainey had searched every pocket, drawer, handbag and cupboard in the house for the rest of the letter she’d never found it.
Those few short lines had left her with even more questions than before, not least of which was why Alessandra had told the writer that she’d named her daughter after her mother when, according to the birth certificate, Alessandra’s mother’s name was Melvina. And why did the writer seem reluctant to tell Alessandra’s mother that her grandchild bore her name?
From the handwriting and the tone of the letter Lainey thought the writer was probably a woman, but she had no way of knowing for certain, nor could she tell if she, or he, was in any way related to Alessandra. There seemed to be a degree of affection between them, however, and from the comments about Peter, and about finding it hard to look at her daughter without remembering, it seemed Alessandra had opened up to this person in a way she never had with anyone else.
Tom had wondered if the writer was a priest; Stacy felt it was more likely to be a close friend of the family, while Tierney had decided it was the grandmother Alessandra had called out for at the end. Lainey was inclined to agree with Tierney, but whoever the writer was, she had no idea if she would find this person when she went to Tuoro; having no name to help her get started, it was unlikely to be easy. It didn’t matter, she was going anyway, armed with what little she did have, and if she ended up finding out nothing at all, then so be it. At least she’d have tried, and hopefully they’d have had a lovely holiday anyway.
Or they might have done, if Julia hadn’t suddenly come into their lives.
It wasn’t going to make a difference, she told herself forcefully. Everything would be sorted out just as soon as she spoke to Tom, and slipping the letter into the bag she went to return it to its rightful place.
‘Oh God, Lainey, I’m sorry,’ Nadia groaned, clearly embarrassed at turning up when she was no longer expected. ‘I was driving and didn’t check my messages. Don’t worry, I’m out of here, just tell me, is everything all right? The kids are OK? Your dad’s still with us?’
‘We’re fine,’ Lainey assured her, reaching for her mobile as it rang. Did Nadia know Julia? Should she ask? Her heart skipped as she saw it was Tom on the line. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to Nadia, ‘I have to take this, but don’t go yet. Hello,’ she said into the phone.
‘Hi, it’s me.’
‘Yes, I know.’
There was a beat before he said, ‘I just wanted to check you’re OK, and to say sorry again for rushing off.’
Sounding colder, more hostile than she intended, she said, ‘It might help if I knew why.’
‘Yes, of course, but it’s not a conversation to have on the phone.’
She could feel herself stiffening. Turning away from Nadia, she said, ‘I know you saw the text, so who is Julia?’
He didn’t reply.
Her eyes closed as an awful confirmation washed over her worst suspicions.
‘Are you with her now?’ she asked shakily.
‘Yes, but it . . .’
She didn’t want to hear any more. ‘That’s all I need to know,’ she interrupted, and before he could speak again she cut the call dead. A voice inside was already telling her she should have let him speak, but another was shouting back, why? She didn’t need the sordid details, especially not over the phone, or while his agent was there. They could talk later, face to face, when he came back. Presuming he was intending to come back. Of course he was; practically everything he owned was here . . .
‘Sorry about that,’ she said, forcing a smile as she turned to Nadia. ‘Why don’t you at least have a cup of tea now you’re here? I was about to make one.’
Nadia regarded her uncertainly. She was a large woman with copious amounts of greying curls, electric-blue eyes behind fuchsia-pink framed glasses and a smile that could make a person blink, it was so sunny. It made her seem far younger than her forty-nine years, as did her almost flawless complexion.
‘You’re welcome, honestly,’ Lainey assured her, glancing at her mobile as it rang again. Seeing it was Tom, she let it go through to messages and turned to put the kettle on. ‘Actually, it’s five o’clock, why don’t we have some wine?’ she suggested.
‘Better not if I have to drive,’ Nadia grimaced, ‘but a cup of Earl Grey would really hit the spot.’
Tensing as the landline started to ring, Lainey might have ignored that too had Nadia not noticed it was Tom and scooped up the receiver to pass it over. ‘Hi,’ Lainey said evenly, more for Nadia’s sake than Tom’s.
‘I know what you’re thinking . . .’
‘Nadia’s here,’ she told him. ‘She didn’t get the message about tonight being off, but it’s lovely to see her anyway. Do you want to have a word?’ and before he could object she returned the phone to his startled agent. ‘I’m just going to check on Dad,’ she whispered. ‘If he wants to speak to me again tell him I’ll call him later,’ and leaving them to it she ran upstairs to her father’s room.
Ten minutes later she returned with Peter and Sherman, and though it was apparent as soon as Nadia greeted Peter that he didn’t have any memory of who she was, his pleasure at seeing her made her smile.
‘Sandra should be down in a minute,’ he told her. ‘I expect that’s who you’ve come to see.’
Unfazed, Nadia said, ‘That’ll be lovely. Are you going to have some tea? I’ve just made a pot.’
‘Oh, marvellous. I’ll get Sherman some water . . .’
‘It’s OK, I’ll do that, Dad. You go and sit down.’
As Peter made his way across the dining area, Nadia said, ‘I hadn’t realised the unit was shooting today. What a pain that they’ve run into a mess with the script. Actually, I never thought this latest adaptation was particularly well done, and I know Tom wasn’t impressed with it either, so I guess it’s not surprising they need him to go and sort things out.’
Lainey rolled her eyes as if to show how tiresome she found it on today of all days. What she was really thinking was how easily, how smoothly he’d apparently lied. Her husband the gifted storyteller.
Still, it presumably meant that Nadia didn’t know about Julia, unless they’d concocted a cover between them while Lainey was out of the room. Since Nadia was fiercely loyal to Tom, it was certainly possible.
‘How’s Guy?’ she asked chattily, referring to Nadia’s extremely attractive and much younger husband. There were those, Lainey knew, who believed Guy had only married Nadia to get a share in her agency, and Max, who’d walked out of his work experience at the agency after some dispute with Guy, was amongst them. So, indeed, was Tom, though his affection for Nadia made him try harder than he otherwise might have to disguise his antipathy. As for Lainey, she put a lot of the male antagonism down to plain old-fashioned jealousy of Guy’s more tender years, combined with his rock-star looks and undeniable charisma. It was true, she could wish he wasn’t quite so flirtatious (she found it more irritating than flattering), and she hadn’t been especially thrilled by the way he’d responded to Tierney the last time he and Nadia had come for the weekend. OK, he was probably only being polite, given how outrageously Tierney had flirted with him. Nevertheless, considering her age he could have toned down his response a little.