mean, who’ll take care of your child,’ Mary asks, ‘when you rush off back to work?’
‘Er, a nanny or childminder or nursery,’ Nadine says, in an isn’t-that-obvious? voice.
‘Oh, so you’re planning to do that, are you?’ Mary counters.
‘Mum,’ Rob cuts in, ‘we haven’t decided any of that yet.’
Nadine throws Rob a confused look, then focuses back on his mum. ‘Er … I will want to go back to work, Mary, so, yes. I can’t imagine being a full-time mother.’
‘Can’t you?’ Mary exclaims.
‘No, I imagine it’d drive me mad,’ Nadine replies with a small laugh.
Shut up, shut up, shut up, Rob wills her, glancing fretfully at his mum in her violently-patterned purple floral dress, with her lipstick applied a little too thickly today. He needs to talk to Nadine alone and explain that Mary is of the opinion that if you don’t willingly spend every moment of eighteen long, hard years tending to your children’s every need, then really, why did you bother having them? ‘I looked after Roberto and Domenico,’ Mary says carefully, ‘and I’d never have done it any differently. I’m their mum … isn’t that right, Eugene?’
‘Yes, Mary,’ he mutters.
‘Well, I’ll still be the baby’s mummy—’ Nadine starts.
‘And Kerry gave up everything to be a full-time mother to Mia and Freddie,’ Mary adds. ‘Devoted, she was, from day one …’
‘Mum, please,’ Rob barks. ‘We’re capable of figuring it all out, you know. There’s still plenty of time.’
‘Not that much, Roberto.’ Mary’s gaze drops to Nadine’s belly.
‘What did Mummy give up?’ Mia asks thoughtfully, the first words she’s spoken over lunch.
‘Nothing, sweetheart,’ Rob murmurs.
‘D’you mean her job at the university, Nanny?’
Mary’s face softens a little. ‘Er, yes, love.’
‘She still went to work,’ Mia adds helpfully, ‘but not every day. Some days we went to nursery and some days we did fun stuff like Play-Doh and drawing.’ She grins expectantly at Nadine.
‘My mummy’s a piano teacher,’ Freddie announces loudly.
‘Er, yes, so I’ve heard.’ Nadine clears her throat.
‘Can I have pudding now?’ he adds. ‘I want pie.’
‘Yes, of course you can, Freddie.’ Mary springs up from her chair, clearing mounds of plates without any offers of help, and beetles towards the kitchen.
Sorry, Rob mouths to Nadine, but her attention has been diverted by something Freddie appears to have done. ‘Er, did you just put sweetcorn in your ear?’ she asks lightly.
‘No?’ He phrases it as a question.
‘I’m sorry’ – she frowns at Rob – ‘I thought I just saw him. In fact, I’m sure he did …’
‘Well, I didn’t,’ Freddie snaps. ‘She’s lying.’
‘Freddie!’ Rob hisses, ‘that’s very rude. Apologise to Nadine right now.’
‘No!’
Rob takes a big gulp of wine, wondering how far to take this.
‘You wouldn’t do a silly thing like that, would you, Freddie, love?’ Mary calls through from the kitchen.
‘No, Nanny.’ Freddie folds his arms and smiles smugly. ‘Can I have toffee pie?’
Only now does Rob dare to reach for Nadine’s hand under the table and give it a small squeeze. Sorry, he wants to tell her again. Sorry for Freddie’s horrible behaviour and for not standing up for you about the going-back-to-work thing. It’s just Mum, just her way, she’s not that bad really … He can’t, though – not in front of his father and children who are sitting glumly at the table, as if awaiting trial.
Instead, he tries to pretend everything’s normal, and quizzes his dad about new additions to his pickle line, while marinating in his own shame.
*
Food and wine keep coming all afternoon, all the better for Rob to anaesthetise himself with. Thankfully, there is no further discussion over Nadine’s plans to abandon her firstborn in favour of a glittering career in interior design. Eugene has also perked up, and is waxing lyrical about onions – ‘Pearl pickles in balsamic, shortlisted for the small producer’s award’ – which doesn’t seem too controversial until Freddie pipes up, ‘Onions stink, Nonno.’
‘Freddie.’ Rob rolls his eyes at him. ‘I’m sure you’ll like Nonno’s onions when you’re older because they’re very special.’
It’s true, Tambini’s Pickles has flourished for four decades, and at seventy-two, Eugene seems to have no intention of loosening the reins on his baby.
‘D’you like onions?’ Freddie turns to Nadine.
‘Um, I used to,’ she says carefully, ‘but since I’ve been expecting the baby I haven’t liked them at all.’
‘Why?’
‘Um … your tastes change,’ she explains. ‘Things you used to like suddenly taste weird, and you start craving other foods instead.’
‘What’s “crave”?’ Freddie asks, glowering at her as if she might have made a terrible smell.
‘When you want something so, so much, that you have to have it.’ Nadine smiles at Rob, and he feels a rush of affection – or is it pity? – for her. Poor girl, trapped in his parents’ stuffy dining room with its dark wood panelling and his hostile kids, gamely trying her best. He wants to tell her she’s doing great and he’s proud of her, and for his mother to stay where she is, out of harm’s way in the kitchen. But here she comes, whipping away dessert plates, then reappearing with a cheeseboard bearing a pungent Camembert and a melting wedge of Brie.
‘What’s with the French stuff, Mum?’ Rob asks. ‘Why not the usuals?’ Taleggio and Gorgonzola, he means – his father’s favourites.
‘Domenico’s been managing a project in Lyon,’ Eugene says. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’
‘Oh yes, I think he mentioned it …’ Of course, despite life being a little full-on right now, it’s essential to keep up with my brother’s schedule …
‘Brought these back for us,’ Mary adds, eyes gleaming with pride. ‘So thoughtful, even though he was ever so busy with meetings.’
‘That’s nice, Mum.’ Rob looks dolefully at the wooden board. They’re only cheeses, but they seem to symbolise the gaping chasm between the high flier at the helm of some kind of global call centre operation, and him, the big brother, whose career has been reduced to pretending to be a woman who goes on about sex a lot.
‘I’m sorry, Mary,’ Nadine says, ‘but I can’t eat those.’
‘Why not?’ Mia asks.
‘Er, because they’re unpasteurised,’ Rob explains.
‘That means they might have germs in,’ Nadine adds, ‘that could harm the baby.’
‘Yeuch!’ Freddie recoils from the table.
‘No, they’re okay for you to eat,’ Rob explains. ‘Come on, you’ve always liked trying different cheeses …’
‘Don’t want germy cheese,’ Freddie announces, jumping down from his chair even though he has yet to be granted permission (Rob’s parents are extremely