Resisting The Italian Single Dad. Katrina Cudmore

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СКАЧАТЬ in her voice, ‘Is your satnav speaking in Italian?’

      ‘Yes… I like some reminders of home.’

      Her bee-stung mouth carved upwards into a light smile. ‘I wondered if you were Spanish or Italian.’

      Despite himself he smiled and faked indignation. ‘How could you confuse the two? I’m Italian and very proud to be.’

      ‘So why are you in cold and damp London? Why not the Amalfi coast or somewhere as gorgeous as that?’

      ‘I like London, the opportunities here. I’ve a home in Italy too—on Lake Como—but my work commitments mean I rarely get to visit there.’

      ‘I’ve never been but I would love to one day.’ She gave her head a small shake and, sitting more upright in her seat, she clasped her hands together. ‘Okay, tell me how I can help you and why it was so urgent that we talk today?’

      Her voice had returned to its formal professionalism. Max waited for a break in the traffic to turn right out of Rowan Road, fighting the reluctance to confess the problems in his family. Eventually he forced himself to admit, ‘My daughter Isabella is twenty-two months old. She’s a terrible sleeper. The worst in the world. I thought as she got older it would improve but in recent months it has only worsened.’

      Carly twisted in her seat and he glanced over to find her studying him carefully. ‘What do you mean by a terrible sleeper?’

      Her tone held a hint of censure, as though she didn’t quite believe him. Frustration tightened in his chest. ‘She won’t go to sleep—it can take hours and has tried the patience of even the most chilled-out nannies that I’ve managed to employ. She wakes frequently at night and refuses to go back to sleep. It’s causing havoc. She’s tired and irritable during the day and my job is very demanding—her sleeplessness is killing my concentration. I can’t retain nannies. They all walk out eventually. My neighbours have a boy of a similar age who’s been sleeping through the night since he was five months old.’

      ‘No two children are the same. Don’t compare Isabella to other children—on this or anything else. Trust me, it’s the quickest route to insanity for any parent. Studies vary in their results but some say that fewer than half of all children settle quickly at night and sleep through. Isabella is in the majority by waking.’

      Max shook his head, picturing Isabella’s brown eyes sparking with anger last night as she stood beside her bed and shook her head each time he told her it was time to go to sleep. ‘È ora di andare a letto, Isabella.’

      His daughter’s word count was slowly increasing but her favourite word continued to be a defiant, ‘No.’ And last night she had used it time and time again, her chestnut curls bouncing about her face as she dramatically shook her head.

      He had been so tempted to crawl into bed beside her, to hold her in his arms, sniff her sweet baby scent, listen to her soft breaths when she eventually fell asleep. But to do so would be to do Isabella a disservice. She needed to learn to go to sleep on her own, learn to be independent of him.

      He rolled his eyes. ‘I bet she’s an outlier though; I bet she’s in the top one per cent for waking at night. My daughter doesn’t do anything by halves.’

      She smiled at that. He felt a surprising pleasure that she got his attempt at humour. ‘Waking at night is normal. Children wake for a variety of reasons: shorter sleep cycles, hunger, being too hot or cold, their room being too bright, or the need for comfort and assurance. I find that unrealistic expectations cause parents the most stress. How does Isabella’s mother feel about her sleeping?’

      Max cursed under his breath at a car that swerved into his lane on the Hammersmith flyover without indicating. The tight fist of guilt that was his constant companion these days squeezed even fiercer. Would talking about Marta ever get easier? Would the guilt of her death—how they had fought in the hours before—ever grow less horrific? ‘Isabella’s mother, Marta, died in a car crash when Isabella was three months old.’

      ‘I thought…’ She glanced in his direction, confusion clouding her eyes. ‘I saw you from my office window earlier…’

      Now he understood her confusion. ‘My wife’s friend Vittoria agreed to take Isabella this afternoon so that I could meet with you.’

      He waited in the silence that followed for her response to hearing of Marta’s death. Most people responded with panic, a keen urge to change the subject or preferably, if circumstances allowed it, to find an excuse to get away.

      ‘I’m very sorry to hear about your wife. It must have been a very difficult time for you.’

      Her softly spoken words sounded heartfelt. He glanced in her direction and swiftly away again, not able to handle the compassion in her eyes.

      ‘Do you have other children?’

      ‘No, just Isabella.’

      ‘Have you family or friends nearby, who support you?’

      ‘I have some friends, like Vittoria…but they have their own families to look after.’ Max paused, pride and guilt causing him to add more fiercely, ‘Anyway, we don’t need support.’

      ‘It can’t be easy coping on your own since Marta died.’

      He didn’t answer for a while, focusing his attention on merging with the traffic on the Westway, but also thrown by all her questions, what she was saying…how easily she said Marta’s name. Most people skirted around ever having to mention Marta’s name, as though it was taboo to say it out loud. He swallowed against a tightening in his throat, suddenly feeling bone tired. At work he deliberately kept a professional distance from those who worked for him. The few friends he had in London, friends that in truth had been Marta’s friends and had probably stayed in his life out of duty and respect to Marta, had stopped asking him about how he was managing a long time ago. In the early months after Marta had died, he had made it clear it wasn’t up for discussion.

      He saw a gap in the traffic open up in front of him and he pressed on the accelerator. He needed to get back to the office and he was keen to get this conversation over and done with. He wanted Carly Knight to show him how to get Isabella to sleep, not ask all these questions. ‘I grew up in a one-parent household, my mother raised me single-handedly. It’s a fact of life for a lot of people.’

      ‘Yes, but it’s not the future you had envisioned, and losing that must be very hard.’

      He wanted to thump the steering wheel hard with the palm of his hand. Carly’s words were resonating deep inside him. He didn’t just miss Marta, he missed the future they had mapped out together, he missed the support of co-parenting, he missed having someone to talk to. All selfish things that only added to his guilt that Marta had died so young, that she would never see Isabella grow up. Marta would despair over just how out of sync he and Isabella were—their relationship was more often than not a battle of wills, and at the moment Isabella was winning. Of course he adored his daughter but he worried deeply about how dependent she was on him, which only seemed to be worsening in recent months, given her tendency to cling to him and her refusal to be cared for by others. How would she cope if anything ever happened to him?

      ‘Isabella’s nanny walked out yesterday. Dr Segal referred me to you this morning when I took Isabella to see her. She said you have helped some of her other patients.’

      ‘Your nanny walked СКАЧАТЬ