Resisting The Italian Single Dad

‘I really don’t think—’

Before she could add anything else, Max interrupted her, his voice low, the intensity of his proud gaze flipping her stomach. ‘I urgently need your help, Ms Knight…as does my daughter.’

Carly Knight’s cornflower-blue eyes disappeared in a slow blink behind her long and lush eyelashes as she considered his words.

Max wanted to walk away. He hated asking for help. It wasn’t in his nature. He found it degrading—a sign of weakness. He valued his privacy, disliked having to expose himself and his family to the scrutiny of an outsider. From a young age he had understood the importance of self-reliance. His mother, a strict disciplinarian, had constantly told him that to be dependent on others made you weak. And growing up in a tough suburban neighbourhood of Rome, he had quickly learned that to survive he had to be strong, resilient and, most important of all, never show weakness.

Carly Knight was not what he had expected. When he had reluctantly called the number his paediatrician had given him, he had imagined meeting an older woman, a grandmother perhaps, with sensible hair and sensible shoes to match her sensible personality. A woman with years of experience dealing with strong-willed toddlers hell-bent on testing their parents.

He hadn’t expected a woman who hadn’t experienced first-hand the exhausting reality of parenting. He hadn’t expected sparkling white trainers under ankle-length faded blue jeans, a white blouse covered in red stars. He hadn’t expected tumbling blonde hair or creamy skin so smooth he wanted to touch his thumb against her high cheekbones. He hadn’t expected the attitude that said he was an inconvenience in her life.

He wanted to walk away; to tell her he didn’t want her help after all. But that would be a lie. He did need her help. And so did Isabella, his beautiful, inspiring, contrary-as-a-hungry-goat daughter. They could not go on as they were. As much as he hated to admit it, they were both miserable. He clenched his jaw as the constant slow burn of guilt for failing his family intensified under Carly Knight’s critical gaze.

Her brow wrinkled but then something softened in her eyes. She let out a deep breath. ‘Okay, I’ll take the lift.’

Torn between the relief that she had said yes and the deep wish that he had never needed to ask for her help in the first place, he took hold of her box, which she released reluctantly, and guided her out to his car.

She had resisted even taking a lift from him. How on earth was she going to respond when she learnt of everything he wanted from her?

Outside she folded her arms and stared pointedly at the double yellow line his car was parked on. He opened the passenger door for her, and nodded down towards the box. ‘Do I smell lavender?’

‘As part of bedtime routines, I recommend to parents that they use aromatherapy creams and oils in baths and in massaging their children—lavender and camomile being just some they can use. I take samples along to my talks to give to parents.’

He placed the box in the rear seat of his car, beside Isabella’s car seat, sure that Isabella would never tolerate him massaging her. Thankfully.

When she got into the car, Carly’s gaze flicked over the leather and walnut interior, her head twisting to take in the rear seat. ‘This must be the cleanest family car I’ve ever seen. Most of my clients’ cars are covered in toys and crumbs and empty wrappers.’

‘I’m away with work a lot. My daughter isn’t in my car that often.’

She frowned at that. Max punched the buttons of his satnav, wondering not for the first time if he had done the right thing. Was Carly Knight about to judge him, to confirm that, yes, he was an inadequate father? Knowing your inadequacy was one thing, allowing someone else to see it, exposing yourself to their criticism, was another matter.

Carly gave him the address of her appointment and he pulled away from the kerb, following the instructions of the satnav voice.

Beside him Carly asked with a hint of surprised amusement 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 out on you because of Isabella’s sleeping?’