Page 10 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

We called them the three Ms: Maria, Martina and Monica. They owned Le Tre Donne, an award-winning Italian restaurant in Boston. Maria was the cook while Martina was the front woman who took care of the patrons and the look of the place. Monica was the techie who took care of the marketing and the financial side. Together, they were invincible and loved us fiercely as if we were their own.

None of them had ever married despite multiple proposals and Marcy was eternally jealous of them, as they doted on Dad, especially, I’m told, after my real mother died. Zia Maria would feed him his favorite dishes, while Zia Martina would tailor him the finest Italian suits and Zia Monica would give him cutting-edge business advice. Together, the three of them had him covered, much to Marcy’s annoyance. She never missed out on the chance to belittle them, despite their beauty, grace and success.

And whenever Marcy drank, which was becoming more and more often according to Judy, she went from passive-aggressive to downright in-your-face, criticizing them for anything and everything, like a helpless, dying angry fish flapping at its destiny. Having them here all in the same house this summer promised to be a bloodbath.

I sighed. So much for not worrying about anything. It was a good thing Paul was coming to my aid.

3

Venues and Menus

Paul’s flight was right on schedule and he came out of customs looking as fresh as a daisy. No wrinkly shirts, no messy hair and most of all, come to think of it, absolutely no tired lines on his face after a ten-hour flight. How did hedothat? Whenever I fly somewhere, I land looking like I’ve just been through a war.

‘Paul!’ I cried.

Really cried, swiping at a gush of tears. This was ridiculous. Paul and I didn’t do tears. We talked and laughed and pondered, but never, ever, did he let me do tears. Of the two of us, I was the one with the wobbly lower lip, for sure, while he always managed to keep his cool.

Apart from the couple of trips he’d made out in the past two years, I’d hardly seen him, so I’d had to make do with video calls. Even if I couldn’t hug him, at least I could see his beloved face or his wacky expressions. Which I wasn’t seeing now.

When he spotted me, his face lit up, but he didn’t smile. Not even a teensy, barely noticeable curling upwards of the mouth. Something was definitely wrong.

‘Sunshine!’ he drawled, wrapping his long arms around me and planting a kiss on my lips. ‘You look great!’

‘And you look… different.’ Weird. Definitely. ‘Spray tan?’ I tried to guess.

‘Botox!’ he cried.

‘Paul, no! You said you were never going to do anything like that.’

‘I said I wasn’t going to do it as long as I held out. But when I woke one morning and saw I was starting to look like my mother, I told myself I couldn’t come to Italy – and your wedding – looking all leather-bag saggy-faced.’

I was touched. ‘Oh, Paulie! You went through all that for me?’

‘I wanted to look fabulous, so the minute you called with your news, I booked an appointment. But now I can’t move my facial muscles for at least another week. I really want to smile but it hurts!’

That was Paul for you. Honest and prissy. Too bad his gorgeous Latino looks were intended for the other team.

‘Hello, mate!’ Julian appeared, giving him a bear hug.

‘Jules, honey, you look absolutely scrumptious! Italy’s treating you well.’

‘And so is Erica,’ Julian added with a grin. ‘Never been happier.’

I flashed him a smile. To think that I’d made this hunk of a man happy was uplifting. Exhilarating, even. So it must be true, after all.

‘Right, let’s get you home!’ Julian said. ‘Erica is terrified about this wedding.’

‘I am not!’ I protested.

Well, it was really a token protest. I wasn’t scared of the wedding per se, but that something would happen again, and that the day would come and go without the two of us being any more married than Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner. Because although I thought I’d ‘caught’ Julian, he kept on running around the world and there was nothing I could do to keep him still long enough to get married, despite the fact that marriage had been – and still mainly was – his idea.

He rested his hand on the back of my neck as he always did.

‘She’s terrified that a sudden outbreak of the plague is going to stop us from getting married again, although I’ve assured her a million times it’s not happening.’

‘What, the wedding, you mean?’ Paul giggled through stiff lips, and I turned to give him my famous hairy eyeball.

‘It’ll be alright, love. Just have faith.’

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