Page 12 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

I snorted. ‘If I knew, I’d be on it. Truth is, I’m in total darkness. Maybe I should give it all up as a bad idea and you and I could expand your catering business, Renata. And cook for Paul’s weddings.’

‘With five kids between us? I only take on one job a month. But I do know an amazing chef who could suggest some venues and help you with your menus,’ Renata offered.

Paul’s face lit up. ‘That’s it!’ he cried. ‘Honey, you’re a genius.’

Renata and I eyed each other. ‘What’s it?’ Renata asked.

‘The name for my new business. Menus and Venues!’ he gushed, smacking her a kiss right on the lips.

‘So, who are your target customers, then?’ I asked.

‘Filthy rich snobs, of course! The richest there are! Julian knows everyone in the jet set. Maybe he could spread the word.’

‘Eva Santos just got engaged,’ Julian offered as he came in, toeing his shoes off as usual.

‘Eva Santos? I love her!’ Paul began to jump up and down. ‘Hook me up, hook me up!’

Little did Paul know that, besides being a great tennis star, Eva Santos was also one of Julian’s many famous exes.

I whipped my head round to look at Julian. ‘How doyouknow she’s engaged?’

Was he keeping in touch with her? Not that there would be anything wrong with that. I mean, not really, just as long as I knew, right?

‘The Daily Mail,’ he answered simply. ‘Whenever I log on, she’s always on the front page for one reason or other.’

OK, that I could handle. Jealous much,moi?

‘Jules, please be a star and give her a call for me, will you? If I can start with her as my first client, then I’m home free.’

‘I’myour first client,’ I objected, but Paul shooed me away.

‘You don’t count. You’re my guinea pig, remember?’

‘Gee. I’m touched to the bone.’

‘Alright,’ Julian chuckled. ‘I’ll ask around and see who her agent is.’

Which meant he didn’t have her direct number. I sort of inwardly sagged in relief. That was one thing out the way.

Paul whipped out a notepad.

‘OK, down to brass tacks. What kind of wedding do you want? Large? Small? Modern? Traditional? It all rotates around the dress, you know. Choose your dress and you have your tone.’

I looked up in dismay. What the hell did I know about wedding dresses? My first dress was as much a disaster as the ceremony. A Catholic–Jewish mess where all the in-laws did was avoid each other.

‘I want it to be the exact opposite of my first one.’

‘Well, considering you were knocked up the first time…’ Paul tittered as he poked me with his stylish mother-of-pearl pen. ‘OK. Here’s what we do. We go dress shopping. I know a woman in Siena who’s dressed most of the who’s who in Italy and abroad.’

‘Yay,’ a voice murmured. Mine. ‘You know my memories of clothes shopping. I’d rather have my teeth pulled.’

In case you didn’t know, when I was a kid, Marcy used to drag me to Macy’s every change of season in an attempt to get me some clothes that would fit. Which was a feat, to say the least. Actually, it was embarrassing, excruciating torture, where she’d shout out to the salespeople all the details of my size and why it wouldn’t fit, or pulled too much around the hips, or simply made me look like a walrus. I shivered at the memory.

‘Ah, but you’re not twelve anymore,’ Paul insisted. ‘This isn’t Macy’s, I’m not Marcy and we’re shopping for your wedding dress! The dress of all dresses.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’

Even if I dieted until I died, I’d never be a whippet. I’d never be one of those slim, graceful swans that were all about class and elegance. Which I was OK with. Although from time to time, when I saw a picture of one of Julian’s exes online, I wondered how he and I even got together in the first place when we came from completely different worlds.

---