Page 14 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

That was an understatement. Worrying was my second nature.

‘And a walk around the town is going to help?’ I asked skeptically.

‘Remember when we were in Boston, just getting to know each other, and you told me about your Tuscan dreams?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Do you remember how you always used to say that getting to Italy was more than half the battle?’

I stopped and looked up at him. ‘I was wrong, Julian. The battle starts when you finally get what you wanted. You have to fight even harder to keep it.’

He studied me, kindness in his eyes. He knew me so well. He knew my fears, my insecurities. Only sometimes, as much as I love him, I had the feeling he didn’t fully understand how invalidating they were for me. Just because he was confident didn’t mean everyone else was.

‘Erica, honey. You need to let things be. Things will go as they will, no matter what you do. But you can attract good vibes by sending them out in the first place. Be positive and you’ll see that everything will be alright. The kids will grow up a dream here, the business will take off and you will be happy.’

To him it was all easy-peasy. The universe was all in his favor and all his pieces fitted. Well, why not, at the end of the day? Who was to say I was right and he was wrong? Maybe there really was method in his madness. Maybe I should have gone with the flow.

‘OK, Julian. I promise I’ll try.’

‘Good girl.’

So we took the morning off and strolled through the antique markets, browsing all sorts of old, totally useless knick-knacks. But there was some interesting antique furniture.

‘Nice, isn’t it?’ Julian said, his hand smoothing over the dark wood of an ancient oak table. ‘It would look great in one of our annexes.’

He smiled down at me and I tried to smile back, but we’d read each other’s minds.Vacantannexes. His jaw clenched as he took my hand.

‘Come on, love, let’s get you acornetto…’

Outside Fernando’s bakery-cum-café, we grabbed a table in the shade. Despite the obscene heat for early May, the town center was bustling with locals spilling in and out of bars, eateries and even Margherita’s tiny supermarket for those who had a faint heart and preferred to shop indoors where there was air con.

Dogs on leashes waited patiently for their owners to let them have a lick of ice cream and, as it was the weekend, kids were allowed to spend the extra euro on some cheap toy that wouldn’t survive the short trip home.

‘The town is teeming with tourists. Where the hell do they all sleep?’ I observed.

‘I don’t know,’ Julian answered as he sipped his cappuccino. ‘Last year we were at full capacity. Could it have been beginner’s luck?’

‘I don’t believe in beginner’s luck. Either you’ve got it or you don’t. Maybe we should throw something in besides the welcome package,’ I suggested. ‘Maybe a free dinner.’

Had this been The Farthington, I wouldn’t have needed to be strategizing anything because it was an awesome place. But so was A Taste of Tuscany – the best on offer, in fact. I’d checked all the other B & Bs in the area on the net and even the ones further afield. No contest. Our premises were undoubtedly the best. And so was our website, through and through. Julian’s pictures were like fairy tales in themselves. So I didn’t understand. Could it be me? Could I be the problem? But how? I was polite but professional, helpful but unobtrusive. And last year our guestbook was packed with all sorts of compliments and thank-yous. So what the hell was going on?

‘A free dinner might work,’ Julian conceded.

And then an eerie sensation crossed my entire body, making me shiver as the sun disappeared. I looked up as everyone else around us at the other tables raised their heads in curiosity as a tour bus suddenly loomed in the narrow street, also blocking our view of Piazza Cortini. Apart from the fact that this was a pedestrian-only area, a bus that big was a very disturbing sight for such a small, quiet town.

And then a sea of fair-haired people poured out from the front and back doors of the coach, followed by a little dark man in a panama hat and a badge reading Etruscan Tours. Without warning, he started flapping his arms and shouting.

‘OK everrree-baddy! Dis is Castellino, a beauuutiful medieval marrrket town, where many rrrich trrrading merchants come to trrrade in de period of deComuni – city states who had their own monetary system!’

Although his history was more or less accurate, his Italian accent was strong and his demeanor was not that of a happy camper. He looked like he’d been yanked out of bed and had a shotgun pointed to his head under the threat: ‘Either your signature or your brains are going to be on this job offer.’

He pointed to his watch. ‘Is now ten o’clockke! Come back in de buus at twelve o’clockke, OK? Go to de market – is beauuutiful!’

And that was the end of his cultural spiel. The guy had obviously had enough and simply couldn’t be bothered.

In the two years we’d been here we’d never seen a tourist coach because, until now, foreigners had usually come in couples, or families, quietly, delicately, weaving through the town almost as if on tiptoe. This was something new in Castellino. What the hell was going on? I’d be damned if I didn’t do some snooping.

That evening after dinner I threw the plates into the dishwasher, the kids into bed and myself onto my laptop at the writing table in our bedroom to find out as much as I could about Etruscan Tours.

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