Page 18 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

He grinned. ‘Like Lord and Lady Thornton-Jones.’

‘Ah, a rich kid, then.’

Julian sighed. ‘Remember to behave yourself, OK?’

‘K,’ I promised. ‘Is she any good at least?’

‘The absolute best. You’ll love her. I’ll see if I can get her here by Friday.’

‘I already love her if it means I get to see you more.’

So on Friday morning I went into town to get my groceries for a special dinner. And to do some hardy grooming (namely some heavy-duty waxing). After all, I didn’t want Julian’s new publisher to think he’d shacked up with the Italian version of the chupacabra, a legendary and very hairy goat-eating monster.

But when I got back home, laden like a pack-horse, I found my Bialetti espresso maker and mygoodespresso set laid out on the table . Julian made a dash to relieve me of my five different cuts of meat and all kinds of groceries, including ingredients for an array of quiches and desserts, dangling from each squished, purpling finger, and even a bag hanging from my teeth (the lightest, filled with my rice cakes).

‘Hi, honey,’ he said, giving me a peck on the cheek.

‘Hey,’ I wheezed. ‘I think I got everything.’

And then I saw her as, in slow motion, she turned to look at me. Straight, long red hair that flowed down to a nonexistent waistline and caramel-colored eyes as big as Bambi’s. Delicate copper-colored lips turned into a charming smile.

She was at least six hours early. I suddenly remembered my eyebrows and upper lip that were still red and swollen from the waxing session. All the effort, all the pain and I still managed to look like the chupacabra, after all.

‘Erica, please meet Sienna Thornton-Jones, my publicist.’

When my mouth opened (the bag of rice cakes falling onto my foot), she stuck out a long, slender, French-manicured hand.

‘Hi, Erica. It’s so nice to meet you finally,’ came a pleasant, balanced voice, not shrill and breathy like I’d expected coming from a chick with long, sexy red hair and a figure to die for (meaning that I’d have to starve myself to death to look anything like her).

‘Hi,’ I chirped (or rather squeaked), ignoring the rice cakes that had made their way across the terracotta tiles.

Trying to mask a feeling of total horror at the way I must have looked, I stuck out my hand to the gorgeous woman in the ivory-colored silk dress, pumping it up and down like we were two former poker buddies finally reuniting.

This was Sienna Thornton-Jones, hispublicist? In this diaphanous dress that looked like a very expensive nightgown clinging to every perfect curve of her oh-so-fit body? Whatever happened to professional workwear? You know, like business suits and knee-length skirts that aremadeto cover up and make you look like you were made of steel… Whatever happened to the kick-ass Margaret Thatcher look, so different from the flesh-fest going on in my kitchen?

And it occurred to me, out of the blue, that this was the kind of wife Julian needed. One that was in his league, that he could show off to hispeople. Because Julian was a drop-dead gorgeous man who should have stayed in his high-flying milieu of sports stars among his models and endorsements. But here he was, instead, with me, with the kids, his writing, our everyday routine, galaxies away from his previous life. Which he was slowly but surely shaping out according to his desires.

And this woman hit me as extremely sharp and intelligent. The kind of woman who knew what she wanted and didn’t waste any time getting it. This woman was me two years ago, if you didn’t consider that she was single, slim, classy and beautiful. (No need to laugh. I can see the difference, thank you very much.) But the stamina was the same and the attitude, as well.

Standing before her in all her stunning, sleek beauty, I felt myself instantly levitate and grow back to a size twenty under her very eyes. My white cotton dress looked cheap (another market-trove) and inappropriate for a business encounter. I was also painfully aware of my bingo wings and wished I’d brought a cardi with me, but in that sweltering heat, it would have been suicide.

And it was also the heat I blamed for my sweaty forehead and panting mode. I was exhausted and could feel my face muscles pulling in every direction but the right one. I was an absolute mess compared to her cool, calm and collected demeanor. She was relaxed, friendly and rested although she’d just got off a plane. I wasn’t feeling like any of those, but it was important to make a good impression on Julian’s business associates.

I flashed her a smile. ‘How nice to meet you, too,’ I said, recovering pronto as Julian bent to take the bags from me and she bent forward to retrieve the rice cakes at her feet.

‘I hope you’re hungry, because I’ve got a special dish in your honor tonight.’

If you were (like me) expecting her to say, ‘Thanks, but I’m watching my figure,’ I’m sorry to disappoint you. Her eyes widened even more, if possible, as her face lit up.

‘I’m famished,’ she said enthusiastically, ‘and Julian’s told me all about your famous cooking – can’t wait!’

Not only could she not wait to eat, but she also couldn’tstop. She ate like a locust. Gracefully, praising everything on the table, butabundantly. I watched, slack-jawed from behind my stingy string beans and solitary steamed sole, as she dug through the gnocchi with asparagus cream. Then she tucked into three lamb shanks, devoured a variety of vegetable servings (but mostly my rosemary roast potatoes). After that she polished off three different kinds of dessert, topping it all off with blueberry ice cream.

At the end of the meal, her cellphone beeped discreetly and she apologized.

‘I wouldn’t normally get it, but this is about you, Julian.’ And with that, she pressed a button. ‘Nina, talk to me… Right, well, you can tell them that it’s either the slot before the eight o’clock news or nothing. And while Julian grants interviews to the rival channels, they’ll be watching slack-jawed.’

Now if you knew me in my heyday, you’d see the similarities between us. Impressed, I eyed Julian, who winked at me.

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