Page 21 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

‘When?’ Julian cut in, and I heard my neck crack as it snapped round in his direction.

When? Was that all that mattered, running to the master like an eager puppy? What about building his brand – protecting his image, etcetera? Even I knew that.

‘Tomorrow evening. I’ve booked us the 11 a.m. flight.’

‘Wow,’ I managed without sounding too shocked. At least I hoped so. ‘So soon?’

Sienna smiled at me. ‘We’ve got to strike the iron while it’s hot.’

Julian’s eyes swung to mine in a silent apology.I know what you’re thinking, babe, those long-lashed babies said to me.I know you think I’m too hasty, but I’ve waited so long for this. And besides, this was all your idea in the first place.

I blinked. Well, I knew that.

Sienna lightly smacked his shoulder and I resented that she felt she could touch him so freely. How long had she known him – five minutes? And theirs was a business relationship, to boot. Unless… there was something I didn’t know?

But of course Julian would never have brought an old flame into our home without telling me, that much I knew for sure. He just wasn’t that kind of person. But still, the easiness between them bothered me, making it difficult to keep nasty thoughts out of my head.

‘Pack your toothbrush, Jules,’ she said.

Which is precisely what he did. And later, in the intimacy (scratchthatword) of our bedroom, he kept going on and on about England being his trampoline, the country where he felt the most at home, and how happy he was about going back as a celebrity and not the young boy who had been bullied.

I could have said, ‘What about the wedding planning? Paul needs you here to take your measurements and stuff.’ Which was ridiculous, so I didn’t. Besides, he trusted Paul and me to get on with it. And there was me thinking we’d be going to pre-matrimonial courses at the church and sharing decisions and planning what kind of couple and family we’d be, etcetera. None of it was going to happen.

So I listened in silence, proud of him and happy that his life had turned out to be a success, especially as he’d been abandoned on the steps of a church in Italy. He could have turned out a terribly lonely, broken boy, but instead he was doing well in life. So why couldn’t I be completely, 100 per cent happy for him, just like he deserved? Why did I fear that something bad was about to happen?

The answer was simple. Julian had a heart of gold and believed, above everything else, in the good in people. He always gave everyone a second chance, even those who didn’t deserve it. And he’d never suspect anyone of wrong-doing until it had been proven. It was like he had no sixth sense sometimes. And I was the one having to bare my teeth (and claws) to protect him.

This England thing would lead to France and Germany and Spain and so on. How did I know for sure that Sienna was acting in the name of his best interests and not, say, just to bum a vacation off him? He was so gung-ho about it, he wouldn’t have noticed her sticking a stiletto in between his ribs, while I would have seen her way before she even reached into her bag and, yes, I’d have pounced on her to protect him. But that’s what you did when you were a mother – you became fiercely protective of your loved ones. There were limits to what I could do, but for now, I had to chill.

And the next morning they were gone, like thieves in the night. So much for him making an effort to stick around more.

6

To Catch a Groom

Julian’s US agent Terry Peterson and Sienna Thornton-Jones practically fought over who was going to have him first. London needed him. Dublin needed him. Berlin needed him. Amsterdam was storming for him.Ah, but Los Angeles has dibs, Terry would counter. It was one big tug of war where Julian was trying to juggle his commitments, not least the one to meet me at the altar at the end of September.

‘I thought they were supposed to make things easier for you, not complicate your life,’ I said to him twelve days later as I stared at the kitchen wall calendar I’d penned in with all his planned trips. Blue ink for him, pink for our wedding day, green for the kids’ summer camp in Orvieto and black for Marcy’s arrival on August 15th. Which was, by the way, Ferragosto, a national holiday during which the highways were crammed, if not dangerous. A day to stay home and chill, in my eyes. But did Marcy, a staunch Italian, even consider that? Of course not.

He looked up. ‘It’s hard enough traveling and smiling and talking about your book a thousand times over to a thousand different faces when sometimes I don’t even know where I am.’

Ah. So there was the chink in the armor. The wordsyou asked for itcame to mind, but I pushed them away. He needed my support now, not my mutiny. What was important for him should be important for me.

‘Just work out a priority schedule and confirm as many appointments as you can,’ I suggested.Only don’t forget ours, I silently pleaded.

‘But I can’t,’ Julian protested.

‘Of course you can,’ I assured. ‘This is your chance of a lifetime. It’s what you always wanted.’

‘But what about the harvest – who’s going to help with that?’

The harvest? Was he absolutely kidding me? I forced a nonchalant shrug. ‘We can always get more help.’

He seemed to consider it. ‘What about you being here on your own?’

Again, the amazing, magnanimous Erica rolled her eyes. ‘The farmhands are perfectly capable of running things here, and the B & B booking ledger isn’t exactly bursting at the seams yet.’

‘And Margot? What if she starts having problems with her gestation?’

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