Page 24 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

‘No, of course not. I’m sure our family is at the top of your list of priorities,’ I snapped, unable to help myself.

I knew I was wrong and in the darkness, I sincerely dabbled with an apology. But then I thought that if I apologized and by chance did it again, I’d look like a fraud. Better to let off steam and go back a little calmer tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’d apologize and start afresh. Maybe I was just tired and stressed.

‘Goodnight, then,’ he answered simply and turned out the light.

*

I barely even crossed Julian in the hall nowadays, so the hope of walking together down the aisle was becoming a bit far-fetched, because at times like this I wasn’t so sure anymore. Not about wanting to marry him, of course, but actually catching him and keeping him still long enough to slip a ring on his finger.

So as far as the actual wedding preparations, Paul and I decided to keep the date vague. Say sometime in the new year. I promised not to declare war on Sienna Thornton-Jones and Paul promised to keep his contacts sweet and ready at the drop of a hat – flower people, invitations and, above all, the stormy Chef Veronesi. Who hadn’t, as we all expected, dropped him. How the heck had Paul managed to keep him good?

I, too, was trying to stay good, but I wasn’t a patient woman at the best of times and it was all taking its toll on me. For days I went to bed later than Julian (when he was home), corresponding with my former Farthington guests who had answered my blanket email. They all were delighted to hear from me and promised to book next year as they had already made plans for this summer. For which I’d expressed enthusiasm, and proceeded to highlight the beauties of Tuscany.

I even pre-booked a few meals for them (yes, I know, a year in advance but I’m not second-guessing myself) with an unsuspecting Renata who, at the end of the day, had a whole year to get organized. I told them about how her food was home-grown, and wouldn’t it be fantastic to go and see the beautiful fields where your food had sprouted from, thanks to a great dose of love and dedication? I also promised them cooking and baking lessons from yours truly, including my famous lasagne. I also pimped our beautiful horses and a romantic carriage ride through the town. And, for the single ladies, a few nights out on the town for a chance to meet some charming local men.

All this, while gnashing my teeth at the thought of Julian and Sienna together, whether downstairs or abroad. It was official. He was spending way more time with her than with me. And to think I’d been the one to push him to write again in the first place while she was now getting all the credit for discovering his talent. I was the one who had read his manuscript, pulled it out of that old drawer and badgered him practically every day to finish and submit it, when he’d been doubtful about his talent. I was the one who had exhumed the gem.

Don’t get me wrong. Sienna was a great girl and worked round the clock for him – even I could see that. And I knew she didn’t do it on purpose to ignore me, but a little more consideration for the cook and cleaner of the house was always considered a special touch of class.

And she looked every inch the relaxed guest. Next to her I really did feel like the help. No matter what she wore, even tatty jeans and her hair up in a ponytail, she always looked sensational. She had the perfect complexion that only youth and good genes could give a girl. I’d never looked like that, not even after I’d lost a colossal amount of weight after college and was strutting it in England.

Sienna was what I’ve never been: fine-boned, perfect, balanced and, most importantly, un-temperamental. Almost bloodless. Come to think of it, I couldn’t imagine her in the throes of passion. She never got angry. She simply told this or that contact to bugger off and to pray they never needed a favor. But when she did it, it sounded musical, like she was chiming away at her favorite tune. Maybe it was the British accent. And what pissed me off most was that I actually really, really liked her, dammit. When I didn’t envy her, that is.

Because when I got frustrated and/ or angry, the whole household (including the workers out in the fields) could hear me. I could never hide my disappointment or be delicate and graceful. People knew when I was upset or happy. They wouldn’t need a crystal ball to figure me out. I could definitely never play poker, that was for sure.

*

Just like every morning, Pino, the mailman, was coming up our road on his moped with his yellow-and-blue basket markedPoste Italiane. Like a real gentleman of old, he tipped his hat while he sauntered up the steps and I poured him his favorite drink – a tall glass of cold lemon and mint iced tea, with a shot of Sambuca, of course.

‘Ah, grazie, Eri-ha,’ he said as he placed an ominous-looking envelope with all sorts of stamps and seals into my hands before throwing back his head and gulping down the drink in one snap of his neck. He then wiped his hand on his uniform sleeve and shot to his feet, waving goodbye. ‘Ciao, a domani!’

‘Ciao, Pino!’ I remembered to call back, but he was already chugging down the hill.

I looked down at my scary letter and carefully pried the seal open, like a corpse during an autopsy, the sweat already pearling on my forehead. What could it be? It looked official and experience told me that, in Italy, official was hardly ever good.

So I skimmed over the typed letter and felt my knees buckling. It was from the NAS (Nucleo Anti-Sofisticazione), namely, the Health and Safety Department. Which never took prisoners. I scanned the text and sucked in my breath. And then, my ears buzzing, I sat down and read it again, concentrating on each and every word lest I’d misunderstood.

But I hadn’t. They were threatening to revoke our B & B license on the basis that they’d been sent a picture of one of our rooms with an enormous rat on the bed. Which they’d included in their letter to us.

Rats? Were they crazy? We had no rats here! If they took away our license, A Taste of Tuscany – everything I’d worked for in the last two years – was a complete goner. They couldn’t do this to me. I’d worked my ass off and saved for years just to be here in Italy and now that I finally had my own business, they wanted to take it away from me? A Taste of Tuscany was like my third child. I kept it well-maintained, up to code and spotless – there was no way a rat could have made it here. Even flies had a tough time here. But a rat in our home? And no one even mentioning it? Highly unlikely.

I would have understood if the NAS had arrived upon the departure of the Peggs family last year. In their case, they’d have been right to revoke our license. I personally would have handed it over to them myself, so disgusted we’d been by the absolute filth they’d left behind.

If there hadn’t been a rat during the Peggs’ stay, then we’d never in a million years ever have had to worry about having one. Man, you’d never seen such a mess. At first, we thought they were OK people. You know, the average British family with three kids, all in school, one awaiting their GCSE results, etcetera. The wife, Amanda, was soft-spoken and kept to herself. The husband was more of a clown. Decent people.

Or so we’d thought.

They left in the middle of the night (we wondered why, as the bill had already been settled) and found the keys hanging on the front gate of the property for just anybody to snatch and help themselves to most of the furniture. Ah. Did I say furniture?

When we got inside, the bloody bureau was missing! It hadn’t cost much, as it was just a nice piece I’d bought at the Saturday antiques market, but what the heck would a family flying to London Gatwick do with an Italian Rococo-style bureau on their shoulders?

And then my clever Julian put all the pieces back together. Literally. The bureau had been in the room with the bunk bed. Too lazy to use the built-in ladder, they must have got into the habit of climbing atop the bureau for a boost. According to Julian, they must have broken it and rather than pay for the damages from the deposit (I can see the dad, cheap little bastard), decided to hide the evidence and throw it into some skip on the way to the airport – although not too far, given the bulk of the thing. I could almost imagine the three kids squeezed in and complaining in the back seat.

But that’s nothing compared to what else we found.

‘Easy, honey, you’re going to have a kitten,’ Julian had said as he always did before I lost it.

I stepped into the front room and, I swear, I felt faint. It wasn’t just the smell. It was the seven family-sized garbage bags, open and tipped over (in their haste to escape, one assumes) and strewn across the floor. Including, for everyone’s joy, coffee filters and something that looked like the remains of a chicken curry.

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