Page 25 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

But the joy didn’t end there. The kitchen sink was full of scraps of food (I did tell them we didn’t have a built-in incinerator in the sink) and dish towels stained with everything from tomato sauce to… ice cream? I had to stare at the towels for a few minutes before I even recognized them, for all the patterns had been blotted out by filth.

Shall we move on into the bathroom? Damp towels in the shower, in the sink, under the sink, more garbage bags absolutely bursting with vacation goodies. I won’t even mention the rest, because even if you did believe me, there’s no way I could begin to describe it to you without passing out at the memory.

The true apotheosis of filth. To me, common sense, or courtesy, dictated that you don’t leave the place looking like ground zero. You leave it as you found it. Whenever we go away to a self-catering place, we leave it spotless by practically mopping ourselves out of the place backward.

I remember ringing Rosina for some help, thinking that I’d give her one hell of a bonus even for showing up.

‘Bring some gloves and a box of garbage bags – and all the bleach and cleaners you can carry,’ I said and closed my cellphone to pull on a pair of new rubber gloves from under the kitchen sink.

I shook the memory out of my mind and looked down at the letter again. It had to be a joke.Please, God, let it be a joke…

There was a telephone number and an email at the bottom of the sheet, which was about the last thing I saw as the room swayed before me. Breathing hard, I whipped out my cellphone and stabbed in the number.

‘Yes, hello, this is Erica Cantelli from A Taste of Tuscany…’ I said in my very best Italian.

A long pause, then, ‘Sì, signora?’

‘I received a letter from you about… about a… r-rat?’

‘Sì, signora. We’re going to have to shut you down. We suggest you don’t take any more bookings for this summer.’

As if. ‘But there’s a mistake. We don’t have any rats here and we never have, I can assure you.’

‘Well, a former guest of yours complained.’

A former guest? Who? I wondered. They’d all left glowing reviews. ‘Impossible.’

‘I’m sorry, but we can’t ignore the complaint.’

‘I see. So what happens now?’

‘We shut you down.’

I almost cried out. ‘Shut me down?’

‘Yes. Until further inspection.’

‘Which would be when?’

‘I don’t know,signora. One of our agents will be in contact with you as soon as possible.’

And before I could take my next breath, they hung up. So much for Italian bureaucrats.

They were taking our business from us. Before we even had a chance to set roots. Before I could even breathe the Tuscan air properly. Years and years of wishing and dreaming a place of my own and now we were facing the danger of losing the business.

‘Honey?’ Julian called from the door, and I looked up from the letter at the wall opposite me, unable to focus. ‘Are you OK? What is it?’

Numb, I held out the letter to him. Taking his work gloves off, he sat down and silently read, a deep frown of concentration on his face.

‘The jig is up!’ I croaked. ‘A Taste of Tuscany is no more…’

‘Nonsense. Just translate this very last bit here for me, honey, will you?’ Julian said as I struggled to breathe.

He was calm and collected, just like he always was, and for a moment I wondered if he hadn’t understood at all – we were losing our livelihood!

I breathed again. In.Please, God.Out.We can’t lose all this.In.This is all we have.Out.What are we going to do?My voice shaking and my body like jelly, I translated, word for word, the contents of the foul document that was ruining our dream – our lives.

Julian frowned and folded the letter. ‘Rubbish.’

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