Page 3 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

Julian beamed and wrapped his arms around me. ‘Erica…’

Truth was, I was the one beaming, so grateful he’d actually stuck around all this time because, let me tell you, a lesser man would have sent me packing. So yeah, we were going to do it. We were finally going to get hitched.

There was only one thing. (Are you at all surprised?)

‘Can we just not run away and do it overnight, though?’ I pleaded. ‘I want our families to be there in case they don’t believe it.’

Actually, my stepmother, Marcy, would have an absolute fit. She never seemed to accept that Julian and I were an item. She didn’t not like him – in truth, she thought the world of him. She simply didn’t like him with me, because in her opinion, I hadn’t put up with my first husband, Ira, long enough.

‘So we’re finally doing it,’ Julian said as if he still couldn’t believe it.

I laughed and threw myself into his arms. ‘Yes,’ I gushed, taking his face between my hands and giving him a whopper of a kiss. ‘But with your tight schedule?’ I asked. ‘When did you have in mind?’

‘September 24th?’

My mouth fell open. ‘But that’s in less than four months…’

He shrugged. ‘We’ll get everything done on time.’

Which was my cue to worry all over again. Because at this point I feel bound to tell you that Julian is the biggest procrastinator in the world. And not only that – his plans always seemed to change on a dime.

For instance, the original idea when we moved to Tuscany was for me to run the B & B while he bred horses and ran a farm and wrote in his spare time. But now, when he returned from his book tours, he secreted himself in his study to write his next novel. So we’d had to hire more workers for the fields and the stables.

But to look at him, you wouldn’t think he lived out of his suitcase, always stylishly casual and freshly pressed (by yours truly, of course). Always cool, calm and collected, while I was the one always charging around like a headless chicken in my cheap sundresses and my flip-flops, baking, cooking and running errands and keeping the farmhouse in top shape. Not impossible for someone who ran the Boston Farthington like clockwork.

Of course, with our farmhands doing all the work, what worries did he have, at the end of the day? As soon as his book about his former life as a baseball champion had hit the shelves, he’d sky-rocketed back to fame, appearing on TV shows and in the papers. He was a celebrity reborn.

And to think that when I met him I’d thought he was just my children’s new school principal (I kid you not) who had simply been very kind to me during my divorce, stopping by with apple pies to cheer me up. And it had got to the point I’d literally had to will myself to stop thinking about him all the time, let alone believe he could be interested in me. Doesn’t ring any bells? Boy, where have youbeento miss out on the most exciting part of my life? The worst of times, but also the best.

So you can imagine my surprise when I found out my kids’ principal was a celebrity. Even if everybody else did, how was I supposed to know? I don’t follow sports. I simply don’t have the time. Nor do I know anyone in the jet set, contrary to Julian. So I can’t exactly say I’d seen any of this coming.

Truth be told, I was the one who’d badgered him into finishing the novel that had been lodged in the drawer of his nightstand for years, the rest being history. And now we were gettingmarried? Surreal. Even I didn’t believe it. And now, in retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have believed it.

‘Right. Sorted!’ he chimed. ‘Finally. Now all we have to do is make you write your vows in your own blood.’

I giggled and checked my watch. ‘Silly. Now go and run those errands like you promised. You’ll find me in the pool.’

If I don’t suddenly remember any last-minute chores.But it was looking pretty good. The place was spotless, the rooms ready. Bring on the Matera Brainstormer Ladies…

He grinned. ‘Wait for me before you have a swim. The last time you stayed in too long your back packed up and I had to carry you upstairs.’

Which was no mean feat for any guy. Because I was anything but pocket-size.

I grinned. ‘Worried about me? When did you turn into an Italian mamma?’

But he had a point. Whenever I didn’t dry my hair or I stayed in the water too long, I’d get a stiff neck for days, screaming if even the slightest breeze so much as blew my hair the wrong way. Man, I hated it when he was right. Still, I rolled my eyes.

‘I’m not eighty, honey.’

‘All the same, I’ll be right back and I want you nimble.’ And then, humming the ‘Wedding March’, he turned to go, not without me sneaking a peek at his gorgeous Levi’s butt.

When I heard his jeep roar into life, I sauntered down the staircase leading to the patio and took off my broken sundress. Without bothering to change out of my bra and underwear, I sank deep into the water and closed my eyes.

Ah…This was it. Things could finally fall into place now that I’d committed to the rest of my life. Marrying Julian. In sickness and in health. In poverty or in wealth. I sighed, pushing the demons away.

Because on the flip side, the children were prospering. With Maddy now ten and Warren fourteen, they’d both passed all their subjects at school and were doing very well. Well, Warren wasn’t the quickest learner when it came to languages, but he was trying. Maddy was entering her last year of primary school, and Warren was on his first year ofliceo, junior high.

And I, too, had come a long way. I’d once been the massively overweight and enormously under-loved Mrs. Ira Miserable Lowenstein. An endless dietary regime I’d dubbed ‘The Husband Diet’ (involving a cartload of tears and anxiety) had turned me into a slightly lighter woman. Slightly, meaning I was still a big girl. And I’d probably still be in that rut today if I hadn’t found out Ira was cheating on me with his stick-figure (and younger) secretary, Maxine Moore. In a way, I have them to thank for the happy turn my life has taken. My life has completed brightened up without Ira.

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