Page 34 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

Marcy looked up at him without resentment. With affection, even, but her nostrils were pinched. And then, without another word, she shook her head and went back to picking at her food. And that was the end of that.

The next day, as I got up to pour Maddy a glass of juice, my back twinged dangerously. I moaned involuntarily, clutching at the table to steady myself.

‘You OK, honey?’ Julian said.

‘Yeah, it’s just…’

‘It’s because you weigh too much,’ Marcy admonished me with her lacquered finger, and my skin suddenly went clammy. ‘I knew you’d piled all the weight back on. You should have listened to me and had that damn stomach bypass when I told you to.’

I did listen to you, I wanted to retort at the mere thought of how she’d badgered me into the op alongside Ira.And that’s exactly when I found out Ira was having sex with Maxine Moore – stilettos and no panties – if you remember…

But having matured (somewhat) over the years, I refrained from wringing her neck. No more arguing with her like I used to. No more getting lost in yet another kerfuffle with her simply because she pissed me off. No. I’d be cool, calm and collected from now on. I grinned my new I-can-do-this grin as I felt a major migraine coming on. Marcy was here for who knew how long. She had an open ticket, which to me was worse than having open-heart surgery. How the hell was I going to survive her until our wedding? And then my sudden brainstorm. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner?

I picked up the phone, groaned at the sound of his voicemail and left a message. ‘Hi, Dad, it’s me. Marcy’s driving me nuts. Plus, I miss you. Call me.’Preferably with your flight schedule if you ever want to see her—or me— alive again.

That afternoon Renata, who had become my number-one supporter in my anti-Casciani campaign, came by with a copy ofLa Nazionenewspaper, the Siena edition, under her arm.

‘You’re not going to like this,’ she warned as she put the paper on the table and turned on the kettle.

I eyed her and unfurled the harbinger of bad news:

Tasting Tuscany (not to be confused with A Taste of Tuscany, a second-rate B & B in the same area that’s recently closed for health and safety issues) is a new hotel in the Siena province that’s ousting all others that dare to compete.

‘What?’ I boomed.

Renata shook her head in disgust. ‘Read on.’

I read on:

The inauguration alone boasted a presence of 500 participants on the first day. The consensus is that Tasting Tuscany is undoubtedly the leader in the hotel business and is here to stay.

‘What nonsense. Who do they think they are? How dare they cite us, after copying our presentation, our photosandour website.’

‘There’s more,’ Renata said, pulling out a couple of mugs from the cupboard. I looked down to finish the article:

Tasting Tuscany has purchased a coach to take its guests –freeof charge – on day trips to both the most famous sites and the hidden gems of our beautiful Tuscany, including San Gimignano for its majestic cluster of medieval towers, Montepulciano for its heavenly wine and Arezzo for its wonderful goldsmith shops and bottegas.

‘Unbelievable,’ I managed.

‘There’s still more,’ Renata said in disgust as the water boiled and the kettle clicked off.

Note: day trip, tour guide in several foreign languages and seven-course meal at a luxury restaurant all included in the booking price. We’ll keep you posted on Tasting Tuscany’s next promos.

I rubbed my forehead. At this rate, they’d soon be burying us into oblivion. Every business had a right to exist and compete, of course, but these people were completely dishonest and morally unacceptable.

Renata poured hot water into the mugs and reached for the sugar.

‘What other miracles are they going to perform?’ I snapped as I slammed the paper shut.

Renata shook her head, presenting me with a steaming chamomile. ‘Drink this. You need it.’

Need it I did. These people were on a mission, kicking us when we were already down. But we weren’t all the way down. Not by a long shot. Because I had reached the point of no return.

‘Mom!’ called Warren from the front door the next day. ‘There’s a busload of guys outside – they’re singing in English!’

Julian had returned earlier that morning and was in the fields as I lounged alone by the pool, fully dressed and feet dangling in the water.

‘What are they singing, Warren?’ Maddy asked as I pushed my feet into my flip-flops.

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