Page 51 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

The next day, Fiorella of Fiorella’s Bridal Salon greeted us at her door and my aunts started talking to her in Italian, to which she almost freaked with joy, telling them how beautiful I was (did I tell you I loved her?) and how the dress I’d chosen suited me and they should wait and see.

They fell into an instant understanding and I could hear them chatting on endlessly while I changed into my stunningly beautiful wedding dress. It was even more enchanting than I remembered. I piled my hair on top of my head and tiptoed out, exhibiting myself in a slow twirl.

‘Well?’ I asked. ‘What do you think?’

Three sets of jaws dropped as Paul grinned.

‘Mamma mia, sei bellissima!’ Zia Maria cried, coming to hug me while Zia Martina and Zia Monica oohed and aahed about it to Fiorella.

She shook her blonde bob enthusiastically, going into a fit of tight dialect even I could barely understand. (Maybe that one half workout at the gym had begun its magic. Maybe by simply surrounding myself with skinny people, by osmosis I, too, would become skinny. Fat chance.)

Paul lifted my hair further, showing them how he envisioned it, and they all launched into a festival of ‘Sì, sì, bellissimo! Perfetto!’

‘You look amazing,’ Paul beamed, his eyes glistening. ‘You’re going to be a gorgeous bride.’

I felt my own eyeballs water. My Paulie, my lifeline, who has seen me through everything after all these years. This was just as much his victory as mine. ‘Looks like we made it,’ I whispered, trying not to blubber. This was a good thing – no crying from now on, but just happiness and love.

*

If you’re a karma-type of person and haven’t been on my side all this way, you might think I deserved what happened thereafter for getting my own back with the Cascianis (when really I was just defending what was mine). You might think, if you’re so inclined, that it was God’s wrath that descended upon us. I still can’t make any sense of it.

It was the end of June, i.e. two weeks to target and the hottest summer yet, with scirocco winds arriving all the way from the Sahara Desert, bringing the typical yellow sand that stuck to your face and neck and any other parts exposed. And somehow getting stuck into the parts that weren’t. The skies were yellow and even the streets were coated in sand, cars overworking their windshield wipers just to get rid of the stuff. If this kept up we’d have a very yellow wedding.

Martino looked up at the sky and pointed south. ‘Bad,’ he said in his broken English, shaking his head.

‘It’s too hot for the crops, isn’t it?’ I asked.

‘Sì.’

But there was nothing we could do, save pray for the reprieve of some rain. Not enough to spoil the tourist season, but just enough to cool the earth even slightly. Normally, we’d have received a few light showers, nothing major, in view of a healthy harvest in September. I remember reading that entire crops had gone to waste for excessive heat.

Later that evening, as we sat down on the patio to an early dinner, my eyes went to the horizon where clouds were gathering.

‘Look.’ I pointed past Julian. ‘There’s a storm coming. Seems our prayers have been answered.’

Julian turned and frowned as a low rumble filled the air. He rose to his feet, reaching for Maddy on his left.

‘That’s not a storm!’

‘Al riparo!’ Run for cover, shouted a voice from below. It was Martino, our vineyards foreman, racing up the stone staircase.

‘Inside, now!’ Julian yelled as my aunts jumped to their feet, pulling me and the children along.

Julian pushed us inside and followed us before he and Martino drew the heavy chestnut doors closed over the sliding glass doors, sliding the bolt into place. Whatever it was, it was swarm-like – huge bugs, loud and determined to get into the house.

‘The windows!’ I cried. ‘Everyone, help me close all the windows!’

My aunts and the children raced ahead of me as Julian grabbed my large wooden kneading board and shoved it up against the fireplace opening, securing it with the couch.

‘What are they?’ I cried.

‘Locusts!’ Martino answered. ‘They eat anything that will stay down long enough!’

Locusts? They were going to ruin everything! Our crops! The landscaping! It would all be ruined, from the lawns to the orchards and even the pool area! I would have to cancel my guests!

‘The horses!’ Julian cried, but Martino grabbed him.

‘Troppo tardi,’ he sentenced. ‘Too late.’

---