Page 60 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

‘But you’re a tall girl. Big in the hips and the boobs.’

I opened my mouth to say something – anything – that would put him in his place.

‘Narrow waist, though. Your tummy will be the first to go.’

‘Really?’ I said before I could stop myself. ‘How long?’

He laughed. ‘Depends on how often you come in, how much you eat. Do you do any walking?’

I thought of the antique markets in Castellino. ‘Do Saturday morning strolls count?’

‘Not if they’re leisurely and lead to Fernando’s bakery, no.’ His eyes shone with good humor. ‘Ever try to lose weight before?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Hasn’t everybody?’ I said, realizing my mistake.

He hadn’t, obviously, with his wiry, toned muscles and washboard stomach.

He ignored my comment. ‘Ever succeed?’

‘Only a few kilos here and there.’

‘What seems to be the problem?’

You see, this was why I shouldn’t have come here in the first place. Normal people didn’t understand people like me. They didn’t understand the agony and the cravings and the immediate regret after binging – all the torture and the ecstasy thing going on. If he didn’t understand my body that was plain and simple, how did he think he could navigate the nooks and crannies of my mind?

‘I… love eating?’

‘Yeah. That love has to stop now.’

Was he serious? Half the reason I’d moved to Tuscany was the food. And I wasn’t going to feel guilty about it.

‘I mean, you can still eat almost anything you want, but you must avoid carbs at all costs, fried foods, fats and sauces.’

Which left only vegetables, protein and fruit. As if I didn’t know the theory behind dieting. It was the practice that I was a little rusty on.

‘And sweets, of course,’ he added. ‘You must avoid sweets.’

I sighed. There went my stash of Kinder chocolates under the bed (old habits die hard). And my homemade cupcakes in the top cupboard that Warren usually beat me to. Who am I kidding? He only got the dregs.

‘And you must exercise portion control,’ he concluded.

Portion control? It sounded like a form of capital punishment to me. If I couldn’t eat to my heart’s content, then how on earth was I going to fill the void? And why should I still have this void when I was happy? Because I was happy, right? Happy-ish? Jesus, I’d come all the way to Italy for a new life and still I wasn’t satisfied? What did I want? ‘A kick in the head,’ my brother, Vince, would have answered.

‘Do you understand portion control?’

‘I understand instinct control.’ The instinct to swat him out of my face. But he was right. If I could control myself in every other field, why shouldn’t I be able to control my instincts and my portions? The next time I dished up the lasagne, I was going to make an effort to give myself a smaller slice. It might not have made a difference on a one-off basis, but if it became the norm to eat less, it had to work, right? Glad you agree.

‘I make cakes,’ I informed him. ‘And I never lick the bowl. How’s that for control?’

He grinned. ‘That’s a start. So see you next week?’

And make a fool out of myself again, not knowing which way was up or down while the haka relentlessly continued?

‘I… uh… might be in the wrong group, though.’

He waved his hand. ‘You’ll get the hang of it.’

‘But everybody else is so… slim…’

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