‘Cool! Thank you!’

‘You’re very welcome, sweetheart.’

So after our meal ofpane Arabo(which is basically a large pita bread filled with fresh ingredients like mozzarella cheese,prosciutto di Parmaand rocket lettuce, with a drizzle of olive oil and grilled for a few minutes), I sat back with a sigh, content as I watched other diners laughing and drinking, glasses clinking and forks chiming against emptying plates. Even for a few moments, life could slow down if you let it.

The Casciani issue now hopefully over, the wedding plans in Paul’s hands, baking gave me the chance to spend more time with Maddy and Warren. Even he enjoyed watching (and licking the bowls). It was so nice to have them home and I truly cherished watching them growing up. Something which I hadn’t been able to do in Boston while pulling eight-hour shifts (and traveling) for The Farthington.

As far as Julian was concerned, even when he was home, we rarely spent time together, immersed as he was in his career. And Sienna. Most of the time he worked with her over the phone (when she wasn’t here) until way into the night, breaking into a hearty laugh from time to time. She apparently kept him well entertained. While I hadn’t, being either asleep or too damn deflated by the time he turned in.

Not that he was offering, lately. And we weren’t even married yet. I couldn’t even remember the last time we made love. What with the stress of the locusts, losing the crops, replanting the crops, and everything else, I was just too exhausted – and fuming – even to lift a finger after dinner, let alone engage in some hot sex.

Hot sex. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d even longed for it. Were we aging too quickly? Was life passing us by so fast we’d forgotten tolive, love and be happy? Had the thrill already gone? How could I make it come back?

*

Later that day, I got a call from Paul’s amazing chef, Alberto.

‘Can you meet me at my restaurant?’ he asked. ‘Paul’s in Florence and I need some decisions made.’

Made for what, a wedding that may never, ever happen? I eyed the kitchen clock. My roast was in the oven. Not that I’d be partaking, but still, the family needed to be fed.

‘Give me half an hour.’

As I pulled up to De Gustibus, Alberto’s restaurant, or Bust De Guts, as I still liked to call it, he was waiting outside with a sheepish grin. At the question mark that must have blossomed on my forehead, he laughed.

‘Come.’

‘Where?’

‘To a food lover’s dream place – a farm in Pienza. They will, if they pass my test, be providing their cheeses and other kinds of produce for your wedding dinner. I told them you’re a tough cookie and that you want nothing but the best.’

Which was true. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Hop in.’

‘Or… we could go in mine,’ he suggested, pushing a small remote.

Behind me was a thick thud. I whirled round to meet the blinking eyes of his famous black Ferrari.

Suddenly, whizzing off to Pienza for a food and wine afternoon with another man seemed odd to me. But I wasn’t doing anything wrong, was I? It wasn’t like I was going up into the mountains to a log cabin with the guy, right? So rumor had it he flirted a bit. OK, more than a bit. But at the end of the day, he was Paul’s love interest and if I could do anything to bend Alberto’s ear to Paul’s fabulousness, I would. But, between you and me? I wasnotgetting the gay vibe.

As we soared (there’s no other word for traveling in a Ferrari) through the Siena countryside, I admired the backdrop of yellows, russets, auburns and greens and the winding paths guarded on either side by towering cypress trees. Before I knew it, the ride was over and Alberto parked under the medieval walls of Pienza.

I turned to look over the ramparts and almost died and went to heaven. Below us, as far as the eye could see, spread the breathtaking Val d’Orcia. I’d forgotten it was so beautiful.

‘Up we go,’ he said, putting a gentle hand at my back to push me forward onto the road weaving into town.

And in two minutes flat, I was struggling. Mr. Clean would be ashamed of me. I understand not being able to do the haka, but a tinyTrekaup a hill? Was I that out of shape? Jesus.

Alfredo shot me an amused glance. ‘Need a boost?’

‘I’m fine,’ I wheezed, trying to sound normal, my chest about to explode.

Christ, how much did I weigh again? Certainly more than eighty-six, judging by my wheezing noises I was frantically trying to smother behind my fake cough and throat-clearing.

Through winding paths (and me trying not to pant too loudly or sweat too profusely), we emerged through to Piazza Pio II and the cathedral. I stood in silence (also because breathing at this point had become tricky), absorbing the familiar and yet still astonishing site.

Alberto stuffed his hands in his pockets and stood back to admire what he obviously knew like the back of his hands. ‘You know, Pienza is dubbedLa Città Utopia.’

If there was anyone who had done their homework on the province of Siena, it was me. I flashed him a smile. ‘The Ideal City.’