Page 67 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

As we walked down a narrow corridor, he put his hand on my shoulder. ‘You’ll be blown away, trust me.’

He was right. What was supposed to have been a mere tasting of cheeses and cold meats for our wedding antipasto turned out to be a full-blown lunch. Parma ham, cooked ham, smoked ham, a type of salami calledfinocchionaseasoned with fennel seeds and an array of soft cheeses including theCacio di Pienza,Marzolino di Pienzaand the famousPienza Pecorino ToscanoDOP. All accompanied by an amazing focaccia drizzled with olive oil and oregano, olives, capers and every succulent Italian antipasto I could think of.

Sadly, it looked like Alberto cared more about my wedding day than Julian did. I knew it was silly of me even to think so and that Alberto was only doing his job the best he could (which included some very classy personal touches). If Julian could be here, he’d take more part in the preparation. Right?

As we sat down, he ordered a selection of Montepulciano wines. Bingo. No Italian meal was a meal without wine.

‘I’m going to get you the best wine in Tuscany for your wedding,’ he promised.

My wedding. Huh. I snapped my head back and glugged the contents like a Coke can and Alberto laughed.

‘Well, I’m glad that you’re on top of my wedding. Is work all you ever think about?’ I said breathily.

Uh-oh. That was supposed to be me wheezing, but it came out a bit too flirty. But Alberto was man enough to ignore that little nudge, thank God. There was no way in hell I’d ever entertain a little foray into adultery and I wanted to make damn sure he got that much straight. But he reassured me with a smile.

‘Yes, work is my life.’

‘Don’t you have a… companion of sorts? Seriously now.’ A little digging for Paul to show him I was only looking out for his interests would maybe ease the blow of our little outing together.

Alberto laughed. ‘A companion? Let’s say I’m never lonely.’

Lucky you, I thought as I polished off the wine and stuffed a square of focaccia into my mouth, chewed and washed it down with some more vino.

‘Are you happy?’ I asked. ‘With your life, I mean?’

He smiled. ‘I have the best job in the world, I live in one of the most beautiful places on earth, and I’m young and healthy. Why wouldn’t I be happy?’

Well, why not indeed… He himself had said he wasn’t lonely. A slight shadow of envy passed over me. No, not envy. Just… wanting to be happy. Wasn’t that one of the main goals in life?

The sun was low when he dropped me off at my car in front of De Gustibus. And speaking of Bust de Guts, as I called it, I was splitting at the seams from the gorgeous food and wine.

‘Thanks for a great time, Alberto.’

He looked at me and squeezed my shoulder. ‘Thankyou, beautiful.’ And then he let go. ‘Take care.’

On my way home, he sent me a text with an attachment: the two of us posing like a couple inVia dell’Amore. I laughed and shook my head, humming ‘Here comes the bride’ to myself all the way home.

*

As I had an eighteenth birthday cake to start tomorrow, today I was pre-prepping some meals, particularly mypanzanella, a summer salad made with stale bread dipped in balsamic vinegar and olive oil layered with sliced onions, olives, tomatoes, tuna or ham, corn and a generous dose of mint or basil, whatever you have in the house. This is because Tuscan cuisine is based on the ancient tradition of using whatever is left over from the previous meal to reinvent something new. It’s called ‘cucina povera’ and everyone in my house loves it. It’s too bad you have to wait while it sets in the refrigerator for twenty-four hours.

‘I just got a call from Sienna,’ Julian said as he came into the kitchen. ‘She wants me to do a photo shoot to promote my book.’

I looked up from mypanzanella-in-progress. She really was seeing more of him than I was. What happened to halving the times he’d be going abroad?

I bit my lip. ‘Right. When are you going?’

‘Tomorrow morning. But I’m only going to Milan. Be back by the evening, sweets,’ he promised, kissing the side of my head. ‘And, oh, Terry’s flying over to discuss a few promo ideas.’

I snorted. ‘You mean like the last time, when he wanted you on the cover of your book in a baseball outfit so badly torn there was more skin than stripes?’

Gorgeous skin, mind. Because he was such a beautiful man. As opposed to me, the grizzly bear with boobs who had to starve to death to look half-decent. How the hell had I managed to pull this guy in the first place?

‘He’s only trying to do my what’s in my best interest, Erica.’

‘Your interest – hah! I wouldn’t be surprised if he asked you to pose in shredded briefs. Tell him you’re not a fashion model like David Beckham.’

‘OK, Victoria,’ he said with a grin.

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