‘And in love with someone else,’ I added softly, making to exit, but he’d caught up with me. I looked up into his face.

‘I can give you what you need, Erica. All of it. Love, affection. Wild sex.’

That last one, I didn’t doubt.

‘You don’t have to be a white widow anymore.’

I frowned. ‘A white widow?’

‘When a husband is alive but always away.’

My mouth, formed a round ‘O’ of surprise. And then I recovered. ‘I’m not a widow of any color, Alberto. My family is just adjusting to a new career, that’s all. These are… minor hiccups.’ There. I’d set the record straight. So why couldn’t I act like I believed it?

‘Who are you trying to kid?’ he said coyly, trying to sound suave. ‘The super-mammaattitude. You’re a woman – you can’t do it all.’

I felt my face tighten. Jesus, not only did he not know me (which was difficult even for Julian at the best of times), but worse, Alberto’s years and years spent womanizing had taught him absolutely nothing about women,period. The way we always sacrifice ourselves for our loved ones, be they toddlers, teenagers or grown men. Just because we didn’t wear crowns with red stars on the front, fly around in transparent airplanes or toss golden lassos to get the truth out of people didn’t mean we weren’t bloody Wonder Women.

And all these sacrifices we made? Men like Alberto would never understand. We normal women not onlycoulddo everything, but we also did iteveryday.

17

Here Comes the Bride, There Goes the Groom…

A heavy metal version of ‘Jingle Bells’ or the theme tune fromThe Hunchback of Notre Dame– I couldn’t decide which – was playing inside my head the next morning as I lay sprawled, fully clothed, on my bed. My mouth tasted like I’d chewed on some dead carcass and my tongue felt like someone had Velcroed it to the roof of my mouth.

Did I mention the racket going on inside my head, threatening to spill out of my skull and onto the floor?

I tried to move, but someone had stuck a giant thumbtack into my forehead, nailing me to the mattress. My man was sleeping with someone else in Hotel Villa Etrusca.

So, like I always did when I was desperate (or happy, or sad, or frustrated or overjoyed…), I ate. And ate, like nothing could fill me up. I ate bread and anything I could get my hands on. My zia Maria’s sun-dried tomatoes and Parmesan cheese – one heavenly combination; bread and Nutella; bread and my homemade strawberry jam…

Then I started on leftovers from the night before – lasagne, fried chicken… whatever lurked in the refrigerator. And don’t forget the cold roast potatoes with onion and carrot that I didn’t even bother nuking, so overwhelming was my hunger. And then I had to stop. Not because I was full, but because my stomach was killing me and we’d entered the hug-the-toilet-bowl zone.

The last time I’d eaten like this had been two years ago, when I thought Julian had walked out on me back in Boston. In a perverse sense of self-destruction, I’d eaten a whole chocolate cake. Chocolate and tears – now there’s a familiar combination, and one which Istilldon’t recommend.

And then, to get over that sense of guilt, I’d slam myself in the gym for days on end. I lifted barbells, did bench-presses and even did half an hour of spinning. And when I still wasn’t wiped out, I went back to the main gym room and joined in the damn haka, stomping away so angrily I thought the floor would give way under my feet, ignoring Mr. Clean’s repeated gestures totone it down. Tone it down? I’d pound the guilt out of me if it killed me, that’s what I’d do. And one day, as the music died, I collapsed onto the floor.

‘Erica!’ Mr. Clean called, kneeling by my side, immediately lifting my legs in the air.

My head spinning, I raised a hand that readily flopped onto the mat next to me as if it belonged to someone else. ‘I’m all right,’ I breathed, but saw his face grim.

‘Get me some juice,’ he barked, and someone scurried off.

‘I’m OK,’ I repeated, trying to get up, and he gently pushed me back.

‘Lie still,’ he commanded.

And then I must have passed out again or fallen asleep.

‘You’re absolutely nuts, do you know that?’ Paul barked as Mr. Clean passed me on to him like a baton in a relay race an hour later.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said meekly to Mr. Clean. ‘I didn’t mean to scare anyone.’

‘Yeah, well, you scared the crap out of me, missy!’ Paul scolded. ‘Thanks, Gabriele,’ he said as he helped put me into the car.

Who the hell was Gabriele?

‘Call me to let me know how she’s doing,’ my coach said, and Paul nodded as he turned on the ignition.