Page 22 of The Husband Diet
The girls were four – Marcy and her three younger sisters, Maria, Martina and Monica. And my father was so blown away that he couldn’t decide which he liked best. I know that because once I found a picture of a beautiful young Bettarini brunette in his wallet and when I asked which one of my aunts it was, he almost had a fit. I think he was secretly in love with one of them, but for the life of me I couldn’t understand which of the belles it was. They were all beautiful and classy and, above all, smart – something Marcy wasn’t.
The picture wasn’t clear and the four of them were almost exactly alike with their lustrous thick dark hair, ivory skin, naturally full lips and innate class. The youngest and the eldest being ten years apart, sort of like a live demonstration of a camera speeding up through the years, taking you through each phase or season of life, the youngest with a fresh face, the eldest, my mom, bearing the knowing sensual look.
And because she was the eldest, she was the first in line to be married off. Which was good news to her, because she hated living with her sisters. She still hates them today and for the life of me, I can’t understand why. Judy once suggested it was because they reminded her of what she used to look like when she was young.
I’d given Judy a jab in the ribs to silence her, but it was too late. Marcy had already heard and had sulked all week, checking her appearance in the mirror more often than usual, which I always thought was an impossible feat.
My aunts were very close but they weren’t, as one might imagine, one entity. They all had different interests and personalities. The only thing they agreed on, in fact, was how to run a business and how great my dad was. They were in complete adoration of him. And when he’d chosen my mom, they’d all taken it in stride, fawning on him and doing for us all the things Marcy couldn’t. There were never any hard feelings against him for not choosing one of them – just a wistful resignation that immediately amped up to enthusiasm whenever they were needed around the house, which was always. Because, as bright as Marcy’s beauty shone, it wasn’t strong enough to make the house sparkle.
After my parents had married, Dad opened a store called Italian Gifts. When it became obvious that Marcy wasn’t much help behind a counter, Nonna Silvia stepped in and invested some of her Tuscan money in the shop. Nonna and Dad became equal partners, and the business grew and grew until we were the best known and most trusted Italian shop in all of Little Italy and Boston.
Which was great for them. But all my life I’d wanted to reverse family history and go back to Italy. Marcy said that it was selfish of me to nullify all the hard work put in by Nonna Silvia to come to America to give us an opportunity to live the American Dream (even if so far, my life in America had been a nightmare).
And Ira had said, among other things, that it was selfish of me to turn my children into Italians when clearly, they had more opportunities here. Opportunities for what? I wondered. To get stuck in traffic? To breathe exhaust fumes? To freeze your ass off ten months of the year? To look up and see only skyscrapers?
I sighed. Tuscany wasmydream. My life-long dream. I envisioned what I’d have to go through to get there eventually. Because I had to.
The British couple on TV was shown three more farmhouses. The prices were unbelievably high even for Tuscany, but the woman had followed Marcy’s advice. She’d married rich and her dream home in a warm country was only a choice away. While here I was in a cold, cold city with a cold, cold soon-to-be ex-husband and longing for some warmth – any way I could get it.
But for now, I’d have to face reality. Face my life and keep my chin up as always. I looked down at my meal of lasagne and shepherd’s pie, and when I tallied the calories I’d eaten, I burst into tears. Another day, another pound on.
9
Spider Man
‘God, I hate her,’ Lindsay whispered.
The whisper slithered up my back like a traitor’s caress.
‘I know,’ Lesley answered. ‘You’d think she owns the joint the way she barks orders.’
I power-smiled to myself to bury the soft-as-mush me, swung round on my sturdy heels without breaking my stride and, raising my world-famous evil eyebrow, retraced my steps toward the doomed girls at the reception desk.
A couple of idle busboys caught in the crossfire started and stood to attention as I brushed past them. The so-called receptionists, both sporting an improbable shade of blonde and still trapped in the Eighties make-up wise, turned crimson as I came to a stop before them, dark and ominous in my perfectly tailored albeit a tad too severe plus-size suit. OK, so maybe I was trapped in something worse than them – my own body.
‘Ladies. If you’re used to working in joints, then maybe you should both consider returning to one, which can be arranged in the blink of an eye.’
Not a word. They were too stunned by the fact that I’d heard at all. Was starving making me an even bigger bitch or what? Plus, when you’re a mother you develop a bat’s hearing. And when you’re practically a part-time mom like me you develop all sorts of telepathic abilities, but unfortunately no telekinetic, automatic house-scrubbing or kid-feeding powers. Apparently, my sole strength at work was the fact that I scared the crap out of my staff. Good enough for me.
‘It’s not your job to like me,’ I continued. ‘Your job is to mind the front office and at least look professional. Do you think you can manage that?’
Lesley and Lindsay nodded, turning, if possible, a deeper red, making their peroxide manes look almost white.
‘Yes, Mrs. Lowenstein. Our apologies, ma’am,’ whispered Lesley, the blonde bimbo with less make-up.
They weren’t stupid, in all fairness – just very young and too preoccupied with their looks. They’d learn.
‘Right. Now, both of you switch your brains on and don’t ever let me catch you in an unprofessional situation while in this establishment again. And smile.’
Chef Gordon Ramsay couldn’t have done it better. Boy, had I come a long way from my job as junior receptionist on the English Riviera.
Yep, I acted like I owned the joint. Truth be told, in my position as manager of The Farthington Hotel, I was in my element. I could make the five-star, eighty-bed hotel run like Swiss clockwork, day in, day out. I had the entire staff terrified but synchronized. Cooks, cleaners, drivers, accounts, maintenance, the IT team… The madam’s flashy girls who appeared in the lobby at cocktail hour… Of course I’m joking, because I chased them away years ago, but I suspect my head chef Juan dabbles in that avenue of pleasure now and then.
If anyone here screwed up, it was my butt. And if we were to live up to our reputation as the best hotel chain, not only in Boston, but also in North America, we needed to keep our socks up every day and every night. An impossible herculean feat for most. For me, it was a cinch. A breeze. It was my personal life that was killing me.
*
The good news was that Paul had gotten us into tango classes during the two hours that the kids were at ballet and soccer. He’d made me buy a wide skirt that actually hid a few bumps. Now, if you think that all gorgeous gay guys dress like models and dance well, you’re absolutely right. Paul already knew all the steps and guided me like a pro, causing the envy of many girls (and guys) in there.
