Page 23 of Storm in a D Cup

‘I don’t get it,’ Julian said. ‘We have the goods on both sides. Why doesn’t it always work?’

‘My love, it’s a question of timing and chance. Never trust chance.’

‘So what do we do? Can we try again?’

‘Absolutely,’ I assured him.

So over the months began the long string of attempts. Meaning that Julian was having more encounters with that plastic container than with me. Not that we didn’t want to have sex anymore – far from it – but we were both exhausted from the stress of it all, and on the weekends the kids were home most of the time so instead of losing ourselves in the luxury of lust on the kitchen table and every other stick of furniture in the house as we used to, we would fall asleep in each other’s arms as soon as our backs hit the bed.

But even at the end of another good day, our ‘us time’ over a cappuccino on the veranda while soaking up yet another spectacular sunset, there was always that big fat question, hanging between us like an enormous piñata that wanted to be flogged to death: Why couldn’t Inaturallygive the love of my life what he wanted most – a child of his own blood? And, more to the point, would there be a huge shift in our relationship if I couldn’t, pun intended,deliver?

And to make things worse, everywhere I looked, suddenly almost every woman was pregnant. From the butcher’s wife to Maddy’s dance teacher (the one who was so harsh on Maddy but flirted shamelessly with Julian) and nearly every woman in the supermarket. It was as if an epidemic had broken out in the entire province of Siena and I’d been completely immune.

And you should have seen some of these pregnant women. The ones who got to me the most were the young, tall, slim fashionable girls with great jobs in the city that were as gorgeous as ever, not encumbered by the extra weight, but effortlessly sporting the cutest little bumps. One woman, whom I had dubbed Sporty Spice because of her pigtails and gym suits, had a collection of T-shirts she wore to the market with a decal of a beach ball on it.

No – I lied. What hurt me more was seeing thehistorically hugewomen pregnant. I mean, we’re talking one hundred and over kilograms. If fat was a fertility inhibitor, how the hell didtheymanage to get knocked up? Every time I got my period it was a freaking tragedy lately. For weeks I’d be thinking,This time it’ll work, this time I’ll get pregnant. We did it at the right time, I can feel it.But it never happened. My period seemed very proud to be smack on time, thwarting our every hope.

Before all this, I hadn’t even been thinking about having a baby until I was told I couldn’t. And now all I could think about was a little girl with Julian’s eyes or a boy with his calm disposition. I could already see them, just an egg-meets-sperm away. No biggie. It was the most natural thing in the world. People all over the world had sex and got pregnant. Any day now…

7

The Home-wrecker Calleth

A week later, while Julian was back in the States (having promised to be back for our Spider Anniversary, i.e. the very first time we met) I was at home, struggling to get the back door open with the portable phone jammed between my cheek and shoulder and the laundry basket on my hip. Rather than using the electric dryer, I couldn’t resist the slow, calm pace of hanging each item on my airframe dryer that I’d set up on one of the terraces.

Overlooking the infinite, luscious valleys of unripe wheat swaying in the gentle summer breeze, I was out of earshot from all the hustle and bustle of the town. But not of the noisiest of noises as calling me was Terry Peterson, Julian’s New York agent.

‘Erica? I just got cut off from Julian’s cell. If you hear from him before me again, just tell him that they loved the book. The Brazilian butt got lots of laughs.’

Brazilian butt?

‘Uh, OK. I’ll tell him. Thanks.’ I hung up and abandoned my laundry basket to go into his study. Everywhere on his desk there were file folders with fact sheets and, on his corkboard, cutouts of homes, cars, people and even pets, believe it or not. I thought only romance novelists did that, you know, to re-create a fictitious world. My Julian was socute.

All I knew about his book so far was that his hero was a baseball player who couldn’t get a contract and ended up drinking and gambling his life away. That, to my knowledge, was not autobiographical. Feeling a bit guilty but too curious to stop myself, I turned on his desktop and opened the document containing his novel. Then I immediately clicked onFindand typed in ‘Brazilian’.

It was just a little, innocent peek. A peek that would suffice for the rest of my life. I caught a glimpse of the words,‘and a butt like a Brazilian carnival dancer’. Brazilian butt?Brazilian butt?I leaned forward against his desk, my eyes skimming furtively for more. OK, so he liked Brazilian butts. What man didn’t? But how come I’d never heard him say anything so chauvinistic before? It was obvious. Because I didn’t have a Brazilian butt and neverwould.

And all these years he’d seen my butt and thought,I wish she had a Brazilian butt.Ouch. That really woke me up. Good thing I’d started dieting again. Only it made me really, really cranky. Maybe I could take up Pilates again with Gabriele. And maybe even get some massages at the local beautician to shed a few pounds a bit quicker? The last time I’d seen that place was to get my legs waxed the previous summer. OK, so maybe I needed to get down there more often.

Stop it,I scolded myself.You’re getting all worked up because of two words in a one-hundred-k(that’s what the header said)novel.Really, how insecure can a woman be? He loved me, and what was most important,Iloved me. Most of the time. So enough. I had to get away from this desktop. I had laundry to fold. Dinner to make. A kite to fly, or something. But as it was, I scrolled up and started to read, feeling my face go hot.

The heroine was a beautiful blonde celebrity, all boobs and legs. Her name was Chastity (no surname) and she was a game-show host’s assistant and always walked onto the stage with little more than a bright smile and prizes for the contestants. She was the object of the hero’s sleepless nights, and the male audience was in raptures every time she turned to leave because she had a butt like – to the point – a Brazilian carnival dancer. Fan-bloody-tastic.

*

As promised, Julian was back in record time for our Spider Anniversary.

I had the evening of our lives planned out for him, which had three basic ingredients: Julian, me and a ton of whip cream. (And, well, yes OK, chocolate chips too).

But he was so full of stories and anecdotes and he just wouldn’t shut up, every other word beingTerry saysorTerry thinks. Now you know I never liked Terry, but as long as he didn’t try to screw Julian over in any way, I was good. He’d been Julian’s agent since his first book and had been devastated when Julian had given up writing to pursue his career in education.

Remember when once upon a time I said only a bomb on our house could shake Julian? That bomb arrived precisely after I got back from my beautician’s. The number of things I’d had done was longer than a grocery list – leg wax, armpits, bikini line, face peeling, face massage, eyebrow tweezing, a manicure, a pedicure and almost a brain lobotomy. Suffice to say I’d spent at least three hours in there. Then off to the hairdresser’s and finally to Siena to buy Julian a gift, even though I always ended up getting him the usual Polo shirt or riding accessories.

So, with my face still swollen from the waxing and plucking, I kept a low profile, trying to stay away from Julian’s sight, but the bugger always insisted on helping me clean up after dinner. He said he didn’t feel right sitting in the snug with his feet up if I wasn’t relaxing myself too. Cute, huh?

Anyway, I was washing and Julian was drying when the phone went. He stretched out a damp hand and, holding the earpiece between his cheek and shoulder, said, ‘A Taste of Tuscany,buonasera,’ and listened as I turned the tap off.

‘Speaking,’ he said, eyes narrowing.

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