Page 4 of Storm in a D Cup

Seven years of living here and I hadn’t made the connection. ‘What are they, rich and famous as the Medici?’

Marco snorted. ‘Worse, if you can imagine that at all. Every medieval building you see has the Cortini coat of arms on it.’

‘What, the one with the hawk and lilies with the chipped eggs?’ To me the two white spheres below the hawk looked like eggs, but obviously my mind wasn’t as filthy as someone else’s who’d spray-painted a penis in on every single plate bearing the coat of arms. The perpetrator, someone who obviously hated the family, was on a mission.

After the phallus addendum had been dutifully (and quickly) whited out, said perpetrator decided to do a more thorough job and chip off the plaster balls completely.

‘Actually, the Cortini family were very intimate with the Medici family centuries ago. And today Leonardo is the only heir to the Cortini dynasty, one of the oldest and richest families in the Val d’Orcia.’

I turned to look at Marco in surprise as he negotiated the twists and turns up the hill. ‘Wow.’

‘Half the Val d’Orcia is in the hands of astronzo.’

I got the message.Stronzois the word I’d have used to describe my ex-husband Ira through and through. (And still use, whenever my mind – rarely – strays that way.)

‘Didn’t you mention to Renata you’re on your own tonight?’ Marco asked.

I nodded. What else was new? Now that the kids were older and my B&B, A Taste Of Tuscany, practically ran itself it seemed to me I had more time for myself.By myself.

‘Maddy’s sleeping over at Angelica’s and Warren stayed in Siena this weekend.’

Warren is my twenty-year-old son who looks so much like my dad. Ever since we got here, his hair has gone lighter and his eyes brighter. He is a happy-go-lucky boy with a love for sports and his friends, particularly his girlfriend. Nothing can shake him. I guess he’d done all the family drama when he was a kid and was now all the stronger for it. You could tell him that his pants were on fire and he’d still have to ponder over it before he panicked. Which was a good thing, considering he could have turned out like his father, my first husband.

In his first year of college, normally, Warren would return from his flat in Siena, loaded with his laundry and empty Tupperware food containers that I dutifully filled up for him every week, like a good Italianmamma. And when he did come back, he spent all his time with his girlfriend and study-buddy (although how much studying they get done is debatable) Stefania, who, you guessed it, practically shared his digs with him.

Rumor had it she actually had her own place, like everyone else, but Warren’s was way nicer, so she had decided to sublet hers and sponge off Warren. I mean off us. They preferred Siena, which was, at least by Italian standards, a larger city. And now they hardly ever came back to Castellino, too wrapped up in their romance. I only hoped that Warren would soon develop a similar love for his books.

But all in all so far, if you didn’t count his goo-goo eyes for his girlfriend Stefania, raising my son had been a piece of cake. He’d always, well almost always, been collaborative and helpful. Always a great kid. Brave. Loyal, even to his own detriment. Remind you of any other fool?

Maddy and her BFF Angelica, on the other hand, were always holed up in her room or at Angelica’s house near the piazza, the safest place I could think of. They couldn’t make a single move without the entire village knowing what they were up to. And the rare times Maddy was at home, she’d chat with Angelica on her cell phone or send texts. I swear I’d never seen anyone type so fast. The next generation would have two very well-developed thumbs. When I pointed out how it was still important to read an actual book, or watch the news, my former little angel-fairy would roll her eyes and groan, ‘Mom, get yourself a life and stop badgering me.’ And she said that quite a lot, lately.

Where oh where had my beautiful angel of yesteryear gone? The sweet little princess and frequent hug-dispenser who always said, ‘Yes, please, thank you’, and, best of all, ‘I love you, Mommy’?

‘Where the hell did she get her temper from?’ I’d ask myself loud enough for Julian to hear, hoping he’d have an answer.

He’d step into the kitchen, smile at me and in his good old Liverpudlian accent he’d reply, ‘I haven’t the faintest idea, luv.’

I always blamed Marcy. She’s my dead mother’s twin sister who had passed herself off as my real mom from my birth for thirty-five years, leaving me in the dark as to why she preferred my siblings Judy and Vince, her own biological children. But hey, that’s a story for another time.

Once that family mystery had been solved, my life had improved overnight. No longer did I question myself as to the reasons for this palpable preference of my siblings over me. I got it. She was my mother’s twin who married my father. She’d been in love with him before he even married my mom. So in the end when my real mom died, Marcy had got what she wanted. Except for the excess baggage, i.e. me, and she never missed a chance to show me how she felt about me intruding on her happiness. Although she and my mom were identical twins, I didn’t look anything like them. But my mother’s three other sisters, my aunts Maria, Monica and Martina, assured me I had my mother’s personality.

Well, sort of. I was still me, unfortunately. And now I was beginning to see traces of my Marcy in my daughter Maddy. Not physically, because while Maddy is tall and has light hair and green eyes, Marcy is a petite and glamorous (fake) brunette who loves her eye make-up as much as Cleopatra did. Always bejeweled and dressed in the latest (and highest) fashion, she can usually be found either lounging or lunching. Or fashion shopping, usually with Judy who was practically her mini-me in so many ways.

If on one hand it annoyed me that Marcy’s uncontrolled narcissism had rubbed off on my daughter, on the other I was also grateful that my own painful, gut-wrenching insecurity hadn’t penetrated my daughter’s soul. And that she hadn’t inherited my tendency to pile up the pounds. Oh, how I wished my kids really were Julian’s biological children.

He certainly spoiled them like they were really his own. And when they were late, it was Julian who did all the pacing, the checking of our cell phones to make sure we had a proper signal. You’d think he really was their father instead of their (albeit very zealous) ex-principal turned my partner and subsequent husband. Legally, they were Foxhams because after our marriage Julian had adopted them, much to Ira’s indifference.

Luckily, I hadn’t heard from Ira for years. After trying to financially ruin us by stealing the kids’ college funds, he had a baby with Maxine Moore (his then-secretary slash lover slash mother of his third – as far as I know, child). Once he came out of the loony bin for crooks, she continued to give him the cold shoulder until he stopped calling her.

Rumor (OK, my friend Paul) had it he had done time for tax evasion and hooked up with younger ladies in Vegas who systematically drained him of his winnings. Ira had always been a cheat. Cards, marriage – you name it, you got it. He simply couldn’t stay committed to one decision.

‘Erica?’ Marco said, jolting me out of my family musings. ‘Why don’t you come over to dinner tonight? Renata has a pheasant in the oven and we haven’t seen you forever.’

Renata. She and I were very similar, only she was amazing. She ran the familyagriturismo, a restaurant where they grew their own livestock and vegetables which they served on a delicious menu. She was a wonderful cook and had taught me loads of recipes while I taught her how to make cheesecake and some Sicilian recipes likearancini, these big, sinfully tasty rice balls filled with meat. Just thinking about them made my mouth water.

She easily had the best food in the province of Siena if you didn’t count Alberto Veronesi, owner of the Degustibus restaurant (whom I steer clear from for the gazillion reasons you will remember if you’ve been on this crazy band wagon with me from the start). If you haven’t, well, you’ve missed out on all the fun.

I always recommended Renata’s restaurant to my guests. Which was why I was tempted to go and spend my otherwise empty evening with them. But even after all these years I’d never actually been there for dinner on my own.

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