Page 6 of Storm in a D Cup

For me, being a mother was my constant worry. No wonder I’d aged since we got here. At least that’s what I thought. Every morning there was some new line on my face. Not that I minded the aging process. Until I saw the younger ladies flirting with Julian (who was almost forty-six but didn’t look a day over thirty-six, which meant that he looked at least seven years younger than me). But I’m learning to accept myself and every part of me. Which doesn’t mean that I’ve stopped my bouts of self-improvement. And still…

I wished I was twenty again. But then I’d remember what my life was like at twenty, if you could call it a life, practically dragging my misery along through the years. I was relieved to be here in Tuscany with the kids, far away from Marcy and my super-slim sister Judy who visited every year – which was fine with me as long as they didn’t stay more than a couple of weeks, time during which they both piled their silly notions into Maddy – not that she needed any persuasion – about the latest trends in make-up, couture and hair.

And Warren – at twenty he was passionately in love with ‘his Stefania’, whose mother once told me she couldn’t think of a better future husband for her daughter, which made my alarm bells ring every time he brought her home to stay with us.

I was not Stefania’s biggest fan, simply because she was a real sponger, and a kiss-ass. In front of the family she would listen enthusiastically and nod her head to our conversations, saying, ‘I absolutely agree with you, Mrs. Foxham’, or, ‘You are so right, Mrs. Foxham.’

But – and here’s the thing – whenever Warren and I got a moment to catch up on things alone (the family hardly ever saw him without Stefania anymore), she would come in only to stand there and shake her head at him as if saying,You’re not actually listening to your mother, are you?

Just so we’re clear here: I’m happy to see that my son is in love, but it worries me to see the way his verywillis nullified by her mere presence. I’d like my son to mature and go off into the world, but with his own opinions that don’t have to necessarily reflect hers. I want him to be a thinking man, not a doormat.

And then behind my back (I know because Maddy heard her once) she’d say to Warren, ‘Your mother’s an overbearing control freak.’

So what if I was controlling? I was controlling, as one does,myhousehold, not hers. Unless she was considering taking over for me? I wouldn’t be surprised. Once she even came into the kitchen while I was giving Maddy a piece of my mind about not washing up properly and actually stood by my side, folded her arms like me and glared at Maddy as if she was majorly disappointed thathermothering skills hadn’t sunk into my daughter’s brain. You get the picture. With Stefania, it was a ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ kind of thing. And yes, I would have to keep an eye on her. My son is such a wonderful person, but clueless regarding the wiles of some women.

At the moment Maddy didn’t have a boyfriend at theliceo artistico– the art school in Castellino she attended, or anywhere else (so I was told), but a posse of guys from other schools were constantly texting her and trying to impress her. She got dozens of WhatsApp messages every hour, and her SMS inbox was crammed with all sorts of messages inviting her out on dates. But Maddy only ever said, ‘Have you seen his teeth? Ewh!’ or, ‘Oh my God he’s, like, such a junkie!’ To my knowledge she neither doted on nor dated (my rule for now was no dating) anyone in particular.

Which was fine by me. I was in no particular hurry to start worrying about date nights and ohmygod – contraception even? I have no idea how all the mothers around the world coped with their own private fears about raising a teenage girl, but ladies, I salute you. You mothers are my heroines.

And Julian, you might ask? What’s he up to these days? He was the same old Julian. Nothing short of a bomb falling onto our house could shake him. He was patient and spoke in his usual deep, low Liverpudlian voice that made him sound like John Lennon. After seven years together, five of which as husband and wife, Julian had proven to be my rock. So when he’d sauntered into the kitchen two years ago announcing that he wanted to seriously kick-start his writing career, we were all thrilled for him. After a rocky start, we’re OK now.

*

‘So, how are things?’ Renata asked as she dished up her culinary miracles of the evening to her eldest, twins Chiara and Graziano, who were still little. I loved that she had managed to get them to taste and eat everything from a young age. My two were and still are so fussy.

‘Yeah, we’re great, thanks,’ I assured her, swinging my eyes to Marco, wondering if he’d mentioned my encounter with Leonardo Cortini to her, or if that name was taboo in their home. Renata and Marco were like the bulwark of marriage in my eyes. Nothing could drag them apart. Just sitting in their presence filled the room with ease and family warmth. Which was a bit lacking in the Foxham household, seeing that lately it was just Maddy and me, and she was not exactly my biggest fan. There would be time to talk in private.

After dinner with my friends, I drove home late that evening in a squiggly if not drunken line (there was only a narrow dirt road leading back home so no risk in running anybody over or smashing into a telephone pole) and parked my Fiat 500 L outside the front. Julian was due in time for breakfast and the kids not until the next day at dinnertime. Funny how life revolved around food in Tuscany, and especially in our household.

The telephone rang as I was getting ready for bed. It was one a.m. so it had to be my sister Judy. She had no idea what time zones were and regularly called at one a.m. Funny, when I was living in Boston just ten minutes away from her she never wanted to know, just like my stepmother Marcy. Now she was allSis here and Sis there.Go figure.

When we were kids, she was constantly getting into trouble, spending late nights out with boys that you wouldn’t exactly want to be taking home to your mother. Slim and attractive, Judy went through life assuming that the world owed her a living, and that she didn’t have to study or learn a skill or anything at all, because one day, just like her own mother, she would meet a man of means who would support her so she wouldn’t have to go out and earn her own crust of bread. But she’s my sister and I love the hell out of her and am fiercely protective (albeit also critical) of her.

She was a regular Madame Bovary who was never happy, convinced that the grass was always greener on the other side, that other women’s lives were more romantic and caring than her own (a blatant lie) and that one day she would be happy simply because it was her destiny to be so. The fact that she had jeopardized her marriage with her personal trainer was merely a coincidence. And if her husband Steve hadn’t come home earlier that day, he would’ve been none the wiser. Because nothing was ever her fault.

‘Hey – you alone?’ she hissed as if not to wake anyone up despite the ringing of my phone.

‘Yes. Julian’s in Los Angeles at the moment.’

‘Again? Well, you can hardly blame the guy. A hunk like that cooped up on afarm?’

Here we go again, on and on about how great my husband was and why did I ever drag him to Italy? I yawned.

‘I won’t keep you if you’re gonna be like that,’ she snapped.

‘Be like what?’ I countered. She had a temper worse than mine.

She huffed. ‘I can’t talk anyway. I’m packing. Marcy wants to see a bit of the world.’

As long as it wasn’t Milan. Every year they did this to me. They flew to Milan, called to say they just wanted to swing by (Milan is an hour’s flight from here) and ended up staying two weeks. Not that I didn’t love them or anything, but if, individually, they were a handful, together they were deadly. They’d talk fashion twenty-four seven and gossip about all the stars as if they knew them personally. And beg Julian, who did, for juicy tidbits of gossip.

‘Marcy wants to celebrate her birthday and be there by next week.’

‘There, where?’ I asked, a deadly suspicion burning its way up from my stomach to my throat. It couldn’t be. Not again, please God.

‘At your place, of course. She’s finally convinced the whole tribe to come and see you guys. Even Vince and Sandra are coming with Vito and Michael.’ (Need I mention my brother’s obsession withThe Godfather, Parts One, Two and Three?) ‘Vince checked your website and saw there are no bookings for two weeks.’

Two weeks?Thosetwo weeks? Not again! Marcy did this to me two years ago! We had already booked for France, but had to cancel because of her. She couldn’t possibly be doing this again, could she? Surely, not even she would go that far?

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