My Big Fat Italian Break-Up, page 2
‘I’m not eighty, honey.’
‘All the same, I’ll be right back and I want you nimble.’ And then, humming the ‘Wedding March’, he turned to go, not without me sneaking a peek at his gorgeous Levi’s butt.
When I heard his jeep roar into life, I sauntered down the staircase leading to the patio and took off my broken sundress. Without bothering to change out of my bra and underwear, I sank deep into the water and closed my eyes.
Ah… This was it. Things could finally fall into place now that I’d committed to the rest of my life. Marrying Julian. In sickness and in health. In poverty or in wealth. I sighed, pushing the demons away.
Because on the flip side, the children were prospering. With Maddy now ten and Warren fourteen, they’d both passed all their subjects at school and were doing very well. Well, Warren wasn’t the quickest learner when it came to languages, but he was trying. Maddy was entering her last year of primary school, and Warren was on his first year of liceo, junior high.
And I, too, had come a long way. I’d once been the massively overweight and enormously under-loved Mrs. Ira Miserable Lowenstein. An endless dietary regime I’d dubbed ‘The Husband Diet’ (involving a cartload of tears and anxiety) had turned me into a slightly lighter woman. Slightly, meaning I was still a big girl. And I’d probably still be in that rut today if I hadn’t found out Ira was cheating on me with his stick-figure (and younger) secretary, Maxine Moore. In a way, I have them to thank for the happy turn my life has taken. My life has completed brightened up without Ira.
We’d probably still be married if it hadn’t been for that telltale text message in the exact moment I was in the hospital awaiting a stomach bypass. (She was, she wrote, wearing red stilettos and no panties, waiting for my husband. While I was battling with a tissue-like robe with blue flowers that was nowhere near big enough to cover even the tiniest ass, let alone mine. You get the picture).
Scratch that – rather than still being married to him, I’d most likely have killed him, judging by the amazing amount of killer fantasies I’d had towards the end of the marriage. At one point I’d gone as far as to consider throwing a hairdryer into his bath on one of his ‘let’s bash Erica’s person’ nights. Oh, yes! In those days I could have written a book titled, A Gazillion Ways to Kill Your Husband.
Even now, occasionally, Ira will pop into my mind and I marvel at how little I loved myself to put up with him and his cruel words about my looks and how I’d never be the perfect housewife. Of course I couldn’t, not while working round the clock. Things had got so bad that I’d begun to grind my teeth in my sleep.
And then, once Ira was finally out of the picture, I’d slowly started to blossom. Thanks first to the kindness and later the love of Julian who had chosen to be with The One Who Didn’t Have It All Together. As opposed to some of the other moms who did, and would have given their right arm for just one night with him. Of course, I know that they’re not better than me. But boy, do they manage to pretend they are!
Yeah. This was definitely my second shot at life and I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to get it right this time.
*
While the gently lapping waters of the pool caressed my skin, I had a brainstorming session with myself about how to drum up some business this coming summer. I was just about to make a chronological list of the steps to be taken when the telephone interrupted my strategy-building. Could it possibly be a blessed booking? I jumped out the pool, stubbing my big toe on the stone steps, cursing as I limped in all my rotund glory to the cordless phone on the garden table, ow-ow-ing in agony.
‘A T-taste… of Tuscany… good afternoon,’ I managed through gritted teeth as I shoved my foot under a towel to dull the pain.
‘Is that the way you answer the phone? Did you learn nothing all those years as manager of The Farthington, for goodness’ sake?’
I groaned. Marcy Bettarini Cantelli. My stepmother and my mother’s twin, better known as the bane of my younger years and still today a thorn in my side, despite a few sporadic attempts to get along from both sides.
It figured that when I lived within a ten-minute drive from their place, she’d never bothered. Unless it was to criticize my taste in clothes, or to try to sabotage my relationship with my aunts, the lovely Three Ms: Maria, Monica and Martina, of whom she was killer jealous. But now that I was in Italy – and at peace with the world, for once – she called at least twice a week just to rub me up the wrong way, knowing that she could, with the result that I was agitated for days after. Of course, it’s mostly on me. I could easily not give a damn. But I do.
Sure, we’d had that stepmother–stepdaughter atonement thing going on when she confessed how she’d come to marry my dad. Who was still in love with her own dead twin. Marcy had suffered greatly for always being second and all. And it’d had a softening effect on me. Because, let’s face it, I’m a forgiver by nature. To a certain extent.
When would she ever get over herself? And why didn’t she instead aggravate my siblings, Judy or Vince, who lived only a few blocks away from her? Why didn’t she disapprove of their lifestyle, like when Judy had had a cheating spate on her saintly husband, Steve, or when Vince had fallen in love with another woman, who wasn’t Sandra? So much for being at peace with myself and the world. I know, I’ve still got some work to do in that department. I’m a Work In progress. But I can accept that, now.
So why did she not torture them? Because I never spilled the beans on their mistakes, while my slip-ups were always thrown back in my face.
‘Hi, Marcy,’ I groaned. ‘Sorry, I hurt my foot.’
‘What? When? Are you alright?’
For a woman who had barely spoken to me in my youth except to tell me to stop stuffing my face and sit up straight, Marcy had morphed into one hell of a pain in the ass ever since I found out she wasn’t my real mother. I almost preferred her before.
‘I’m fine, Marcy.’
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Aren’t you going to tell me how it’s going?’
Lately, Marcy was starting to speak in italics. And hyperboles. It was her new way of getting everyone’s attention. Nothing was nice, good, OK. On the contrary, it was absolutely fabulous, tremendous or, in my case, horrendous.
‘Very well, thanks. We’ve got guests coming tonight.’ Albeit the only ones, but I wasn’t telling her that.
‘Are you booked the last two weeks of August?’
The last two weeks of August – meaning the two weeks I was going to book in Sicily for sun, sea, sand and around-the-clock room service. She wasn’t about to invite herself over, was she? Oh, dear God in heaven, please, no.
‘We have plans to come over,’ I heard her say.
You know when you hear something crystal clear but you’re hoping, against all logic, that you’ve only imagined it? Absolute horror thrummed through me like electricity down a power line and I was sure she could hear the zing as it zapped up my spine.
Other than that, I was slipping into a state of panic. Marcy, here, lounging around this very pool and making me cater to her every need while she downed Martinis and criticized everything from my placemats to my shower curtains? Nuh-uh. Not happening – if I valued my sanity, my marriage and my children’s respect for me. Because Marcy would tear apart all the aforementioned in one week flat.
I could already see it, like a train wreck in slow motion, or one of those nightmares you can’t wake up from. Because all Marcy wanted, bless her selfish little soul, was to look fabulous while others looked like shit. And Marcy always got what she wanted. But not this time, if I could help it.
Because if she flew out for the last two weeks of August, once she knew the wedding was in September, there was no way I was getting rid of her until then. Which meant that I’d have to put up with her for the best part of six weeks. Not happening.
‘Uhm, actually, I think the cottages are pretty much completely booked all summer,’ I lied.
‘Oh, that’s OK.’
Yes! I silently punched the air in triumph, feeling a bolt of pain shoot through my back. Looked like Julian was right to nag me, after all.
‘If you’re completely booked, no problem. We’ll just sleep in your house, then,’ she conceded as, slack-jawed, I scuttled for some excuse, but could think of absolutely zilch.
‘I can’t believe I have to invite myself over,’ she tsk-tsked.
And I couldn’t believe she just had. I remembered living under the same roof with her and let me tell you, it was not good. Granted, I knew I’d have had to call her sooner or later, because I couldn’t get married without inviting her, now could I? But I wasn’t prepared for this super-deluxe ambush.
At this point you might be asking yourself, Why the hell doesn’t she just tell her stepmom she’s getting married? Ah, if you only knew Marcy! Because she’d fly over this instant to take over the preparations and take it upon herself to make all the important decisions, my wedding dress included. It would be an absolute disaster-fest like my first wedding. Believe me, the less time she spent here bossing everyone around, the longer I’d stay sane.
‘So it’s settled,’ she concluded. ‘I’ll call you as soon as we have our flights.’
And then, somewhere between telling me about Judy’s new toy (and for a moment, I honestly thought she meant a new lover) and Vince’s new teenage delivery boy (and here I couldn’t somehow help thinking they were the same person), she blew kissie-kissie, bye-bye noises at me and hung up.
I clicked the phone off with a huff. Kissie-kissie, bye-bye? What the hell had got into her? Jesus, was there no escaping her? Did I have to move to the North Pole to get some peace and quiet?
I let myself drop onto a lounger, the pain in my throbbing toe and my back nothing compared to the sensation of impending doom. Just what I needed – my stepmom to step in and make my life a misery all over again. For six endless weeks.
*
I had dinner and drinks served on the terrace at sunset for my ten Matera Brainstormers – talented, smart women from every corner of the world.
Despite the relaxed atmosphere, it was clear they were already in work mode, discussing their plots in the making and helping each other out with the tricky bits. In other words, when to kill off the mother-in-law (or stepmother, in my case), how the heroine should find out her husband is cheating and how the alpha male should defuse the bomb in time to save the world.
From a distance I observed them, wishing I’d had that kind of support in life when I’d needed it.
‘Erica?’ Elizabeth called. ‘We were wondering how you manage it all with very little help.’
I grinned. ‘Just a good dose of folly.’
At that, Sheila, a successful thriller author and genuine all-American with a sense of humor as sharp as a blade, cackled in delight.
‘And a good dose of something else! We’ve seen your partner on TV. Friggin’ compliments are in order!’
‘Partners are overrated,’ I informed them, and they laughed.
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Don’t we know it. But, honey, it’s OK to have the almost-perfect life. What’s the deal?’
I frowned. ‘The deal?’
‘Yeah,’ Kim, a beautiful American married to an equally beautiful Swede, wanted to know. ‘Tell us the truth. What’s the fly in your champagne?’
I sighed. ‘Jesus, how much time have you got?’
They laughed and Ingrid, an amazing chef and one of the sweetest women alive who had recently bought a house in Abruzzo, shook her head. ‘We’ve all been there, you know. The expectations, the disappointment. What’s yours?’
Elizabeth smiled at me knowingly, pulling out a chair for me.
I grinned. ‘You need writing material? I’m your gal. Where do I start? A dysfunctional stepmother who can’t accept that I exist, yet who tries to rule my life as if it were hers?’
‘Ouch,’ said Dominique, a crazy-smart woman who had worked with the United Nations. ‘My mother lived to be a hundred and one and never once nagged me.’
Sheila turned to her. ‘That’s an insanely long time to go without a fight.’
At that, Cassie, who had a home not far away but lived in the States, giggled. ‘Mothers and daughters get along just fine if moms mind their own business.’
We all laughed. What a wonderful group of easygoing, intelligent and independent women this was. We were on the same wavelength. So far from Marcy or Judy or my sister-in-law, Sandra.
‘I have my aunts to thank for their big buckets when the family boat started leaking,’ I finally said. ‘And my best friends Paul and Renata. They keep me sane. Or at least looking sane.’
‘I love my mom,’ Christine said as she downed her vodka. ‘But hell, she tends to rule with two iron fists. A toast to all moms.’
We laughed and I toasted to both of mine, the larger-than-life stepmom and the faded but beloved memory of my real mother, Emanuela. And with that, I left them to it.
I loved seeing people having fun and relaxing. Julian was right. It was time for the good life.
In September, after the wedding, I could start to take it easy. A new shuttle bus service would ferry Maddy and Warren to their schools so I wouldn’t need to throw my clothes on and hop out the door to do the school run and get back to work without having a stroke first. Yes. Soon I’d be living the good life. But even as the evening breeze caressed the fields, carrying with it the fragrance and the whispers of swaying, unripe green wheat, I couldn’t help but wonder exactly how much had changed in my own personal pace of life. If I was still worried about the B & B and always running around like a headless chicken when instead I should be, as Julian always said, chilling, what exactly had improved in my life in the past two years? Well, for one thing, I was slowly learning to love myself, even. And my body? Well , I was no Angelina Jolie. But I was a work in progress. Weren’t we all, in some way? So it seemed to me that I was the only obstacle to our happiness.
2
If It Ain’t Broke…
So who, you might ask, did my first wedding call (or cry for help) go to? Why, to my partner in crime, my BFF of a thousand years and costume designer Paul Belhomme, of course. He’d seen me through thick and thin (well, almost thin) and knew everything about me, as I him. He’d know what to do.
‘Woo-hoo! About time, sunshine!’ he hollered over the phone all the way from Boston while Julian stood behind me, hands on my shoulders, listening in and grinning.
Julian was no fool. He knew that if he had Paul Belhomme’s stamp of approval, he was home free. Paul is my alter ego, my friend, my family, my insides.
‘I can’t believe you finally said yes to the poor guy!’ he cried. ‘I’ve only been waiting for this moment like forever!’
‘You and me both, mate,’ Julian said into the mouthpiece.
I grinned. ‘Well, get your ass over here pronto, then. I need you.’
‘I’m on the first flight, sunshine!’
My lifeline was on his way. And that was all I needed to know.
When I called Renata, my BIFF (Best Italian Female Friend), she was over in a flash.
‘Hello, bride! I’ve brought you some fresh bread from Fernando’s, Nutella cornetti (croissants), strawberry jam and a couple of bottles of Fragolino dessert wine to celebrate!’
As far as gluttony was concerned, I’d met my match. Only she, of course, was half my weight.
Crazy as a nuthouse, Renata hadn’t changed since I met her one early morning two years ago. We’d only been in the farmhouse one night, when a tap-tapping had woken us. I’d honestly thought it was a woodpecker knocking away on a nearby tree at the crack of dawn. But no. The tap-tapping had become a pound-pounding and with a groan, Julian had flipped back the coverlet and jumped into his jeans before padding downstairs.
‘It had better be the bloody milkman,’ had been his first words on his first morning in Italy.
I remember sitting up. Who the hell could it be? Apart from the notaio, the notary officer, who had overseen the sale transaction, I’d thought that no one knew about us. We hadn’t even been to the supermarket yet. But I was so wrong. The word had gotten out that we, the Americans (although Julian is English), had bought the Colle d’Oro farmhouse to open a B & B.
And they’d poured into my kitchen, a gazillion beautiful, friendly kids followed by a couple in their late thirties, as Julian stood in total confusion.
‘Ciao, Erica. Come stai?’ she’d said throwing herself at me. How are you?
I’d immediately dubbed them The Sunshine Family – Renata, her husband, Marco, their twins, Chiara and Graziano, and their youngest, Andrea.
She was a pretty, petite woman with huge turquoise eyes. Her husband was tall and good-looking in a wholesome way, and they were both easygoing and genuine. Renata wore a simple flower-print dress that did nothing to hide a generous bosom. Her blondish hair had been swept up in a hasty, harried ponytail, but I caught a glimpse of the tattoo on the back of her neck and the way Marco held her by the waist even as they all piled in. I liked them instantly.
Before we could speak, they introduced themselves as our neighbors and whipped out a large basket containing a pretty tablecloth, cutlery, crockery and the most colorful food I’d ever seen. Julian had rubbed his face and grinned at me, and I’d shrugged my shoulders. That’s what I loved most about him – his naturalness.
Now normally, I hated early birds, especially happy early birds, chatting away as if they were on speed. But when the early birds bring you fantastic food and even hot coffee in multiple thermoses, how can you hold a grudge?
So I’d gone with the flow and bit into a cornetto and almost swooned on the spot as Nutella chocolate enveloped my tongue.
‘Do you like?’ she’d asked while feeding her youngest a cookie, her pretty eyes lighting up, searching mine.
