A Wedding in Tuscany, page 1
A Wedding in Tuscany
Sandy Barker
One More Chapter
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2022
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Copyright © Sandy Barker 2022
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Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2022
Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com
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Sandy Barker asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
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All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
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Source ISBN: 9780008536787
Ebook Edition © June 2022 ISBN: 9780008536770
Version: 2022-05-04
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Eight months later
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading…
We think you will love…
About the Author
Also by Sandy Barker
One More Chapter...
About the Publisher
For my sister, Vic
Thank you for inspiring such a fun character to write – I love you
Prologue
Oh, my god! How could I have been so stupid?
Because getting married is stressful! And travel is stressful! And when you put those two things together …
Argh! I cannot believe this. How did I let this happen?
The others whiz around me, checking every nook and cranny of our Tuscan castle apartment. Josh has even checked the car―no luck. As they look under furniture and rifle through the wardrobes―again!―I mentally scour every step of our journey here, trying to remember when I had it last and where I could have left it.
Oh, god, I’m going to be sick. Breathe … breathe … breathe …
Minutes pass, then everyone stills, silently coming to the same conclusion. My sister locks eyes with me. Concern, confirmation, commiseration―they all play out on her face.
‘It’s not here,’ her eyes tell me.
IT’S NOT HERE!
Oh, my god! Where the fuck is my fucking wedding dress?
Chapter One
Cat
London
I climb onto a stool at the breakfast bar and watch as my scrummy French boyfriend potters about the kitchen, his tall frame moving with practised ease. After being together for more than two years, he knows my kitchen better than I do, though to be honest, that isn’t hard. Tonight, he’s making coq au vin, one of his specialties, and it smells delicious in here. He’s an amazing cook. He says he’s ‘comme ci comme ça’―just all right―but that’s him being modest.
I love having Jean-Luc here in London, especially during the week―coming home to him after a long day of teaching, spending our evenings together talking or listening to music or watching television. It makes me feel like part of a normal couple. Well, a normal couple who share a flat with someone else. Thank god my flatmate, Jane, is so understanding―she adores Jean-Luc, and she certainly loves his cooking.
He’s not here all the time, mind you―just a couple of times a month for four or five days, sometimes longer. This time, it’s a short visit. He arrived today―Thursday―and can only stay until Monday morning, as he’s doing an interview in Bern on Tuesday. My boyfriend―International Journalist Extraordinaire. I’m so proud.
I definitely prefer his visits to London than mine to Paris, which are usually just for a weekend. That means an evening train there on a Friday and a late-afternoon train home on a Sunday. Hardly ideal―expensive too―but I’m just not ready to move. To Paris. With my hot boyfriend.
Yes, really.
He’s asked about a million times. All right, it’s six―a number I’m sure of because I’m counting.
I do love him. As in head-over-heels-he’s-my-soulmate love. In actual fact, I’ve loved him most of my life―first as my best friend in high school, then as a young woman exchanging letters across the world. But at nineteen I’d put an end to it. Stupidly. Because of a jealous boyfriend. A decade and a half later, chance brought us together again―in Paris―and I finally realised that I’d always been in love with him, that he was my person. I am not going to let him go again.
But London is home. And as much as I (mostly) enjoy my time in Paris, it isn’t. I’m not sure it ever will be.
And even if Jean-Luc started talking about moving here―which he hasn’t―well, I’m not sure I’m ready for that either―living together full time, I mean. What if we run out of things to say to each other? What if cohabitating obliterates the romance? Or worse! What if he gets bored with me? He used to be married to a supermodel anthropologist and I’m just a schoolteacher who hails from Sydney.
Now I sound like my sister.
‘Wine?’ he asks.
‘Hello, Cat Parsons, pleased to meet you,’ I deadpan. He tuts good naturedly, then pours me a glass of the red he brought with him from France. That’s another thing to love about him―he always shows up with wine. JK!
‘Salut,’ he says, clinking his glass against mine. We sip our wine, watching each other over the rims of our glasses.
See? Isn’t this lovely, just as it is? Why mess with perfection?
Lizzo starts belting out from my phone as it vibrates on the countertop and when I pick it up, it’s my sister’s boyfriend, Josh.
‘Hello, you,’ I say, accepting the video call.
‘Hey. So, I think I’ve figured it out.’ Josh is planning a surprise for Sarah’s fortieth birthday. My thinking is that turning forty is surprise enough―oh, my god, where did my thirties go?―and that she hates surprises.
‘And?’
‘Tuscany,’ he says. One word, but he drags it out like he’s pitching a film location. ‘Tussscannnyyy.’
‘That sounds good,’ I say. ‘Sarah likes Italy.’
‘That’s it? I’ve been working on this for weeks and that’s all you’ve got?’
‘Sorry. How about this? Oh, my god! That’s brilliant and she will absolutely love it!’ She won’t. I mean, she will like a trip to Tuscany, but a surprise trip? Uh, no. My sister likes to organise everything down to the last paperclip, especially travel.
Josh rolls his eyes at me. ‘Hey, man,’ he says to Jean-Luc who’s just appeared at my shoulder.
‘Salut, mon frère.’ I love that these two get along―they really are like brothers. Sarah even said that Josh feels closer to Jean-Luc than he does to his actual brother. ‘So, Tuscany? I think this is a good plan, a good present,’ says Jean-Luc.
‘Thank you!’ Josh makes a face at me, like he’s been vindicated or something.
‘It’s not that it’s a bad idea―Italy, I mean―but how are you going to make the trip a surprise? Drug her, then carry her onto the plane and she wakes up in Italy? Surprise!’
‘Of course not. I just want to figure everything out before I tell her. Part of the present is that she doesn’t have to organise any of it.’
‘That’s the other thing. Have you met my sister? The one who organises her friends’ pantries for fun, who loves sticky notes, and lives and dies by her calendar? You sure you want to take that away from her? She may never forgive you.’
He laughs again. ‘I’m sure. She’s turning forty. I want this to be big and I don’t want her worrying about any of the details.’
I shrug. ‘It’s your funeral.’
‘Anyway, I also wanna double-check the dates―I’m still looking at late October. I know you only have a week off around then, Cat, but do you think you can get some extra time off?’
‘Already on it. I’ve talked to the Head of School and it’s looking likely that she’ll let me go on half-term a few days early.’
‘Oh, cool.’
‘And even if Catherine cannot be there, I will.’ I throw Jean-Luc a stern look which he rebuts with a grin.
‘Awesome,’ says Josh. ‘Shit, she’s out of the shower. Talk to you guys later.’ He ends the call abruptly.
‘A trip to Tuscany will be nice, n'est-ce pas?’ asks Jean-Luc.
‘Yes,’ I conce
‘I am not sure that counts,’ he says, spinning my stool so I’m facing him.
‘It definitely doesn’t. I think we had all of six hours in Florence and I barely remember the surrounding countryside.’
‘That is the best part, the countryside―the fields of sunflowers, the towns, the castles. It is a beautiful part of the world,’ he says. ‘Romantic.’ Honestly, the public loos at Waterloo Station would be romantic with Jean-Luc. He’s like romance personified. He proves my point by leaning down to nuzzle my neck with his soft lips, peppering it with tiny kisses that send shivers down my spine.
‘Hello, loves,’ Jane calls from the hallway. Jean-Luc steps back, blows me a kiss, and returns to his spot at the cooker as Jane bundles in, laden with cloth carry bags. She dumps them on the floor.
‘Salut,’ says Jean-Luc, now wiping down the countertop―he’s a clean-as-you-go cook, another reason to love him―and that’s me and Jane.
I leap off my stool to help Jane unpack. ‘Bought out most of Sainsbury’s I see.’ I start pawing through the bags and extracting items of interest. Ooh, brie!
‘Honestly! What is wrong with me? Every sodding time! It’s all very well when I’m in the sodding shop, lugging the basket around, but when will I learn? It’s a stuffed-to-the-gills bus ride and a long walk back to the flat, Jane,’ she chastises herself.
I look up from the shopping and her cheeks are pink with frustration―or maybe it’s exertion. ‘Right, leave all this to me. Go and change and when you come back, there’s wine!’ I say brightly. She steps out of her ridiculously high heels―really, they must be at least five inches tall―and sighs. Sending an air kiss my way, she retreats to her room. ‘Thank you, lovely,’ echoes back down the hallway.
I do love living with Jane. When our former flatmate, Alex, moved out―because I may or may not have accidentally and drunkenly shagged him only to discover that he’d been madly in love with me for ages and thought we were going to be boyfriend and girlfriend but I didn’t feel the same way―Jane and I had planned on getting a new flatmate. But weeks turned into months and even though we’d both gone from paying a third of the rent to half, we actually preferred it being just the two of us. And of course, when Jean-Luc became a semi-regular fixture, I was glad we didn’t have another flatmate. That and being able to turn Alex’s bedroom into a guestroom-cum-study.
‘We are close, chérie,’ says Jean-Luc. ‘Set the table?’
‘Absolument, as soon as I’ve finished here,’ I say, moving things about in our too tiny fridge and shoving things in where they can fit. I close it and glance at Jean-Luc, his proud Gallic brow creased in concentration as he sprinkles fresh parsley over three plates of coq au vin. I may just have the most perfect boyfriend in the world. Why would I want to mess this up by moving in together?
‘Catherine. Catherine.’ Jean-Luc’s voice wakes me from a deep sleep and my eyes flutter open to see him perched on the edge of the bed, doubled over. It’s a jolt to my brain and I sit upright and scramble over to him.
‘Are you all right?’ I reach for the switch on the lamp next to the bed and turn it on. He recoils, squinting and turning his head away. ‘Sorry, darling.’ I rub his back as he groans, grimacing. ‘Are you going to be sick?’ He doesn’t answer but bolts for the bedroom door and disappears into the darkness of the flat. The door to the loo slams and I listen uncomfortably to my love being sick. Eventually, there’s a flush and he returns to the room, pale-faced, almost greenish.
He leans against the doorframe and runs his hands through his hair. ‘Food poisoning, I think,’ he says quietly. ‘Oh.’ He dashes back to the loo. Oh, god, the poor guy―now it’s coming out both ends. I slip out into the hallway and retrieve a bucket from under the kitchen sink and a wet flannel from the bathroom. When I get back to my room, he’s prone on his side of the bed panting slightly, his brow slick with sweat.
‘Here, darling,’ I say, laying the flannel across his forehead. His hand clasps mine as a thank you. ‘And I’ll put this here in case you need to be sick and can’t make it to the toilet, all right?’ I show him the bucket and he squints at it through the slits of his eyes, then gives a slight nod of his head.
‘Everything okay?’ asks Jane from my doorway. I see her eyes flick to Jean-Luc’s near naked body―he only sleeps in his briefs and the covers have spilled onto the floor―then they meet mine, concerned.
‘He’s sick. Food poisoning, he thinks.’
‘The chicken?’ she asks, her eyes widening.
‘Non, non, pas de poulet. A baguette from Gare du Nord, I think,’ says a weary voice from the bed. Jane looks visibly relieved and I have to say that I am too. Jean-Luc is the best cook in the flat and I’d hate to have to ban him from the kitchen.
‘All right. I hope you’re feeling better in the morning,’ she says. She offers a wan smile and leaves. It’s only now that I look at the time. 2:13am.
‘Do you want some water?’ I ask. ‘You’re probably very dehydrated. You should at least take some sips if you can.’ My mother’s voice echoes in my mind―for all her foibles, she’s always been an excellent nursemaid.
‘Oui, yes, thank you, chérie.’
By the time I get back from the kitchen, he’s asleep. I set the water on the bedside table next to him and carefully climb over him to my side of the bed. When I’m situated, he groans softly and rolls onto his side, turning away from me. My poor, poor love. In all this time together, I’ve never seen him sick―not even a head cold. It’s like he’s been impervious to illness―until now.
As I drift off to sleep, I realise with a start that I will need to take the day off tomorrow. I can’t leave him on his own in my flat, sick and miserable. He needs me. Besides, I may have limited culinary skills but I am a master at making toast and tea―the perfect elixir for the infirm.
I took today off claiming the food poisoning as my own, because I’m not sure where my (very posh) inner London school stands on taking sick leave to look after one’s French boyfriend because he ate a dodgy baguette from a train station.
Jean-Luc has been a stoic as ever, never once complaining as he’s spent the day shuffling back and forth between bed and the loo. He’s the total opposite to me, and everyone else in my family, who love to moan long and loudly if we have so much as a headache. I even managed to convince him to nibble on a slice of my perfectly made toast around lunchtime―dry, of course, as Mum would insist on―and sip some tea.
He’s now sort-of upright on the sofa and chuckling intermittently at FRIENDS. ‘Can I get you anything?’ I ask, sitting next to him and tucking my feet under me. I reach over and smooth the hair from his forehead. He’s getting some colour back―or rather, normal colour now that he’s not chartreuse.
He turns towards me, his intense greens eyes creasing at the edges. ‘I am fine for now. Thank you for looking after me.’
‘Of course!’
‘And for lying for me.’
‘What sort of girlfriend am I if I can’t chuck a sickie to look after my sick boyfriend?’ I say, bunging on a broad Aussie accent.
‘You are adorable.’
‘Accurate.’ He smiles, but his expression suddenly turns serious. ‘What? Do you feel sick again?’ It’s been ages since I had food poisoning―the culprit, a kebab from a food truck in Camden on a particularly big night out with Mich, my bestie―so I’m not sure how long he’ll be unwell.
