Paul’s flight was right on schedule and he came out of customs looking as fresh as a daisy. No wrinkly shirts, no messy hair and most of all, come to think of it, absolutely no tired lines on his face after a ten-hour flight. How did he do that? Whenever I fly somewhere, I land looking like I’ve just been through a war.
‘Paul!’ I cried.
Really cried, swiping at a gush of tears. This was ridiculous. Paul and I didn’t do tears. We talked and laughed and pondered, but never, ever, did he let me do tears. Of the two of us, I was the one with the wobbly lower lip, for sure, while he always managed to keep his cool.
Apart from the couple of trips he’d made out in the past two years, I’d hardly seen him, so I’d had to make do with video calls. Even if I couldn’t hug him, at least I could see his beloved face or his wacky expressions. Which I wasn’t seeing now.
When he spotted me, his face lit up, but he didn’t smile. Not even a teensy, barely noticeable curling upwards of the mouth. Something was definitely wrong.
‘Sunshine!’ he drawled, wrapping his long arms around me and planting a kiss on my lips. ‘You look great!’
‘And you look… different.’ Weird. Definitely. ‘Spray tan?’ I tried to guess.
‘Botox!’ he cried.
‘Paul, no! You said you were never going to do anything like that.’
‘I said I wasn’t going to do it as long as I held out. But when I woke one morning and saw I was starting to look like my mother, I told myself I couldn’t come to Italy – and your wedding – looking all leather-bag saggy-faced.’
I was touched. ‘Oh, Paulie! You went through all that for me?’
‘I wanted to look fabulous, so the minute you called with your news, I booked an appointment. But now I can’t move my facial muscles for at least another week. I really want to smile but it hurts!’
That was Paul for you. Honest and prissy. Too bad his gorgeous Latino looks were intended for the other team.
‘Hello, mate!’ Julian appeared, giving him a bear hug.
‘Jules, honey, you look absolutely scrumptious! Italy’s treating you well.’
‘And so is Erica,’ Julian added with a grin. ‘Never been happier.’
I flashed him a smile. To think that I’d made this hunk of a man happy was uplifting. Exhilarating, even. So it must be true, after all.
‘Right, let’s get you home!’ Julian said. ‘Erica is terrified about this wedding.’
‘I am not!’ I protested.
Well, it was really a token protest. I wasn’t scared of the wedding per se, but that something would happen again, and that the day would come and go without the two of us being any more married than Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner. Because although I thought I’d ‘caught’ Julian, he kept on running around the world and there was nothing I could do to keep him still long enough to get married, despite the fact that marriage had been – and still mainly was – his idea.
He rested his hand on the back of my neck as he always did.
‘She’s terrified that a sudden outbreak of the plague is going to stop us from getting married again, although I’ve assured her a million times it’s not happening.’
‘What, the wedding, you mean?’ Paul giggled through stiff lips, and I turned to give him my famous hairy eyeball.
‘It’ll be alright, love. Just have faith.’
Faith. And that was a mouthful, seeing what followed after that.
*
‘Good to see you, doll!’ Paul exclaimed when he hugged Renata. ‘Your boobs look amazing in this dress!’
She knew all about Paul, although Marco still wasn’t convinced about his sexual indifference toward his wife. He’d studied my buddy warily, as if ready to attack him if Paul dared lay a finger on her. Thank God Marco had gone back to work. Paul couldn’t resist complimenting a pretty woman and Renata was stunning. Small-boned and big-busted, she represented the epitome of Italian beauty.
‘And your ass looks sublime in those pants!’ she answered.
That was Renata for you. Looks of a princess, mouth of a stevedore. They got on like a Tuscan villa on fire.
Paul’s eyebrows rose in sheer delight as his eyes swerved to mine, then to her again. ‘Me too, honey! I’ve got news!’
‘Let me guess. You’ve found a new lover?’ I ventured.
Ever since he and Carl had split up centuries ago, Paul had become the ruthless love ’em an’ leave ’em type. But one day, I hoped, as the Tuscans say, his hard head would find an even harder rock to break it open and change his attitude completely. I wanted to see Paul in love with some fantastic guy who loved him to the moon and back. I wanted him to feel the same happiness every day that I did with Julian. No one should ever feel lonely.
Maybe I could shop around and shortlist for him, see if there’s anyone in Castellino. I mentally went through a list of the men I was sure were gay and a few were worth investigating. But who was I kidding? Relationships were a minefield to me and I’d hardly made it across myself. But it was my duty to see him through an eventual liaison.
God knew how he was all secure and confident when it was about other people, but when he was involved, he became extremely insecure and standoffish. It was as if he was afraid to get hurt again. But this time I’d hold his hand. (I suppressed a thought of the blind leading the blind.)
‘No, no new lover at the moment,’ he assured me. ‘But I’ve decided to start my own business. Something new.’
I studied him. A new business? Didn’t he know how risky that was? Look at me. He was much safer falling in love at this rate.
‘Are you sure, Paul? You’re a brilliant costume designer.’
‘I know. But I’m sick of the States. I want an Italian life like you. Hell, I already have the important friends and the Italian villa I never live in. Now I just want my freedom.’
Freedom to worry twice as much? I wondered. ‘What about your tenants?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll give them six months’ notice. And live here in the meantime, of course, if that’s alright with Julian?’
‘Of course it is,’ I assured. ‘He loves you more than I do, if that’s even possible.’
Paul had been in my life since forever and was my first lifeline during the break-up of my marriage to Ira. When Julian had come onto the scene, after sniffing him out, Paul had not only given me the thumbs up, but he’d also practically pushed me into the poor guy’s arms.
‘So what kind of business are you thinking?’ Renata wanted to know.
He waved his hand gracefully over the piles of samples of tablecloths we’d been looking at for the wedding dinner. ‘Duh?’
We both looked at the fabrics, then back at him, unsure.
He fake huffed. ‘I’m going to be a wedding planner, of course! All I need is a name for the company.’
Now that was a good idea. An amazing one, in fact.
‘Then I’m thrilled to be your guinea pig.’
‘Hey,’ he said, eyes bright. ‘Maybe A Taste of Tuscany could be rented out as one of my venues.’
‘Sure. What the hell. Maybe that’s the answer to my financial woes.’
‘Still no bookings?’ Paul asked.
‘Nope. But I’m working on it.’
‘But what’s the problem?’
I snorted. ‘If I knew, I’d be on it. Truth is, I’m in total darkness. Maybe I should give it all up as a bad idea and you and I could expand your catering business, Renata. And cook for Paul’s weddings.’
‘With five kids between us? I only take on one job a month. But I do know an amazing chef who could suggest some venues and help you with your menus,’ Renata offered.
Paul’s face lit up. ‘That’s it!’ he cried. ‘Honey, you’re a genius.’
Renata and I eyed each other. ‘What’s it?’ Renata asked.
‘The name for my new business. Menus and Venues!’ he gushed, smacking her a kiss right on the lips.
‘So, who are your target customers, then?’ I asked.
‘Filthy rich snobs, of course! The richest there are! Julian knows everyone in the jet set. Maybe he could spread the word.’
‘Eva Santos just got engaged,’ Julian offered as he came in, toeing his shoes off as usual.
‘Eva Santos? I love her!’ Paul began to jump up and down. ‘Hook me up, hook me up!’
Little did Paul know that, besides being a great tennis star, Eva Santos was also one of Julian’s many famous exes.
I whipped my head round to look at Julian. ‘How do you know she’s engaged?’
Was he keeping in touch with her? Not that there would be anything wrong with that. I mean, not really, just as long as I knew, right?
‘The Daily Mail,’ he answered simply. ‘Whenever I log on, she’s always on the front page for one reason or other.’
OK, that I could handle. Jealous much, moi?
‘Jules, please be a star and give her a call for me, will you? If I can start with her as my first client, then I’m home free.’
‘I’m your first client,’ I objected, but Paul shooed me away.
‘You don’t count. You’re my guinea pig, remember?’
‘Gee. I’m touched to the bone.’
‘Alright,’ Julian chuckled. ‘I’ll ask around and see who her agent is.’
Which meant he didn’t have her direct number. I sort of inwardly sagged in relief. That was one thing out the way.
Paul whipped out a notepad.
‘OK, down to brass tacks. What kind of wedding do you want? Large? Small? Modern? Traditional? It all rotates around the dress, you know. Choose your dress and you have your tone.’
I looked up in dismay. What the hell did I know about wedding dresses? My first dress was as much a disaster as the ceremony. A Catholic–Jewish mess where all the in-laws did was avoid each other.
‘I want it to be the exact opposite of my first one.’
‘Well, considering you were knocked up the first time…’ Paul tittered as he poked me with his stylish mother-of-pearl pen. ‘OK. Here’s what we do. We go dress shopping. I know a woman in Siena who’s dressed most of the who’s who in Italy and abroad.’
‘Yay,’ a voice murmured. Mine. ‘You know my memories of clothes shopping. I’d rather have my teeth pulled.’
In case you didn’t know, when I was a kid, Marcy used to drag me to Macy’s every change of season in an attempt to get me some clothes that would fit. Which was a feat, to say the least. Actually, it was embarrassing, excruciating torture, where she’d shout out to the salespeople all the details of my size and why it wouldn’t fit, or pulled too much around the hips, or simply made me look like a walrus. I shivered at the memory.
‘Ah, but you’re not twelve anymore,’ Paul insisted. ‘This isn’t Macy’s, I’m not Marcy and we’re shopping for your wedding dress! The dress of all dresses.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’
Even if I dieted until I died, I’d never be a whippet. I’d never be one of those slim, graceful swans that were all about class and elegance. Which I was OK with. Although from time to time, when I saw a picture of one of Julian’s exes online, I wondered how he and I even got together in the first place when we came from completely different worlds.
He was classy, fit and naturally elegant, while I was everything but. He really must have seen in me something that no one else did. Which, by the way, I’m still trying to figure out. When would he tire of my wacky ways and not quite classic poise? And I still dressed like Ernie from Sesame Street on the odd day. Note to self: horizontal stripes never did anyone any favors, let alone me. Did Humpty Dumpty wear stripes, as well? I can’t remember. Which is also why I needed Paul to take care of the styling, to make sure I looked as fabulous as I hoped this wedding was going to be.
So yes, all in all, with my lifesaver wedding planner by my side, and my life partner who put up with me daily, things had to go smoothly. There were going to be no wedding worries whatsoever. I could get to that day serene and relaxed. One can always hope.
*
The next Saturday morning, with the Matera Brainstormers just gone, Paul cooked the kids flapjacks in the kitchen, while Julian and I sat at the dining room table in front of our laptops. He worked on his sports novel, while I worked on my mystery novel, Where Have All The Guests Gone? I checked the world news to see if there was any new financial crisis I was unaware of, checked my emails, our website and any sign of life from A Taste of Tuscany on Facebook.
‘Still nothing,’ I muttered to myself. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
Julian looked up from his screen. ‘What’s that, love?’
‘No bookings,’ I explained, stabbing at the keyboard to bring up any ideas to save us. I had a couple of marketing ideas in the making.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him still watching me. Did I have coffee on my upper lip? Or was he finally starting to worry, too? ‘Can’t get over how gorgeous I am, huh?’ I quipped, still surfing away, a woman on a mission.
‘Look at us,’ he said, pushing back his chair.
‘What?’
‘Look at us, sitting at the same table, our laptops back to back.’
‘I know, we’re cute,’ I answered, going back to my task.
Actually, we only did this on the weekends. During the week, he had his coffee in his study and didn’t come out until lunchtime. Weekends were a treat for me.
‘We look like we’re playing Battleship,’ he continued.
‘Yeah…?’ I said, scrolling down the names of all the other B & Bs in the area, a pad beside me while I checked their availability calendars. And their social media presence. You never knew, there may have been something obvious that I hadn’t thought of.
If I could figure out why everyone else was booked and we weren’t… This was a battle, no bones about it, and our ship was definitely going to be sinking unless I performed a miracle. Remember my words.
Julian stood up with a scrape of his chair and pulled my own back. ‘This is ridiculous. Let’s go.’
I looked up from the screen, blinking. ‘What? Where?’
‘Paul?’ he called into the kitchen, and Paul appeared in his bright red apron, my bright red spatula in his hand.
‘Change your mind about the flapjacks?’ Paul asked.
‘Watch the kids will you, please? We’re going for our usual Saturday morning stroll.’
I frowned. ‘We don’t have a usual Saturday morning stroll.’
He took my hand. ‘We do now. Come on.’
‘O-K…’ I figured something was on his mind and he needed to talk.
‘What’s up?’ I said finally as he parked on the edge of Castellino.
He flicked the jeep alarm on and put his arm around me casually.
‘Nothing. I just think we’re becoming computer slaves.’
I snorted. Was this a ploy to get me off the computer? He was one to talk.
‘So you’re handwriting your books from now on?’
‘Silly. I just think we spend too much time working. And worrying.’
That was an understatement. Worrying was my second nature.
‘And a walk around the town is going to help?’ I asked skeptically.
‘Remember when we were in Boston, just getting to know each other, and you told me about your Tuscan dreams?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Do you remember how you always used to say that getting to Italy was more than half the battle?’
I stopped and looked up at him. ‘I was wrong, Julian. The battle starts when you finally get what you wanted. You have to fight even harder to keep it.’
He studied me, kindness in his eyes. He knew me so well. He knew my fears, my insecurities. Only sometimes, as much as I love him, I had the feeling he didn’t fully understand how invalidating they were for me. Just because he was confident didn’t mean everyone else was.
‘Erica, honey. You need to let things be. Things will go as they will, no matter what you do. But you can attract good vibes by sending them out in the first place. Be positive and you’ll see that everything will be alright. The kids will grow up a dream here, the business will take off and you will be happy.’
To him it was all easy-peasy. The universe was all in his favor and all his pieces fitted. Well, why not, at the end of the day? Who was to say I was right and he was wrong? Maybe there really was method in his madness. Maybe I should have gone with the flow.
‘OK, Julian. I promise I’ll try.’
‘Good girl.’
So we took the morning off and strolled through the antique markets, browsing all sorts of old, totally useless knick-knacks. But there was some interesting antique furniture.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ Julian said, his hand smoothing over the dark wood of an ancient oak table. ‘It would look great in one of our annexes.’
He smiled down at me and I tried to smile back, but we’d read each other’s minds. Vacant annexes. His jaw clenched as he took my hand.
‘Come on, love, let’s get you a cornetto…’
Outside Fernando’s bakery-cum-café, we grabbed a table in the shade. Despite the obscene heat for early May, the town center was bustling with locals spilling in and out of bars, eateries and even Margherita’s tiny supermarket for those who had a faint heart and preferred to shop indoors where there was air con.
Dogs on leashes waited patiently for their owners to let them have a lick of ice cream and, as it was the weekend, kids were allowed to spend the extra euro on some cheap toy that wouldn’t survive the short trip home.
‘The town is teeming with tourists. Where the hell do they all sleep?’ I observed.
‘I don’t know,’ Julian answered as he sipped his cappuccino. ‘Last year we were at full capacity. Could it have been beginner’s luck?’
‘I don’t believe in beginner’s luck. Either you’ve got it or you don’t. Maybe we should throw something in besides the welcome package,’ I suggested. ‘Maybe a free dinner.’
Had this been The Farthington, I wouldn’t have needed to be strategizing anything because it was an awesome place. But so was A Taste of Tuscany – the best on offer, in fact. I’d checked all the other B & Bs in the area on the net and even the ones further afield. No contest. Our premises were undoubtedly the best. And so was our website, through and through. Julian’s pictures were like fairy tales in themselves. So I didn’t understand. Could it be me? Could I be the problem? But how? I was polite but professional, helpful but unobtrusive. And last year our guestbook was packed with all sorts of compliments and thank-yous. So what the hell was going on?
‘A free dinner might work,’ Julian conceded.
And then an eerie sensation crossed my entire body, making me shiver as the sun disappeared. I looked up as everyone else around us at the other tables raised their heads in curiosity as a tour bus suddenly loomed in the narrow street, also blocking our view of Piazza Cortini. Apart from the fact that this was a pedestrian-only area, a bus that big was a very disturbing sight for such a small, quiet town.
And then a sea of fair-haired people poured out from the front and back doors of the coach, followed by a little dark man in a panama hat and a badge reading Etruscan Tours. Without warning, he started flapping his arms and shouting.
‘OK everrree-baddy! Dis is Castellino, a beauuutiful medieval marrrket town, where many rrrich trrrading merchants come to trrrade in de period of de Comuni – city states who had their own monetary system!’
Although his history was more or less accurate, his Italian accent was strong and his demeanor was not that of a happy camper. He looked like he’d been yanked out of bed and had a shotgun pointed to his head under the threat: ‘Either your signature or your brains are going to be on this job offer.’
He pointed to his watch. ‘Is now ten o’clockke! Come back in de buus at twelve o’clockke, OK? Go to de market – is beauuutiful!’
And that was the end of his cultural spiel. The guy had obviously had enough and simply couldn’t be bothered.
In the two years we’d been here we’d never seen a tourist coach because, until now, foreigners had usually come in couples, or families, quietly, delicately, weaving through the town almost as if on tiptoe. This was something new in Castellino. What the hell was going on? I’d be damned if I didn’t do some snooping.
That evening after dinner I threw the plates into the dishwasher, the kids into bed and myself onto my laptop at the writing table in our bedroom to find out as much as I could about Etruscan Tours.
But every time I punched the name in, it came up with links to different companies, just like one of those secret shell companies belonging to money launderers in the Cayman islands that you see on TV (if you have the patience to keep up with all the scheming, the crimes and the dodging of the law. Me, I preferred a more honest and direct approach to my business).
My first principle was that I didn’t undermine other companies. We actually helped one another out by sending our surplus guests to the others. Even if Tuscans were a competitive bunch in general, in the Tuscan B & B association, we were all linked by friendly business relationships.
So who the hell was behind Etruscan Tours trying to blow everyone else out of the water, and why, most importantly, had I never heard of them if they were so big? I could easily send the association an email requesting info on Etruscan Tours, but it would have been seen as snooping, a big No-no in this field. So I searched more travel blogs far and wide. They were all over the place, named on every single major site, even the ones that I had contributed to over the past two years with entertaining stories about my mother’s family and their personal connection to Tuscany.
It soon appeared that I’d have to write another blog about our place. And maybe make some more appetizing offers. Free dinners? Free hampers? More gifts? Any more free stuff and they wouldn’t be paying a single Euro to stay! I had to find a solution to this.
‘Come to bed, Erica,’ Julian beckoned. ‘It’s past midnight…’
‘No can do,’ I threw over my shoulder. ‘I have to find out who these guys are.’
‘Why don’t you ask them directly?’
‘I could, but I can’t find a contact for them anywhere. Which pretty much beats the purpose of advertising, doesn’t it?’
I sat back a moment to take stock of the situation with a clear head:
There can only be two explanations: either Etruscan Tours has simply been hired by a bigger company with a different name, or they are operating under the counter by word of mouth. Which means that they are not registered with the B & B association, not adhering to any of the association rules and regulations and most definitely not paying their taxes. Let me look and see if they are listed among any coach associations... nope nothing here either. Am I spelling it wrong? No, that’s what the guy’s badge said, and even the big yellow words across the side of the bus said so. Maybe they, too, are operating under someone else?
‘Erica…? What… are you still up? What time is it? Come on, Erica, come to bed, it’s bloody three in the morning…’
‘Ten more minutes, Julian, I promise…’
With a soft groan, I heard him fall back against the mattress and go quiet. Thank goodness. How was I expected to get any work done with him talking to me all night?