Paul was on his own mission regarding the wedding preparations. It had taken him days, but through Renata he’d managed to book an appointment with the famous chef who was to do the catering for our wedding. In the space of twenty minutes, he’d dragged me into my Fiat 500L and we’d headed out to meet him over country roads I’d never seen before in the two years we’d been here. Thank God for satnav.
‘Alberto Veronesi is the best chef in the whole wide world,’ he gushed. ‘And I’m in love! He is drop dead gorgeous and talented as hell.’
‘You don’t even know the guy.’
‘That’s beside the point. I googled him – all night! He’s… everything I always wanted. And he’s mine, even if he doesn’t know it yet.’
If anyone deserved love, it was Paul. He was the most selfless person I knew. He’d spent half his life saving mine whenever I needed him for absolutely anything: babysitting, cooking, image makeovers, salsa lessons, cheering me on and picking me up – you name it, he’d done it for me. After years of unsuccessful dating and only one true unrequited love, I hoped he’d soon find his share of happiness.
‘He’s thirty-eight but looks twenty-eight. And… get this… he drives a Ferrari. I’ve always wanted a boyfriend who drives a Ferrari.’
‘Red?’ I asked.
‘Black!’
‘Hot.’
‘Wait until you meet him. Apparently, he’s even better in the flesh.’
‘But is he gay?’
‘Not yet,’ he said with a wink.
‘Paul, please don’t get ahead of yourself as you always do.’
‘What do you mean “as I always do”?’
I sighed. ‘Well, first you ignore them while secretly, irreparably falling in love with them and by the time you find out they’re straight, it’s too late. You’re totally besotted.’
He looked at me for a minute as it slowly sank in that I was onto him. That I had been since we first met. He wasn’t fooling anyone with his standoffish stance.
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘This time it’s different. He is gay. I’ve heard rumors.’
‘OK, it’s your life at the end of the day.’
I backed off with a shrug as we pulled up by an old stone building with a colonnade covered in bright red bougainvillea planted in terracotta pots as tall as Julian and as round as me. There were many cars parked outside what I realized was a quaint little restaurant called De gustibus.
‘Oh my God, my heart’s pounding! Do you realize that if I can get him to cook at my weddings, I’ll have made it big time,’ Paul hissed as he took my arm and hustled me inside.
At the bar, he stopped and spoke to a woman in a black apron, who nodded and led us down a dark cavern-like corridor to a larger cave, where someone had his head stuck inside a wood-burning oven.
‘Chef Veronesi… what an… an honor,’ Paul babbled to the (rather nice) butt, being much too enthralled even to appraise it as he normally would have.
A grunt and then the man pulled out and grinned at us. ‘You’re late.’
‘I’m sorry. That’s my fault,’ I apologized.
‘Chef Veronesi, I’m Paul Belhomme and this is my friend, Erica Cantelli,’ Paul managed, already lost in the guy’s gaze.
A shock of red curly hair cut short and keen golden eyes met mine.
‘La sposa – the bride.’
He seemed to sneer, the wide, sardonic mouth curled, and I didn’t know if he was making fun of me or pitying me. Just by glancing at him, I could tell this guy was arrogance personified, with servants scurrying at his every gesture or grunt as if he were a god. Here, in his world, he meant power. To me, he simply meant food. Food I wouldn’t be able to eat until my wedding day, if I wanted to fit into any dress, let alone a nice one. The beautiful ones don’t come in big sizes, experience had taught me. And if they do, they don’t fit as nicely.
‘Piacere, my pleasure,’ Alberto Veronesi murmured as he directed us to a trestle table laden with so many kinds of food that my aunts’ Italian restaurant in Boston looked like a kiosk in comparison.
De gustibus? With all the fare available, it was more like Bust-de-guts.
‘Signora,’ the chef murmured as a waiter presented us with something that smelled more than heavenly.
Oh God, oh God. I could already feel said gut busting and my dress bursting at its lacy seams. And if I broke my diet and ate now, the sluice gates would open again and I’d never be able to gain control of my calorific intake, like surrendering once and for all to a long-lost lover.
I turned to Paul in desperation. ‘You try it. I trust you completely.’
The chef’s face fell and I instantly knew I’d offended him.
‘What?’ Paul cried. ‘You’re not even going to try your own wedding menu?’
‘No. No fattening foods until my wedding day.’
‘No one refuses Chef Veronesi’s food,’ Paul whispered, but Alberto raised his hand.
‘Please, please. Perhaps I should assure the signora that none of my food is fattening in the least.’
Not fattening in the least? I looked up, suddenly hopeful and intrigued. In my mind, low-calorie food meant tasteless roughage and that was about it. This man was offering me real, gorgeous food without a lot of calories? Absolutely unheard of.
‘I beg your pardon, Chef?’ I ventured.
He smiled. ‘Steamed, boiled, grilled, baked – nothing fried and absolutely no fat. It’s all part of my lean movement.’ And then he grinned. ‘Cakes excluded, of course.’
‘Unbelievable, Chef…’
‘Believe it!’ he commanded, then grinned. ‘And please, call me Alberto.’
Absolutely no fat was fantastic news for me, but for my guests? An absolute disaster. I couldn’t feed them what sounded like baby food!
The doubt – and panic – must have shown on my face, because he chuckled and turned to a plate behind him to pass me what looked like a dumpling.
‘Just try this,’ he said simply.
I eyed him, tempted to ask what it was, but I didn’t want to offend him any further, so in the end I found myself opening my mouth. I only hoped that this little gesture of goodwill wasn’t going to put me back on the path of hogging out for the rest of my life. To think I’d come so far in the past few weeks. OK, days.
If I couldn’t even be disciplined months away from my wedding, I’d never again be able to lose weight. Don’t get me wrong. It’d taken me years to appreciate my curviness. I had accepted my body, and even learned to love it, most of the time. The extra weight was now mainly a health issue. And if I let go now, eating literally my weight in my favorite foods, I’d be back to square one again. But damn, it sure smelled good. Well, maybe just one bite. After all, he’d said it was low-calorie, right?
As I chewed, a sensation of sheer stupor followed by a familiar sense of happiness linked to the memory of my grandmother filled me as my tongue rolled around in what could only be described as bliss. I moaned, and Alberto grinned.
‘What is this?’ I tried to ask, but my mouth didn’t want to swallow and thus relinquish this culinary miracle nestling in my mouth.
As Paul dug into his own and groaned, his eyes reflected his own happiness, also caused, might I say, by the not unpleasant view of our chef.
Alberto smiled. ‘Tiny pasta satchels of Parma ham, eggplant and pistachio sauce with a sprig of mint. Do you like?’
I closed my eyes and waved my hand in a circle in the typical Italian gesture that meant Ah-mazing.
‘Good,’ he said, his eyes crinkling in a grin, and I hoped Paul would never let this genius out of his sight.
All this flavor and not one ounce of fat? He was too precious to ever let go of!
As Paul continued to eat up Chef Veronesi with his eyes, waiters served us the three pasta, polenta and risotto dishes followed by the fish, chicken and veal entrées. Even the salads and vegetables were works of art. And the fruit salad, drizzled with balsamic vinegar from Modena? Untellable joys.
‘Assaggia, try it, taste,’ Chef Alberto coaxed me as I raised my ignorant eyebrows and let him spoon some of it into my mouth, taken by surprise.
The result? Wow. Jesus. The guy could cook. I had to find another way to bind him to us forever. Because, by the way, he didn’t look particularly interested in any of Paul’s sexual innuendos.
So about an hour later, after he’d shown us pictures of how the food would be presented, we agreed to sign a contract and, not without reluctance, got back into the car.
‘So, what do you think?’ Paul rubbed his hands once we were on our way back home.
‘He’s fabulous, of course,’ I admitted. ‘You have to get him on board with your business.’
‘I told you! I love him. And I’m going to marry him by the end of the year! Mark my words…’
I hesitated. ‘Paul, I gotta be honest. I’m not getting the gay vibe at all.’
He winked. ‘Ye woman of little faith.’
I rolled my eyes. My friend, ever the optimist.
‘Don’t laugh. You know I always get what I want. It’s only a matter of time.’
Was it really only that? Was everything that easy? You want the straight guy and he suddenly surrenders to the other team (it wouldn’t be the first time Paul’s transformed a man)? You want to get married and suddenly the man of your life has set a date he’ll actually be able to keep? You want to lose weight and… Shazam – done? It just didn’t happen like that in life.
The next day, while I was baking (the kids still had to eat, even if I was on a diet, right? Plus, licking the bowl didn’t officially count), Julian padded into the kitchen.
‘I’ve got great news, Erica. From now on, I won’t be traveling to the States so much.’
Which was a huge thing for me, as last year alone he’d made twenty-six trips to promote his new book. I put my cake mix down.
‘Hallelujah! How did you manage that?’
He grinned. ‘I found a European publicist I’d like to have over for a bit, if that’s OK?’
Now that was a great idea. ‘Fantastic. Bring him. I’ll get the guest room next to your study ready.’
‘Her. Her name is Sienna. Sienna Thornton-Jones.’
‘Like the chocolates?’ I offered.
He grinned. ‘Like Lord and Lady Thornton-Jones.’
‘Ah, a rich kid, then.’
Julian sighed. ‘Remember to behave yourself, OK?’
‘K,’ I promised. ‘Is she any good at least?’
‘The absolute best. You’ll love her. I’ll see if I can get her here by Friday.’
‘I already love her if it means I get to see you more.’
So on Friday morning I went into town to get my groceries for a special dinner. And to do some hardy grooming (namely some heavy-duty waxing). After all, I didn’t want Julian’s new publisher to think he’d shacked up with the Italian version of the chupacabra, a legendary and very hairy goat-eating monster.
But when I got back home, laden like a pack-horse, I found my Bialetti espresso maker and my good espresso set laid out on the table . Julian made a dash to relieve me of my five different cuts of meat and all kinds of groceries, including ingredients for an array of quiches and desserts, dangling from each squished, purpling finger, and even a bag hanging from my teeth (the lightest, filled with my rice cakes).
‘Hi, honey,’ he said, giving me a peck on the cheek.
‘Hey,’ I wheezed. ‘I think I got everything.’
And then I saw her as, in slow motion, she turned to look at me. Straight, long red hair that flowed down to a nonexistent waistline and caramel-colored eyes as big as Bambi’s. Delicate copper-colored lips turned into a charming smile.
She was at least six hours early. I suddenly remembered my eyebrows and upper lip that were still red and swollen from the waxing session. All the effort, all the pain and I still managed to look like the chupacabra, after all.
‘Erica, please meet Sienna Thornton-Jones, my publicist.’
When my mouth opened (the bag of rice cakes falling onto my foot), she stuck out a long, slender, French-manicured hand.
‘Hi, Erica. It’s so nice to meet you finally,’ came a pleasant, balanced voice, not shrill and breathy like I’d expected coming from a chick with long, sexy red hair and a figure to die for (meaning that I’d have to starve myself to death to look anything like her).
‘Hi,’ I chirped (or rather squeaked), ignoring the rice cakes that had made their way across the terracotta tiles.
Trying to mask a feeling of total horror at the way I must have looked, I stuck out my hand to the gorgeous woman in the ivory-colored silk dress, pumping it up and down like we were two former poker buddies finally reuniting.
This was Sienna Thornton-Jones, his publicist? In this diaphanous dress that looked like a very expensive nightgown clinging to every perfect curve of her oh-so-fit body? Whatever happened to professional workwear? You know, like business suits and knee-length skirts that are made to cover up and make you look like you were made of steel… Whatever happened to the kick-ass Margaret Thatcher look, so different from the flesh-fest going on in my kitchen?
And it occurred to me, out of the blue, that this was the kind of wife Julian needed. One that was in his league, that he could show off to his people. Because Julian was a drop-dead gorgeous man who should have stayed in his high-flying milieu of sports stars among his models and endorsements. But here he was, instead, with me, with the kids, his writing, our everyday routine, galaxies away from his previous life. Which he was slowly but surely shaping out according to his desires.
And this woman hit me as extremely sharp and intelligent. The kind of woman who knew what she wanted and didn’t waste any time getting it. This woman was me two years ago, if you didn’t consider that she was single, slim, classy and beautiful. (No need to laugh. I can see the difference, thank you very much.) But the stamina was the same and the attitude, as well.
Standing before her in all her stunning, sleek beauty, I felt myself instantly levitate and grow back to a size twenty under her very eyes. My white cotton dress looked cheap (another market-trove) and inappropriate for a business encounter. I was also painfully aware of my bingo wings and wished I’d brought a cardi with me, but in that sweltering heat, it would have been suicide.
And it was also the heat I blamed for my sweaty forehead and panting mode. I was exhausted and could feel my face muscles pulling in every direction but the right one. I was an absolute mess compared to her cool, calm and collected demeanor. She was relaxed, friendly and rested although she’d just got off a plane. I wasn’t feeling like any of those, but it was important to make a good impression on Julian’s business associates.
I flashed her a smile. ‘How nice to meet you, too,’ I said, recovering pronto as Julian bent to take the bags from me and she bent forward to retrieve the rice cakes at her feet.
‘I hope you’re hungry, because I’ve got a special dish in your honor tonight.’
If you were (like me) expecting her to say, ‘Thanks, but I’m watching my figure,’ I’m sorry to disappoint you. Her eyes widened even more, if possible, as her face lit up.
‘I’m famished,’ she said enthusiastically, ‘and Julian’s told me all about your famous cooking – can’t wait!’
Not only could she not wait to eat, but she also couldn’t stop. She ate like a locust. Gracefully, praising everything on the table, but abundantly. I watched, slack-jawed from behind my stingy string beans and solitary steamed sole, as she dug through the gnocchi with asparagus cream. Then she tucked into three lamb shanks, devoured a variety of vegetable servings (but mostly my rosemary roast potatoes). After that she polished off three different kinds of dessert, topping it all off with blueberry ice cream.
At the end of the meal, her cellphone beeped discreetly and she apologized.
‘I wouldn’t normally get it, but this is about you, Julian.’ And with that, she pressed a button. ‘Nina, talk to me… Right, well, you can tell them that it’s either the slot before the eight o’clock news or nothing. And while Julian grants interviews to the rival channels, they’ll be watching slack-jawed.’
Now if you knew me in my heyday, you’d see the similarities between us. Impressed, I eyed Julian, who winked at me.
‘I’m not interested in anything less, Nina! Now get your ass in gear and let me know!’ And with that, she hung up and smiled. ‘Sorry about that. Just give her an hour or so.’
‘Nina is Sienna’s assistant,’ Julian explained.
‘Not for long if she doesn’t pull her socks up,’ Sienna added, reaching for some more dessert. ‘That was, Erica, hands down, the best meal I’ve had in ages. Possibly ever, come to think of it. Thank you.’
Now who could resist such a gracious compliment?
My smile ran from ear to ear, while inside I was already worrying how comfortable I would honestly be with my man working elbow to elbow with this total beauty. Next to her I looked like the maid, even though I’d managed to change into a nice dress (one of my best, actually) and put on some make-up. Which the waxing session had readily erased, what with my watery eyes.
After dinner she offered to help me clean up, but when I declined, she turned to Julian.
‘Right, then! Shall we get this show on the road?’
‘You must be knackered, though?’ Julian asked dubiously.
And then I remembered I’d made up the bedroom next to Julian’s study, so he and his publicist could work way into the night.
‘Knackered? Nonsense! What do you think they call me Super Sienna for? Come on,’ she coaxed, linking her arm into Julian’s. ‘I need a nice brisk walk to burn all those calories Erica has piled into me,’ she added, flashing me a wink as I cleared the table.
How ironic that none of the food she’d just wolfed down would stick to her perfect body, whereas mine would hang onto every single calorie of my miserable string beans and sole like a drowning man to a raft. But none of that was her fault. She had a healthy relationship with food.
Me, not so much. After all these years, I still saw food as ambivalent. It was in my eyes both a weapon and an act of love. An enemy, but at the same time, my emotional crutch. Blame my stepmother if you want, for putting me on endless diets as a child. For demonizing my healthy appetite. For making me feel guilty for not being a size 4 like her. For not loving me enough because I wasn’t her child, but at the same time being too strict with me.
According to my shrink back in Boston, withdrawing food from me had been her strongest weapon. Because to me, food was a comfort. Because my Nonna Silvia and my aunts had cooked for us as a sign of love. The love that I never got from my own mother. It was no wonder I was screwed up as a kid. As a grown woman, I realized I had to come to terms with all this. I had to learn to see food as a true Italian, part of life and one of its joys. Nothing to be punished for.
I had one hell of a journey ahead of me.