Julian’s US agent Terry Peterson and Sienna Thornton-Jones practically fought over who was going to have him first. London needed him. Dublin needed him. Berlin needed him. Amsterdam was storming for him. Ah, but Los Angeles has dibs, Terry would counter. It was one big tug of war where Julian was trying to juggle his commitments, not least the one to meet me at the altar at the end of September.
‘I thought they were supposed to make things easier for you, not complicate your life,’ I said to him twelve days later as I stared at the kitchen wall calendar I’d penned in with all his planned trips. Blue ink for him, pink for our wedding day, green for the kids’ summer camp in Orvieto and black for Marcy’s arrival on August 15th. Which was, by the way, Ferragosto, a national holiday during which the highways were crammed, if not dangerous. A day to stay home and chill, in my eyes. But did Marcy, a staunch Italian, even consider that? Of course not.
He looked up. ‘It’s hard enough traveling and smiling and talking about your book a thousand times over to a thousand different faces when sometimes I don’t even know where I am.’
Ah. So there was the chink in the armor. The words you asked for it came to mind, but I pushed them away. He needed my support now, not my mutiny. What was important for him should be important for me.
‘Just work out a priority schedule and confirm as many appointments as you can,’ I suggested. Only don’t forget ours, I silently pleaded.
‘But I can’t,’ Julian protested.
‘Of course you can,’ I assured. ‘This is your chance of a lifetime. It’s what you always wanted.’
‘But what about the harvest – who’s going to help with that?’
The harvest? Was he absolutely kidding me? I forced a nonchalant shrug. ‘We can always get more help.’
He seemed to consider it. ‘What about you being here on your own?’
Again, the amazing, magnanimous Erica rolled her eyes. ‘The farmhands are perfectly capable of running things here, and the B & B booking ledger isn’t exactly bursting at the seams yet.’
‘And Margot? What if she starts having problems with her gestation?’
I swear he loves that mare as much as he loves me. But I can’t fault him for it. Julian loves all living creatures and it’s one of the many reasons I love him. ‘Then I’ll call the vet.’
He eyed me, still unsure. ‘So it’s OK with you if I go again? Just like that?’
‘Just like that,’ I said, trying to hide the fact that I wanted to grab him by his shirt and shake him while blubbering, Please don’t go! There are too many blue squares on my calendar that I’m so afraid we’ll never make it to the pink square at this rate! But I didn’t, because I had to have some faith in the man I wanted to marry. Right?
‘But what about the wedding?’ he countered. ‘If we start publicizing my book in Europe, this may easily protract into late fall…’
You see, just when I was about to give up on him, he’d completely melt me all over again. It really wasn’t his fault if he was now part of a system that had snowballed. He’d been caught unawares. It was only Sienna and Terry’s fault. They should get married to each other and bugger off to some distant PR planet.
‘We’ll postpone it,’ I suggested, against any sense of self-preservation.
I could almost feel my own heart bursting while a shrill voice inside me screeched Are you absolutely nuts? But I shut it out. Because he was in this relationship too, right? It wasn’t all about me. If I’d been the one to need this time, he’d have given it to me, no problem. In fact, he’d given me two years without whining. So yes, he deserved all my patience. Well, as much as I could muster, that is.
‘Postpone?’ he said, looking appalled. ‘Absolutely not, Erica. We’ve been waiting for forever.’
I took his hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll be here when you get back. Now go and get yourself famous again.’
He looked into my eyes and what I saw was uncertainty turning to hope. Because he wanted to go – I could see it in his eyes. And then I saw hope turn to gratitude and finally, unconditional love. It was worth every blow I’d previously received to my heart.
‘OK,’ he finally agreed, kissing me on the forehead. ‘I’ll go call Sienna.’
‘You do that.’ Once I was alone, I dialed Paul’s cellphone.
‘Hey, sunshine,’ he chimed.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in Siena looking at invitations. Man, you wouldn’t believe how cheesy they are.’
My jaw clenched. He’d be gutted, too, my Paulie. He needed to nail this wedding as much as I needed to nail (pun intended) my groom.
‘Right. Paul, we might have to forget September for the wedding. There’s a chance Julian might be away.’
‘What? You’re kidding me, right? We already have the late-summer fig antipasti and desserts! And the raspberry mousse. You can’t just change everything like that! And what about the dress I found you? It’s sleeveless.’
I could hear the panic in his voice. He wasn’t used to things not going his way. Because most of the time, they did.
‘Paul, chill. It’ll be OK.’ If I could say it, somebody had to believe it.
‘I can’t chill! I have to call all my contacts. The florist – you can’t have local calla lilies in winter! And the invitations – you can’t have a late-summer theme on your invitations if it’s a Christmas wedding!’
‘I never said it would be a Christmas wedding.’
‘Then when is it, Erica? I need to know!’
Yeah. Him and me both. ‘Listen, I’ll get back to you as soon as I speak to Julian, OK?’
‘Does he even remember you’re getting married?’
I gasped. Of all people, he was the one who knew how important this was for me. I could have understood – and in fact expected it – from Marcy. But Paul? A bitter knot rose in my throat. He’d never spoken to me like that before. What was happening to us? Scratch that, what was happening to both my relationships? Could I not get one damn thing right?
‘I-I have to go,’ I whispered and hung up before he could hear the humiliation in my voice.
He was right, of course. At this rate, it really was going to be a Christmas wedding.
When Paul got home two hours later, he looked at me with spaniel eyes and spread his arms to hug me.
‘I’m sorry, sunshine. I panicked. I was a jerk.’
‘Yes, you were. But you were also right. I seem to be the only one wanting this wedding, after all.’
‘Don’t say that. Julian loves you.’
I huffed. ‘I know. But he sure has a weird way of showing it lately.’
‘The poor guy’s stressed. He has a million things on his mind.’
‘And I don’t? I run this place single-handed. All he does is come and go, talk to strangers about his books and smile into cameras. I’d gladly trade. Plus, he’s always with that… Sienna.’
I knew I was being unfair. He’d never said or done anything untoward that could remotely make me worry. It was just my old insecurity demons playing with my mind.
‘Aww, come on. None of that self-doubt again. How many times do we have to do this? He loves you.’
I bit my lip, then eyed him. ‘Yeah. I know.’
‘And if anything, please be kind to her for my sake at least?’ Paul pleaded. ‘Sienna has amazing connections. I should get on her good side to see if she can hook me up with prospective clients.’
‘And I’m the one who needs an honesty check? Could you sound any more utilitarian?’
He shrugged. ‘That’s how business works. You know that better than me.’
‘Right.’
‘So you promise to be diplomatic with her and get me in there?’
I huffed. ‘Promise.’
And it turned out Sienna Thornton-Jones didn’t simply have connections. She was connections. A real jet-setter. Word had it she’d been involved in some sort of politico-sex scandal as a teenager – something about a much older man, an MP – but I wasn’t supposed to know. As if I didn’t have fingers to surf the net like the rest of the world.
And now she was already dazzling Julian with talks about a movie option for his first comeback book, Stepping Up.
‘Of course, we’ll have to go straight to the USA, which means that you won’t be here for Thanksgiving and maybe even Christmas. Sorry,’ she said, eyeing us both.
She was no idiot. She knew what this was costing us relationship-wise. But did she care? She was just like Terry. People were secondary to her own needs. I guess, at the end of the day, most of us were like that. I wanted to put the wedding day before Julian’s career. But – and therein lay the difference – I never had. Because I loved him and wanted him to have everything he’d never had before. Even if now I was starting to think that she was milking it a bit too much.
Ease up on him, I wanted to say to her. We’re trying to keep our family together and your schedule isn’t helping.
‘What do you think?’ Julian asked me when we were alone in our bedroom. ‘A movie…’
‘It sounds like a wonderful opportunity.’ Gawd, could I have been any more lame? Support your man in all weathers, I told myself, although it was storming brutally on my part at the moment.
‘Geez, Erica, a little less enthusiasm or you’ll go right through the roof.’
I stared at him. ‘I’m being very enthusiastic and supportive,’ I argued. ‘I just don’t want you to get hurt. Do you know how many times a movie option dies into nothingness?’
‘I won’t, but for now it’s a nice thing to hang onto, isn’t it?’
‘Is that what you’re doing? Hanging on? Is that what your life has become?’
He groaned. ‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it.’
I sidled over to him, taking his hand. ‘Julian, you’re a beautiful writer. Your stories are raw – honest and uplifting. Keep your feet on your writing path and let your people worry about Hollywood.’
He flinched. ‘Why should I if there’s more to life than writing a book?’
I dropped back, stunned. Is that what he thought his life was about? Writing a book? What about owning an agricultural business, a B & B, horses and oh, by the way, being a stepfather and, while we’re at it, a future husband? Obviously these things, these dreams no longer carried as much weight with him as they used to. Or maybe they were weighing him down too much…
‘I didn’t mean it that way,’ he sighed as I turned away from him.
‘No, of course not. I’m sure our family is at the top of your list of priorities,’ I snapped, unable to help myself.
I knew I was wrong and in the darkness, I sincerely dabbled with an apology. But then I thought that if I apologized and by chance did it again, I’d look like a fraud. Better to let off steam and go back a little calmer tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’d apologize and start afresh. Maybe I was just tired and stressed.
‘Goodnight, then,’ he answered simply and turned out the light.
*
I barely even crossed Julian in the hall nowadays, so the hope of walking together down the aisle was becoming a bit far-fetched, because at times like this I wasn’t so sure anymore. Not about wanting to marry him, of course, but actually catching him and keeping him still long enough to slip a ring on his finger.
So as far as the actual wedding preparations, Paul and I decided to keep the date vague. Say sometime in the new year. I promised not to declare war on Sienna Thornton-Jones and Paul promised to keep his contacts sweet and ready at the drop of a hat – flower people, invitations and, above all, the stormy Chef Veronesi. Who hadn’t, as we all expected, dropped him. How the heck had Paul managed to keep him good?
I, too, was trying to stay good, but I wasn’t a patient woman at the best of times and it was all taking its toll on me. For days I went to bed later than Julian (when he was home), corresponding with my former Farthington guests who had answered my blanket email. They all were delighted to hear from me and promised to book next year as they had already made plans for this summer. For which I’d expressed enthusiasm, and proceeded to highlight the beauties of Tuscany.
I even pre-booked a few meals for them (yes, I know, a year in advance but I’m not second-guessing myself) with an unsuspecting Renata who, at the end of the day, had a whole year to get organized. I told them about how her food was home-grown, and wouldn’t it be fantastic to go and see the beautiful fields where your food had sprouted from, thanks to a great dose of love and dedication? I also promised them cooking and baking lessons from yours truly, including my famous lasagne. I also pimped our beautiful horses and a romantic carriage ride through the town. And, for the single ladies, a few nights out on the town for a chance to meet some charming local men.
All this, while gnashing my teeth at the thought of Julian and Sienna together, whether downstairs or abroad. It was official. He was spending way more time with her than with me. And to think I’d been the one to push him to write again in the first place while she was now getting all the credit for discovering his talent. I was the one who had read his manuscript, pulled it out of that old drawer and badgered him practically every day to finish and submit it, when he’d been doubtful about his talent. I was the one who had exhumed the gem.
Don’t get me wrong. Sienna was a great girl and worked round the clock for him – even I could see that. And I knew she didn’t do it on purpose to ignore me, but a little more consideration for the cook and cleaner of the house was always considered a special touch of class.
And she looked every inch the relaxed guest. Next to her I really did feel like the help. No matter what she wore, even tatty jeans and her hair up in a ponytail, she always looked sensational. She had the perfect complexion that only youth and good genes could give a girl. I’d never looked like that, not even after I’d lost a colossal amount of weight after college and was strutting it in England.
Sienna was what I’ve never been: fine-boned, perfect, balanced and, most importantly, un-temperamental. Almost bloodless. Come to think of it, I couldn’t imagine her in the throes of passion. She never got angry. She simply told this or that contact to bugger off and to pray they never needed a favor. But when she did it, it sounded musical, like she was chiming away at her favorite tune. Maybe it was the British accent. And what pissed me off most was that I actually really, really liked her, dammit. When I didn’t envy her, that is.
Because when I got frustrated and/ or angry, the whole household (including the workers out in the fields) could hear me. I could never hide my disappointment or be delicate and graceful. People knew when I was upset or happy. They wouldn’t need a crystal ball to figure me out. I could definitely never play poker, that was for sure.
*
Just like every morning, Pino, the mailman, was coming up our road on his moped with his yellow-and-blue basket marked Poste Italiane. Like a real gentleman of old, he tipped his hat while he sauntered up the steps and I poured him his favorite drink – a tall glass of cold lemon and mint iced tea, with a shot of Sambuca, of course.
‘Ah, grazie, Eri-ha,’ he said as he placed an ominous-looking envelope with all sorts of stamps and seals into my hands before throwing back his head and gulping down the drink in one snap of his neck. He then wiped his hand on his uniform sleeve and shot to his feet, waving goodbye. ‘Ciao, a domani!’
‘Ciao, Pino!’ I remembered to call back, but he was already chugging down the hill.
I looked down at my scary letter and carefully pried the seal open, like a corpse during an autopsy, the sweat already pearling on my forehead. What could it be? It looked official and experience told me that, in Italy, official was hardly ever good.
So I skimmed over the typed letter and felt my knees buckling. It was from the NAS (Nucleo Anti-Sofisticazione), namely, the Health and Safety Department. Which never took prisoners. I scanned the text and sucked in my breath. And then, my ears buzzing, I sat down and read it again, concentrating on each and every word lest I’d misunderstood.
But I hadn’t. They were threatening to revoke our B & B license on the basis that they’d been sent a picture of one of our rooms with an enormous rat on the bed. Which they’d included in their letter to us.
Rats? Were they crazy? We had no rats here! If they took away our license, A Taste of Tuscany – everything I’d worked for in the last two years – was a complete goner. They couldn’t do this to me. I’d worked my ass off and saved for years just to be here in Italy and now that I finally had my own business, they wanted to take it away from me? A Taste of Tuscany was like my third child. I kept it well-maintained, up to code and spotless – there was no way a rat could have made it here. Even flies had a tough time here. But a rat in our home? And no one even mentioning it? Highly unlikely.
I would have understood if the NAS had arrived upon the departure of the Peggs family last year. In their case, they’d have been right to revoke our license. I personally would have handed it over to them myself, so disgusted we’d been by the absolute filth they’d left behind.
If there hadn’t been a rat during the Peggs’ stay, then we’d never in a million years ever have had to worry about having one. Man, you’d never seen such a mess. At first, we thought they were OK people. You know, the average British family with three kids, all in school, one awaiting their GCSE results, etcetera. The wife, Amanda, was soft-spoken and kept to herself. The husband was more of a clown. Decent people.
Or so we’d thought.
They left in the middle of the night (we wondered why, as the bill had already been settled) and found the keys hanging on the front gate of the property for just anybody to snatch and help themselves to most of the furniture. Ah. Did I say furniture?
When we got inside, the bloody bureau was missing! It hadn’t cost much, as it was just a nice piece I’d bought at the Saturday antiques market, but what the heck would a family flying to London Gatwick do with an Italian Rococo-style bureau on their shoulders?
And then my clever Julian put all the pieces back together. Literally. The bureau had been in the room with the bunk bed. Too lazy to use the built-in ladder, they must have got into the habit of climbing atop the bureau for a boost. According to Julian, they must have broken it and rather than pay for the damages from the deposit (I can see the dad, cheap little bastard), decided to hide the evidence and throw it into some skip on the way to the airport – although not too far, given the bulk of the thing. I could almost imagine the three kids squeezed in and complaining in the back seat.
But that’s nothing compared to what else we found.
‘Easy, honey, you’re going to have a kitten,’ Julian had said as he always did before I lost it.
I stepped into the front room and, I swear, I felt faint. It wasn’t just the smell. It was the seven family-sized garbage bags, open and tipped over (in their haste to escape, one assumes) and strewn across the floor. Including, for everyone’s joy, coffee filters and something that looked like the remains of a chicken curry.
But the joy didn’t end there. The kitchen sink was full of scraps of food (I did tell them we didn’t have a built-in incinerator in the sink) and dish towels stained with everything from tomato sauce to… ice cream? I had to stare at the towels for a few minutes before I even recognized them, for all the patterns had been blotted out by filth.
Shall we move on into the bathroom? Damp towels in the shower, in the sink, under the sink, more garbage bags absolutely bursting with vacation goodies. I won’t even mention the rest, because even if you did believe me, there’s no way I could begin to describe it to you without passing out at the memory.
The true apotheosis of filth. To me, common sense, or courtesy, dictated that you don’t leave the place looking like ground zero. You leave it as you found it. Whenever we go away to a self-catering place, we leave it spotless by practically mopping ourselves out of the place backward.
I remember ringing Rosina for some help, thinking that I’d give her one hell of a bonus even for showing up.
‘Bring some gloves and a box of garbage bags – and all the bleach and cleaners you can carry,’ I said and closed my cellphone to pull on a pair of new rubber gloves from under the kitchen sink.
I shook the memory out of my mind and looked down at the letter again. It had to be a joke. Please, God, let it be a joke…
There was a telephone number and an email at the bottom of the sheet, which was about the last thing I saw as the room swayed before me. Breathing hard, I whipped out my cellphone and stabbed in the number.
‘Yes, hello, this is Erica Cantelli from A Taste of Tuscany…’ I said in my very best Italian.
A long pause, then, ‘Sì, signora?’
‘I received a letter from you about… about a… r-rat?’
‘Sì, signora. We’re going to have to shut you down. We suggest you don’t take any more bookings for this summer.’
As if. ‘But there’s a mistake. We don’t have any rats here and we never have, I can assure you.’
‘Well, a former guest of yours complained.’
A former guest? Who? I wondered. They’d all left glowing reviews. ‘Impossible.’
‘I’m sorry, but we can’t ignore the complaint.’
‘I see. So what happens now?’
‘We shut you down.’
I almost cried out. ‘Shut me down?’
‘Yes. Until further inspection.’
‘Which would be when?’
‘I don’t know, signora. One of our agents will be in contact with you as soon as possible.’
And before I could take my next breath, they hung up. So much for Italian bureaucrats.
They were taking our business from us. Before we even had a chance to set roots. Before I could even breathe the Tuscan air properly. Years and years of wishing and dreaming a place of my own and now we were facing the danger of losing the business.
‘Honey?’ Julian called from the door, and I looked up from the letter at the wall opposite me, unable to focus. ‘Are you OK? What is it?’
Numb, I held out the letter to him. Taking his work gloves off, he sat down and silently read, a deep frown of concentration on his face.
‘The jig is up!’ I croaked. ‘A Taste of Tuscany is no more…’
‘Nonsense. Just translate this very last bit here for me, honey, will you?’ Julian said as I struggled to breathe.
He was calm and collected, just like he always was, and for a moment I wondered if he hadn’t understood at all – we were losing our livelihood!
I breathed again. In. Please, God. Out. We can’t lose all this. In. This is all we have. Out. What are we going to do? My voice shaking and my body like jelly, I translated, word for word, the contents of the foul document that was ruining our dream – our lives.
Julian frowned and folded the letter. ‘Rubbish.’
‘We can’t lose this place! We just can’t!’ I cried.
‘Sweetie, we won’t.’
‘How can you say that? How can you not be worried?’
Julian shrugged. ‘Because no one can take your license away without any proof. That’s just a photo of a rat.’
‘Yes, but taken by who? Who would want to do this to us?’
‘We’ll soon find out,’ he promised as he pulled his phone out his back pocket and dialled a number off by heart.
‘Who are you calling?’
He wrapped his arm around me and squeezed as he spoke. ‘Marco? It’s me, Julian. Can you call your lawyer cousin and ask her to come over here tomorrow? We have a problem. I’ll explain it to you later. Thanks, amico…’ He looked down at me. ‘He truly is a good friend. Now just try to relax and not worry too much. Tomorrow is another day.’
‘But I can’t sit around while someone’s trying to destroy us! I have to do some investigating, gauge the damage…’
‘Sweets, this isn’t The Farthington, where you kick ass and it’s done. This time you’re going to have to sit back and let someone else do the work for you.’
As if I’d ever been able to do that. I was a natural problem-solver. A serial trouble-shooter. It was my nature and what I did best. But when my own family’s well-being was concerned, it was hard to be as lucid.
‘Are you sure a lawyer can solve this? We both know how the Italian law and bureaucracy work. Look how long it took us just to get residency.’
‘Erica,’ he said, taking both my hands. ‘It’ll be fine. But you have to stop worrying.’
I studied him. Why did I get the feeling he wasn’t as emotionally involved as I was?
*
At precisely four o’clock the next day, Laura Magri, Marco’s cousin, drove up to our front door in a Lamborghini. She was tall, just like his side of the family, commanding and beautiful. She knew what she was talking about and I liked her on the spot.
‘I’ve spoken to the NAS in person. They knew nothing about it, so someone is just playing a horrible joke on you.’
‘Thank God,’ I exhaled.
‘But I’ve asked around. These people, whoever they are, have done it before – to restaurants, B & Bs, hotels…’
‘But why?’
‘Tuscans are insanely competitive,’ she answered.
‘But we are in good relations with hundreds of colleagues all over the region – the entire B & B association. Who would pick on us in particular?’ Julian asked.
‘Can we sue them when we find them?’ I asked.
Laura looked over at me, saw a kindred spirit and smiled.
‘You could, although I’d wait to have absolute proof of their identity and see what it is they really want. I’m guessing they want to see you closed for good.’
‘But this is our livelihood!’ I cried.
‘Honey,’ Julian whispered, taking my hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologized. ‘I’m upset.’
‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘Usually these things go away with very little money.’
‘But we shouldn’t have to pay anyone anything,’ Julian reminded her. ‘This is absurd.’
‘It’s all about who you know here, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘A friend of mine in Milan needed information about her pension plan and couldn’t get any for weeks. Then her cousin started working there and used her connections to get the information.’
‘You see? She shouldn’t have to be related to someone just to get the job done. This is ridiculous.’ I wanted to tear my (or rather, someone else’s) hair out.
Laura observed us for a moment. ‘Let me make a couple of calls. See what I can do. I have your numbers.’ And with that, she climbed back into her Lamborghini and disappeared in a cloud of summer dust.
‘Let it go for now,’ Julian said. ‘We’ll block the availability calendar indefinitely while she does her work and just concentrate on our wedding.’
‘And get married where, exactly? Under a bridge? Or on a park bench? Because we won’t even be able to serve lunch to our own kids if the NAS shut us down. Bam! Did you hear that sound? That was the sound of our doors closing forever…’
He laughed and caressed my hair. ‘Silly sausage.’
‘How can you not be worried?’
‘It’ll be OK. Trust me.’
It’ll be OK, he said. What would it take for me to believe it and relax? Simply wanting to? Oh, how I wanted to. I took a deep breath and against all my instincts, forced a nod as a myriad of new plans started shooting before my eyes like meteorites. Or perhaps it was just me seeing spots because I was sure my blood pressure had raised the roofbeams.
‘OK.’
But it was far from OK. Somewhere some sicko was playing a cruel joke on us and had even gone as far as giving us a fake number to reach them – straight into the lion’s den. A cruel joke with the intent of ruining us. And then I got a flash of a memory of a similar attack on The Farthington Hotel when I used to be the manager. Someone had put a mouse in one of the beds – neatly tucked it in and taken photos.
It had been our rival chain, I’d discovered. But here in Tuscany, especially in the province of Siena, there were hundreds of B & Bs. And I was going to find out who had a beef with us. Who would go so far as to collate false evidence against us? In whose interest would it be to bring us down? Did it have anything to do with that bus company, Etruscan Tours?
Besides, all our guests had always left positive feedback. And then a glimmer of a memory. All of them… except for one couple – an Italian couple – who hadn’t left any feedback at all. I remembered thinking it was odd at the time. It had to be them. Most of our families were English, so this couple had stuck out because Italians normally choose B & Bs with Italian owners. We catered mainly to foreigners.
I remembered them observing the place, taking pictures of themselves in every corner of the property. Julian and I had laughed about it for weeks, posing just about everywhere. Even in front of the kitchen sink, saying, ‘Take one here! This angle is spectacular!’
And now it all finally made sense. They’d been casing the joint before they struck.
I raced up to my study and searched frantically through our records until I found them: Marzia and Davide Casciani. I copied their names onto a Post-it note and ran back downstairs to the kitchen where I’d left my laptop.
‘What did you find?’ Julian asked, the letter back in his hand.
‘The Cascianis!’ I cried, banging their names into the Google search engine.
Julian’s eyes narrowed. ‘The Cascianis? Oh, yeah, I remember them. The selfie couple. Weird, weren’t they?’ He came to crouch over me with a kiss before he reached into the cabinet for a cup. ‘Coffee?’ he asked.
I shook my head, waiting for results to pop up. And when they did, I almost fainted dead away.
‘What…?’ I croaked. ‘It can’t be.’
‘What is it?’
‘They… they own a new bed and breakfast near San Gimignano. And… and…’ If I hadn’t been sitting, I’d have fallen flat on my face. ‘… it’s called… it’s c-called… Tasting Tuscany…’
Julian stared at me over the rim of his coffee cup, then slowly put it down and came to read over my shoulder as I scrolled down to the description and my heart gave a knife-like sideways beat. I recognized every single word of the spiel. Not because it was typical hotel business jargon, but because I’d worked so hard on it.
‘They’re copying us word for word,’ I whispered.
‘Bloody hell. Check their availability calendar.’
I checked and they were booked to the hilt. The opposite of us.
‘Now do you believe me?’ I cried.
Julian had that pensive expression on his face, the one he got when he was on the verge of figuring something out. Which was lucky, as I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
‘Erica, honey, I have a sinking, stinking feeling. Remember the bus tour in Castellino?’
‘Oh my God, yes, I knew it,’ I whispered. So there were all our customers. All those Brits from the bus tours were staying there. ‘They want to wipe us off the map.’
‘And the dead rat,’ Julian added. ‘They must have planted it when they came to stay and took a picture of it.’
I rubbed my face briskly and pondered and considered. And then, as the fruit of years and years in the business tackling anything that had come my way, I made my most important marketing–management decision ever.
‘I’m gonna kill them. Drive straight up there and punch the first face I see.’
Julian’s eyes widened. ‘Erica, you’ll do nothing of the sort.’
‘You expect me just to sit around and do nothing while we lose our business?’
‘We’re not going to lose the business.’
‘Damn right we’re not,’ I vowed. I had a plan. A mission.