“I didn't catch your name,” says Kyle, looking directly at Mary with his large brown eyes.
“Oh,” says Mary, with a lapful of shredded paper, “I'm Mary.”
“Mary is Belinda's daughter,” says Barbara helpfully.
“Oh, really?” says Lauren, looking from mother to daughter. “You don't look at all alike.”
“Yes,” says Belinda, with another flare of her nostrils. “It has been said before.”
“What do you do, Mary?” says Lauren.
“Um …”
“She helps me out,” says Belinda.
“And works in communications,” adds Barbara.
“That, too.” Belinda nods. “What does your son do?”
“He's a music major at Yale,” says Lauren. “But he's helping me out, too. Aren't you, darling?”
“Sure am.”
“Mary's musical,” declares Barbara.
“No, I'm not,” Mary mutters into her chest, her dark hair framing her face.
“Yes, you are. I thought you wanted to sing professionally?” says Barbara.
“We soon put a stop to that, didn't we?” Belinda laughs.
“I'd love to hear you sing sometime,” says Kyle, bending down trying to make eye contact.
“I don't think that's likely,” says Mary, forcing herself to look the handsome American in the eye. Her cheeks are pink with embarrassment, red blotches glare all over her neck, yet she still looks charming in her white broderie-anglaise top. “I'm very out of practice.”
“Oh.” His lips curl into a smile. “That's a shame. I'm a terrible singer.” He laughs gently. “But I love to listen. What sort of stuff do you—”
“Anyway,” says Belinda, clapping her hands together. “I'm starving. We should order.”
“Of course.” Lauren steps back. “And we should get to our table. Nice meeting you, guys.”
“Yes, right,” says Belinda, with her special stiff smile, before turning toward the kitchen. “Giovanna!” she shouts. “Siamo pronti! We are ready, aren't we, everyone? To order? It's not like we've never seen the menu before, now, is it?”
The group only manages to raise a couple of polite laughs as Lauren and Kyle withdraw to their table and, with the main source of gossip and intrigue sitting all of three feet away, it is a while before the conversation picks up. In fact, they sit mostly in silence while Belinda talks loudly about the various meat options on the menu. Eventually, she rallies some sort of conversational banter between Derek and Howard about the merits of roast chicken versus the pork dish—no one is quite sure what it contains. Still, Belinda gets to speak a lot of loud Italian and share a couple of jokes with Roberto where she laughs heartily through the punch lines.
With the food ordered, and Giovanna and Roberto busy in the kitchen, silence descends on the restaurant. Lauren and Kyle enjoy the peace after the noise of their builders, and seem happy to sit not saying anything. The other table starts to stiffen. Mary keeps her head down and picks fluff off her skirt. Derek busies himself by reading the “dolce” section on the back of the menu for the fifth time while he chain-eats bread. Barbara smokes three St. Moritz Menthols, one after another, and Howard, not the most garrulous of conversationalists, chooses to ignore the mounting tension and drink as much white wine as he can. Belinda eats bread, drinks water, sips wine, and fights the terrible desire to turn and stare at Lauren behind her.
“Well, this is nice,” says Barbara, flicking cigarette ash and picking at the filter-tip with a frosted-pink thumbnail.
“Mmm,” says Belinda. “Isn't it?”
“So, I was thinking …” they both say at once.
“No, you …” says Belinda.
“No, you …” says Barbara.
“No, really, you,” insists Belinda.
“Christ sake, one of you,” says Howard, taking another sip of wine.
“Well, I was thinking … I wonder how your Belgians are getting on? Where are they today?” asks Barbara.
“They've gone on a trip to Siena,” says Belinda.
“Siena? Really?” asks Barbara.
“Yes, Siena.”
“I do like Siena,” says Barbara.
“So do I,” agrees Belinda.
“When did you last go to Siena?” asks Barbara.
“Just before Christmas,” says Belinda. “When did you last go to Siena?”
“Oh, um, not sure,” says Barbara. “Derek, when did we last go to Siena?”
“Jesus fucking Christ on a bicycle,” says Howard suddenly, putting his glass down.
“You went to Siena at Easter, Belinda went to Siena at Christmas, I went to Siena last month, I'm sure Mary hasn't been for years. Now, can we all shut the fuck up about fucking Siena?”
“Howard!” hushes Belinda. Her face is horrified, her eyes are round as she gestures frantically with her head at Lauren, “Stop swearing!”
“What?” says Howard. “Like she fucking cares.”
“Sssh,” insists Belinda. “You're being embarrassing!”
“Embarrassing now, am I?” asks Howard.
Delayed somewhat by alcohol, he makes as if to stand up. But his little scene is drowned out by the arrival of the fabulously noisy Bianchi family—la nonna, Signor Bianchi, la signora, Marco, Gianfranco, Giorgio, Marco and Giorgio's wives, three children. A baby arrives in a Moses basket and is immediately placed under the long table. It is a whirlwind of jocularity. Roberto and Giovanna come out of the kitchen to be greeted by shouts, back-slapping hugs, cheers, and applause at the impending deliciousness of the lunch.
The three sons do the rounds of Belinda's table, shaking hands, kissing the backs of hands. The handsome Gianfranco winks at Mary. The enormity of their bonhomie is enough to reheat the frosty atmosphere in the restaurant, and the amount of noise the family makes together enables the other tables to relax and talk more freely. Perhaps most important of all, having taken Lauren and Kyle for tourists, the Bianchis ignore the Americans entirely.
Belinda can barely contain her triumph. “Tutto bene?” she shouts down the table at the family, raising her glass.
“Sì,” they chorus. Marco and Gianfranco raise their glasses of water in return.
“Isn't this great?” says Belinda to her table, rubbing her hands together. “I think I might order some Prosecco.”
“Ooh, good idea,” agrees Barbara. “Do you know? I sometimes think I actually prefer it to champagne.”
Sunday lunch appears to be going with a swing. Conscious of their audience and encouraged by Belinda's enthusiasm, everyone makes a concerted effort to demonstrate they are “such good friends” who thrive on one another's company and do this all the time. Belinda orders two bottles of Prosecco. Derek orders another carafe each of white and red wine.
Roberto and Giovanna can't believe their luck. Back and forth they go, generously serving the alcohol, accommodating smiles on their faces. The expat Sunday lunch party is rarely so jovial. Normally led by Howard's parsimony and poverty, they have a round of pizza, some salad, and a couple of bottles of wine. Two bottles of Prosecco and three carafes is a record.
Soon plates of salad make way for bowls of shiny pasta parcels, made that morning by Giovanna. Filled with spinach and ricotta and covered with parsley, garlic and olive oil, they are so firm and soft that they slip down the throat like oysters. Then, just as it seemed the expats are replete and can't consume any more, a great plate of roast chicken and fat pork cutlets arrives to quieten them down for a while.
But nothing can stifle the banter at the Bianchi table. In fact, they have only just got started. It's la nonna 's eighty-second birthday, and if the lunch is anything like it was last year, they'll sit around that table until the sun goes down with two bottles of red wine between ten of them.
eanwhile, Lauren and Kyle don't seem to notice the display of expat exuberance that is being put on for their benefit. Instead, they sit opposite each other, enjoying their first hot food since they took possession of the keys to
the Casa Padronale early on Saturday. While they savor every delicious mouthful of warming pasta, each crunchy forkful of hot peppery rocket and sweet tomato, they discuss their plans for the renovation of the house.
“I want to knock out as many of the walls downstairs as possible,” says Lauren, sipping her mineral water, “to create the illusion of space. A feeling of light. I want to paint it white and open it up as much as possible. So people feel they're in a modern contemporary place but at the same time that they can relax and leave the city behind.”
“That shouldn't take too long”—Kyle nods in agreement— “if we keep everyone motivated and focused.”
“We haven't got long—we have to be open in three weeks,” confirms Lauren, picking the Parmesan out of her salad. “That's what I've budgeted for in all my projections and forecasts.”
“Don't worry, Mom.” Kyle smiles warmly. “Whatever you've set your mind to doing, you'll do. You always have done.”
“But this is dramatically different from Wall Street,”she con-cludes. “You know, there it was more”—she pauses while a burst of hilarity emanates from Belinda's table— “there it was more dog eat dog. Here, it's more work like a dog.” She raises her glass of water. “Anyway, cheers,” she says. “To new ventures.”
“To new ventures.” Kyle grins. “You really shouldn't worry, Mom, I've never known you not be able to cope. Even after Dad died.”
“Yeah, well,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “That was over ten years ago.” She smiles. “Anyway, I can't afford to fail at this project. I've invested most of my savings, and all my energy in it.”
“That, and you've told everyone you're going to do it!” Kyle laughs. “Which, if I know the queen of hostile takeovers, is usually the biggest motivation of all.”
“I'd quite forgotten how annoying you can be.” Lauren laughs and gazes proudly at her handsome son.
“I'm a chip off the old block,” says Kyle, with a broad grin and cheap wink.
“Are you accusing me of being annoying?”
“I wouldn't dare! Pick a fight with you? It's more than my life's worth. Anyway, we're here to celebrate….”
“Quite right,” says Lauren, flicking her smooth blonde hair and picking up her glass again. “To our success.”
“To our success,” he replies, gently tapping her glass with his.
“Now,” says Lauren, “do you think we should paint over those pointless frescos, if you can call them that? I just can't bear the idea of those wretched art police, the Bell' Arti, coming down, declaring us a listed building and holding everything up.”
ver on the other table Barbara is decidedly giggly. She has definitely drunk too much and is starting to flirt with Howard. Although when Barbara drinks too much, she always flirts with Howard. Not that Derek seems to mind. Barbara and Derek have one of those surprisingly secure relationships: Barbara behaves quite badly in public and Derek enjoys it. He sits back and smiles, clasping his hands over his large waist, because he knows that, in her heart of hearts, Barbara is all mouth and overly tight trousers. After twenty-five years of happy marriage, it amuses him to watch her play the same old games. And they always are the same old games.
To start with, Barbara loses control of her breasts—not in a lap-dancing way: she simply becomes less aware of their expanse and tends to leave them behind on the table, allowing them to spill out over her scoop-neck T-shirt. Then she moves on to the touchy-feely octopus stage, when she normally turns on Howard, the only heterosexual male available who is not her husband. Finally just before she falls over and begins being violently sick, she releases her inner Liza Minnelli.
For Barbara has a theory that it is not only in vino veritas but also in vino that your true self comes out. It's just unfortunate, then, that the true personality that resides inside Barbara Hewitt is an all-singing, all-dancing Broadway starlet gagging to hit the boards.
Fortunately, Barbara is at the giggly, using-her-hands-quite-a-lot stage, and Cabaret seems a long way off. But she is not the only one who is slightly the worse for wear. Howard has long since released his inner Tolstoy, Derek his inner builder, and Belinda is well on the way to letting her Michelangelo come tumbling out. In fact, the only person whose inner personality is well under control is Mary. She sits quietly in the afternoon sun, the yellow rays dancing on her dark hair as she stares down the golden-green valley, sipping her water. Occasionally Franco catches her eye from the Bianchi table.
The afternoon wears on, and the expat table starts to make a noise about leaving.
“You're all welcome to come back to ours,” mutters Derek, tripping slightly over his words. “I'd value Howard's opinion on the roof.”
“Oh, there's nothing I'd like more to see than an honest roof, hewn from honest labor, as Levin once said,” slurs Howard.
“And we could have a singsong,” suggests Barbara, hopefully.
“We should probably get back, actually,” replies Mary. “We've got the Belgians staying with us. Haven't we, Mum?”
Just as Belinda looks ready to leave, she suddenly picks up her chair, scrapes it along the stone floor, like a slowly moving crab, and parks herself at Lauren and Kyle's table. “Hello, there,” she says, smiling, her face round, pink, and shiny like a beach ball.
“Hope you don't mind me joining you.”
“No,” says Lauren. “Please, pull up a pew.”
“Oh, right.” Belinda looks at her chair, confused. “I have.”
“So you have,” says Lauren.
“How's it all going?” asks Belinda, rubbing her puffy hands together. Now that she has arrived at the table, she is damned if she is going to leave it too quickly. “I'm very impressed that you have managed to get your builders to work on a Sunday. This being a Catholic country, it's usually more than their place in heaven is worth to turn up on the Lord's day.” Belinda chortles.
“Yeah, you're right. But I'm afraid it has nothing to do with me. That efficiency is down to my architect.”
“Good Lord!” shrieks Belinda, slapping both her thighs at once. “You've hired an architect?”
Mary's antennae are on full alert. Sensing her mother is about to hold forth, she comes up behind and places her hands on the back of the chair, just in case. Kyle smiles at her. Mary feels her cheeks blush, but manages a small smile back.
“Oh, yeah,” confirms Lauren. “I find things are much easier when you use an architect.”
“I don't think you'll need one of those out here!” continues Belinda, pleasantly pleased with herself. “The Italians are so artistic … so terribly, terribly artistic. They really don't need guidance or anything like that at all. I mean, I could understand if we were in England.” She laughs. “Or America. But here … art is in their soul. It's in their blood, it's their landscape. They inhale it! They live it! I mean, this is the country of Michelangelo!”
“I'm well aware of that.” Lauren smiles.
“But if you want to waste your money,” Belinda leans back in her seat, her head to one side, “I suppose it's up to you. But take any carpenter, stonemason, or ironmonger and they'll be able to do just as good a job. Don't say I didn't warn you!” She taps the side of her short, shiny pink nose.
“Thank you for your kind words,” says Lauren, getting up to leave. “Come along, Kyle,” she says, and picks up some euros from the white saucer on the table. “It really is time we got back.”
“Sure, Mom.” Kyle glances at Mary. “See you around?” he says.
“Maybe,” says Mary.
“But then again,” continues Belinda, “I suppose for you it must be different.”
“Sorry?” asks Lauren, looking down at her.
“It must be a bit different for you,” repeats Belinda, looking up.
“Why?” asks Lauren.
“Well, what with you opening a hotel.”
“A hotel?”
“Yes,” says Belinda. “You know, your hotel. I imagine that must be complicated.”
“I'm not opening a hotel,” says Lauren, running her hands through her hair.
“You're not?”
“No.” Lauren snorts. “Where on earth did you pick that up?”
“Oh,” says Belinda, her cheeks blushing a darker shade of pink. “So you're not opening a hotel?”
“No, I'm opening a bed-and-breakfast.”
“A bed-and-breakfast?” stutters Belinda.
“Yes,” confirms Lauren. “Rather along the lines of yours,” she adds, with one of her very special smiles. “Only quite a lot more glamorous.”
MercoledìWednesday
Climafa caldo (Hot! Hot! Hot!)
Good Lord, I see it is a whole two and half weeks since I last wrote anything in my diary but, then, given how busy Maria and I have been with the house, that should come as no surprise. Ever since my delightful Belgians left, with smiles on their faces and a relaxed spring in their stride, the villa has been more or less full. I've had some Austrians, some French, and two sets of Brits, who have filled me in on all the gossip back home. Apparently property prices are now so high no one can afford to buy homes anymore. All I can say is, it is always so pleasant to be reminded why one left!
Obviously, as a hostess, my first priority is my guests, so I haven't been able to help out our new americana visitor Lauren as much as I would have liked. But I gather from Barbara and Derek—who seem to have plenty of time to keep abreast of such things—she has had a few difficulties with that little house of hers. Apparently someone reported all her renovating activities to the comune, who sent some inspectors down to ascertain whether the frescos above the window in the small chapel on the side of the house should be saved for the nation—which I think, thankfully, they are going to be. Isn't it strange? Quite why someone would want to come to a beautiful country like this and actively go out of her way to destroy its culture is beyond me.
But, anyway, Lauren seems to have got over her little historical setback extremely quickly and is forging ahead with her refurbishment. Judging by the delivery of her new kitchen tiles yesterday, her copper piping the day before, and what looks like a large showerhead and new bath this morning, she is bulldozing along at breakneck speed.
Tuscany for Beginners Page 9