Tuscany for Beginners

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  His first few notes brought the whole party to the dance floor, hands in the air, clapping their approval. No one more so than Lauren who, with batlike hearing, could have distinguished her own son's playing if he'd been in the next valley. Breaking off from a conversation, she appeared on the terrace, clapping above her head, yelping like a southern rancher. “Go, honey, go!” she shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth, her blonde bob framing her face. “You show them!” She strode toward the dance floor but, finding it too crowded, stood on one of the tables to dance to her son's tune. It wasn't long before Howard and one of the Bianchi boys did the same. Derek, flushed with fun and alcohol, merrily tapped his toes on the sidelines, while Mary swirled and danced right in front of Kyle and the band.

  What a night! What a party. What a finale. Just as Kyle was taking Mary home, the fireworks started. Green and red starbursts lit up the night sky. The “ohs” and “ahs” of the crowd were audible along the gravel track. The bangs and crackles and technicolor accompanied them to the other side of the valley, where Kyle promptly dropped Mary at her door, as he had said he would, and he did not even attempt to kiss her. She'd stood with her eyes half closed and her mouth puckered, awaiting his approach. It wasn't until she'd heard the car door slam that she realized he'd gone.

  She'd spent a sleepless night, excited yet confused, serenaded by her mother's deep snoring, which penetrated the back wall. And now he'd called. When she had given up all hope. When she had thought that perhaps he was just trying to be nice and friendly and didn't see her in that light at all. He'd called and asked her out to dinner. And her mother, who can't have been concentrating, had said she could go.

  By the time Mary comes downstairs in the early evening, dressed in her calf-length tiered black skirt and a tight white T-shirt that shows off her slim tanned arms, her mother is asleep on the sofa. Too many sherries and too much planning have made her pass out like a soft pudding, and she is seeping over the side of the cushions. Her body is relaxed, her legs are slightly parted; her crackling snore disturbs her loose cheeks. Mary closes the french windows onto the terrace, securing the house. The doors bang in the wind.

  “What?” says Belinda, sitting up with a start. “What are you doing?”

  “I'm closing the windows.”

  “Right. Oh,” says Belinda, her dry tongue getting in the way of her speech. “Why? What are you doing dressed like that?”

  “I'm going out to dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Yes, dinner, with Kyle from across the valley,” says Mary anxiously. “You said I could go earlier today.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes, yes,” confirms Mary. “It's all part of your grander plan to find out what sort of guests and bookings and goings-on there are at the Casa Padronale.”

  “Ah, yes,” says Belinda, stretching and swinging her stiff legs off the sofa. “Has the major gone out?”

  “I don't know,” says Mary. “I think so. I've been in my room most of the afternoon.”

  “Oh,” says Belinda, with a small yawn. “I hope so, I suggested he and his wife make alternative arrangements tonight as we weren't cooking.”

  “Good,” says Mary.

  “Yep … He wasn't too pleased. He did remind me that he'd booked supper tonight and paid up front for it.” Belinda shrugs. “I said I'd go some way to reimburse him. But quite frankly,” she smiles, “I don't really care. I haven't enjoyed the Art with him very much this year. He used to be so much jollier.” She sighs. “I don't think I'll bother to have them back again next year. Do you?”

  “Whatever you want,” says Mary. “I should go. I don't want to be late.”

  “No, absolutely.” Belinda taps the side of her nose. “Use what few worldly charms you have, and remember I want details, details, details.”

  “Okay.”

  “Didn't you wear that skirt last night?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Oh, dear,” says Belinda with a little shrug. “Let's hope he doesn't notice! Have a nice evening. Don't be late.”

  Mary walks down the hill, leaving Belinda to her bottle of wine, a packet of crisps, and her Pride and Prejudice video, in which the Darcy-wet-breeches moment has lost its sound and color.

  By the time she reaches Giovanna's, the scattering of riservato signs on most of the tables means that it promises to be a busy night. Kyle is not there when she walks in to be greeted by the rotund Roberto.

  “Buona sera!” he says, embracing her, slotting her nose into his armpit. “Come va?”

  “Va bene, grazie, Roberto, e lei?”

  “Tutto bene.” He leads her to a small table for two, next to a group of four very pink blonde tourists, who seem already to be on their pudding. “Va bene così?”

  “Sì, sì,” says Mary, sitting down.

  “Hello there, Mary!” someone calls across the terrace.

  “Oh, hello, Howard,”says Mary. “Did you have fun last night?”

  “Excellent evening,” he replies, raising his denim-clad arm and taking a slug from his birdbath of red wine. “Not with your mother?”

  “No,” says Mary.

  “Good.”

  “Um, how's your book going?” asks Mary. “Got your hero out of bed yet?”

  “Oh, Lord,” he replies. “Yes, I've done that. … Only problem now is that I have no idea what to do with him next.”

  “Oh dear,” laughs Mary.

  “You could say that,” says Howard. “Is that your date?” He asks, indicating the entrance, where Kyle is standing, dressed in a dark blue shirt and jeans.

  “Um, thank you,” says Mary, blushing, as she watches Kyle approach, accompanied by his mother. “Hello, Kyle,” she says. “Hello, Lauren.”

  “Hey,” he says. “Don't you look beautiful!” He kisses her cheek. “Don't worry about my mother, she will not be joining us. Will you, Mother dear?”

  “I'd rather pluck my own eyes out.” Lauren smiles. “Hello, Mary. How are you?”

  “Fine thank you,” says Mary. “Thank you for a lovely party. It was a great evening.”

  “Good,” says Lauren, looking her up and down. “Didn't you wear that skirt last night?”

  “Go away, Mother,” says Kyle, pushing her in the direction of Howard. “I'm sorry about her. She just can't help herself. Any girl I'm interested in, and she's off.” He laughs. “And your mother's no help either.”

  “Let's not talk about mothers.”

  “I agree,” says Kyle, leaning over to tuck a stray strand of Mary's hair behind her ear. “And you do look stunning tonight.”

  “Thank you,” says Mary, plucking at her napkin as her cheeks glow a darker pink.

  “Let's order some wine!” he says ebulliently. “I think you and I are going to have a wonderful evening.”

  n the other side of the terrace, next to a table of four women, Howard and Lauren are joined by Derek and Barbara. The atmosphere is jovial. Howard is sharing his creative problems with the table. Barbara is letting Lauren know how much she envies her figure and how Americans always look after themselves so much better than the English. Derek is enthusiastically recounting anecdotes from Lauren's party, as if none of the guests had been there. And Lauren is smiling, listening, and saying very little. No one could tell that she's bored at all. A woman used to working in a man's world, Lauren hides her feelings well and always thinks of the long term. The evening is pleasant enough for her, no more dull than the numerous Wall Street dinners and client drinks she used to have to attend.

  But as the evening wears on and pasta is followed by meat, and wine by wine, Lauren finally brings the conversation to her own agenda. “So, Derek,” she says, “tell me about the Festa di Formaggio. It sounds like great fun. How does one get involved?”

  “Oh, the Festa di Formaggio, ”says Derek, rubbing his hands together. “It's the best night of the year, bar the panto—or maybe it's better than the panto, but it's certainly a day and a night to remember.” He chuckles. “Well, w
e all gather together— you know, the Brits, the expats, the Italians, and a couple of Germans—and we have an enormous party. Each group does their own food on tables on the green. Then we start the cheeserolling competition.”

  “Cheese rolling?” laughs Lauren.

  “Oh, yes.” Derek nods. “It's very serious, with trophies and everything. These great big pecorinos, which we roll down the hill.”

  “It's a devil to organize,” Barbara chips in.

  “Oh, right,” says Lauren. “Maybe I could help?”

  “Oh, Derek, that's a good idea,” says Barbara. “Lauren could use all those people skills she's been telling us about. All that time in New York has got to be useful.”

  “Oh, that's right, Barb. What an excellent idea. I know,” Derek sits back as though he has experienced a revelation, rather than the result of slow, subliminal campaign, “why don't you run it this year? Why don't we make her Big Cheese?”

  “Oh, Derek,” exclaims Barbara. “Do you think so?”

  “Honestly, I couldn't,” says Lauren, the epitome of modesty.

  “No, no, go on with you,” says Derek, giving Lauren's elegant shoulder a little shove.

  “Belinda's been Big Cheese for years. She won't mind.”

  “What do you think, Howard?” asks Barbara.

  “Leave me out of this,” says Howard, hands in the air. “I only came out for a quiet drink.”

  “Well, I think it's a great idea,” says Barbara.

  “You guys are too kind,” says Lauren. “But do you know what? I think rather than rock the boat too much with Belinda, as we all know how difficult she can be”—she gives a light laugh, which Barbara reciprocates— “I'd rather offer my services to the community, such skills as I have, rather than do anything so presumptuous as take over.”

  “Oh, Lauren, you're so clever,” gushes Barbara. “What a great compromise. Isn't she clever, Derek?”

  “Absolutely,” confirms Derek. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” says Lauren right back.

  “What are we all cheersing?”

  “Oh, Belinda!” says Derek, leaping out of his chair with shock and guilt. “I thought you were at home.”

  “Oh, I was, Derek,” she says. “But after I telephoned your house and Howard's and received no reply, I presumed you'd all be here. Although,” she stares at Lauren, “I wasn't expecting you, Lauren … dear. What a surprise!”

  “We're celebrating Lauren's addition to the Festa di Formaggio fold,” babbles Barbara. “You're going to find all her Wall Street skills invaluable.”

  “Right,” says Belinda. “Whatever they may be!”

  “You're still in charge, though,” adds Lauren. “I couldn't take that away from you.”

  “Is your B-and-B open yet?” asks Belinda, changing the subject.

  “Any day now.” Lauren nods.

  “Bookings?” Belinda smiles, her hands clasping the back of Derek's chair for support.

  “Fine,” says Lauren. “I had a little problem with the Spectator today, though.”

  “Really?” says Barbara.

  “Very bizarrely they thought I'd had a fire and was canceling my advert. It's lucky they telephoned to check, isn't it?” says Lauren, staring at Belinda, her blonde hair swinging. “But apart from that, it's going great. I have some L.A. studio exec arriving. He's booked in to finish his film script for a couple of weeks.”

  “Oh, how glamorous,” enthuses Barbara. “You must introduce us to him.”

  “A writer in residence,” adds Howard. “Every smart establishment should have one.”

  “Have you ever had a writer, Belinda?” asks Derek.

  “Apart from myself, and I'm permanently in residence,” says Belinda, with a little light laugh, “I simply can't recall.”

  “Oh,” says Derek.

  “Well, anyway,” says Barbara. “Oh, Lauren, Belinda was thinking of organizing a party for you.”

  “She was?” asks Lauren, seemingly pleased.

  “Yes, well,” says Belinda, her eyelids batting one thousand to the dozen, “it had crossed my mind. But you know—”

  “How sweet of you!” exclaims Lauren.

  “Yes, well …” says Belinda again.

  “Only I have a feeling …” Lauren goes on, topping up everyone's glasses, but leaving Belinda high and decidedly dry.

  “Yes?” says Belinda, leaning in.

  “… that, what with all these Hollywood people, I might well be very … very … busy.”

  MercoledìWednesday

  Climafa nuvoloso (cloudy)

  It is an oddly cloudy day today at Casa Mia. Here, in the land of the blazing sun, it is unusual for such a day to happen in the middle of the summer. The thing about Toscana is that, unlike other less glamorous holiday-home destinations, like Provence in France or even vulgar places like Spain, the sunshine is not totally guaranteed. But that's what makes us a bit different here, doesn't it? We're not golfing sun worshippers; we're a cultured group of expats who like art and food just as much as we do a good climate. Anyway, perhaps it will burn off later. Who knows?

  Last night I had a little light supper with the famous writer Howard Oxford. We talked and talked about interesting and clever things till way past ten thirty. It was a good intellectual evening. Derek and Barbara were unable to attend, due to some bridge game at the americana 's. I always thought we all left the U.K. to escape such suburban pursuits, but apparently not.

  Anyway, before I lose myself in a discussion about bourgeois hobbies, I have to say that, sadly, my returnees are leaving me today. The delightful Major and Mrs. Chester are moving on. It has been a joy to have them to stay again, it really has. I feel tinged with sadness. We have laughed, we have painted, we have discussed so many cultural things. The thing about running a beautiful home, as I do, is that it is so lovely to have what can only really be termed friends to stay. You see, unlike other, pushier guests, the Chesters know how to entertain themselves, and don't constantly ask my advice on things. It is sometimes exhausting to be the fount of all knowledge all the time. I have some Scots arriving today whom I suspect will not be so easy. Normally I wouldn't have taken them in, but they are staying only two nights, and they seemed so terribly keen. In the end, who am I to come between a man and the joys of the Tuscan countryside?

  Maria, I am glad to say, has taken up strolling. It is so nice for her to find a hobby. After all, it can't be good for a girl to hang around her mother like a lame puppy all the time, now, can it? And she always appears so jolly, refreshed, and conversational after her strolls, which also comes as something of a relief. When I suggested she curtail her friendship with that americana 's awful son, I was worried she might not find other things to do.

  Talking of the americana, I have a meeting at her small house this afternoon. When I say meeting, I mean I am chairing a meeting. As head of the Festa di Formaggio I chair, I don't attend. We normally have the meetings at Giovanna's or, indeed, at Casa Mia, but this year, for some reason, the americana has muscled in. Oh, well, poor woman, I expect she doesn't know any better, and I suppose as a woman in my position, I must try to be a little forgiving.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  oolishly, the Major and Mrs. Chester have left their swimming costumes laid out to dry on Belinda's lawn. Quite apart from the fact that this indicates that they have been swimming before ten o'clock, which is against pool rules, they may also be causing the grass to yellow, patch, and stain. There is, as Belinda pointed out a week ago, a short washing line, out of sight on the other side of the house, provided specifically for the hanging of guests' underwear and swimming things.

  “Ma-jor! Ma-jor!” shouts Belinda from her terrace, one hand shading her eyes as she surveys the route down the garden and toward the pool. “Ma-jor!”

  “Yes, Belinda,” says the major, trotting toward her up the path in a pair of beige shorts and nothing else, his man breasts bouncing with kinetic energy. “Yes, Belinda, you called,” he states. He is, afte
r all, a man who responds well to shouts, commands, and orders.

  “Major, dear,” says Belinda, looking down her short nose at the short man on the grass below her. “Maybe you didn't quite hear me when I gave you the tour on arrival,” she suggests, “or perhaps you've forgotten since last year, but not only have you been swimming outside pool hours, you have left your swimming things on my lawn to dry. Now, I would hate us to fall out, especially as this is your last day and you've been doing so terribly well up until this point. But, as I have pointed out to you in the past, there is a perfectly good plastic line.”

  “Belinda,” says the major, clasping his hands with suitable deference. She nods. “I'm so terribly sorry, but Pat was keen for a swim before we packed this morning, and as the guests' washing line doesn't get any sun until the last half hour of the day, we thought you wouldn't mind if we dried our things on the lawn.”

  “Well, you thought wrong,” says Belinda. Her face softens into her generous service-industry smile. “Major,” she adds, “between you and me, it is exhausting throwing one's house open to the general public, no matter how accomplished a hostess one is. And although one does try to be accommodating and cope with everyone's little whims, one does just like to be consulted about things in one's own home.”

  “Right,” says the major. “I would have consulted you this morning, Belinda, but you were still asleep.”

  “Major, really.” She smiles. “We both know that is beside the point. Rules are rules, Major, and rules are there for a reason. You, of all people, should understand that. Now,” she adds, as she turns to walk back on to the terrace, “clear up those offensive items, and we won't refer to the matter again.”

  “Righty-ho, Belinda,” he says, and bends down to pick up his damp shorts. “Thank you very much indeed, Belinda, thank you.”

  “Think nothing of it, Major,” she says with a little wave. “Think nothing of it.”

  Fortified by her battle and ultimate victory over the compliant major, Belinda wanders back into the house and contemplates a good strong cup of Nescafé with a touch of Russell Watson before she sits down at her computer to go through her bookings and e-mails.