“Ooh, sì, ” she replies. “Americana!” She nods and smiles and makes a suitably Italian gesture of surprise and recognition.
“Where?” asks the man. Belinda looks puzzled again. He brings out a small new phrase book. “Dove?”
“Dove americana?” suggests Belinda.
“Sì, sì.” The man nods, smiling enthusiastically. “Dove americana?”
“Qui, qui!” Belinda walks down the steps to the end of the drive, indicates for the car to turn around and go back down into the next-door valley. “Qui, qui, qui!” she repeats, nodding, gesturing, being terribly Italian.
“Okay, then,” says the man, somewhat hesitantly, “I could have sworn it was down here. She told me to pass the small modern villa at the top of the hill—which is you, right?—and carry on down—”
“Non è qui,” says Belinda, indicating the way to the Casa Padronale. “Sì, qui, ye-es, 'ere,” she adds, in very broken English just to make her point, and indicates left.
“Great, thank you, grazie, ” he replies. He sits back in the cool, air-conditioned leather interior. “Turn around, driver,” he says. “Grazie,” he says again, out of the smoked-glass window.
“Prego,” replies Belinda. “Prego, prego.” She gives him a little wave on his way. Belinda trips back to her sitting room with a grin on her face and a spring in her stride. Lauren's first guest has been seen off at the pass. Things are looking up, she thinks, her fat foot swinging as she sits, legs crossed, at the computer. Her position, as first house in the valley as you arrive on the main road, is ideally suited to misdirection, misinformation, and general sabotage. It is all too perfect. All she has to do is deny the existence of the americana and her annoying business will disappear. Forever. They'll drive around and around, and eventually they'll come back to Belinda wanting somewhere to stay. Perhaps she could poach them. Her house is a perfect combination of rustica -meets-a-little-bit-of-England—Americans will love it. Maybe she should hang a sign outside her house, saying b&b, so when they call they'll know to come back to her afterward.
“Hi, Mum!” Mary's cheery voice announces her arrival back from her walk.
“In here,” says Belinda. “Now, what do you think?” she continues, looking up from her piece of paper. “Good Lord.” She sits up. “What's happened to you?”
“What do you mean?” asks Mary, glancing at her reflection in the french windows.
“You look all glowing and pink and—I don't know—well,” she says. “You look well.”
“I've just been for a walk,” explains Mary, doing up the top button of her shirt.
“That all?” asks Belinda, looking at her daughter suspiciously. “Are you sure you haven't been drinking or something?”
“No, of course not!” Mary's laugh sounds relieved. “Do you want to smell my breath?”
“Yuk,” says Belinda, wrinkling up her short nose. “No, thank you. I'd sooner smell a dead dog on a hot day than go anywhere near your rancid mouth. Where did you go?”
“I went down toward Howard's and on past Derek and Barbara, past the, um, Casa Padronale—”
“Oh, did you see anything?”
“Like what?”
“You know, comings, goings, things, anything?”
“No, not really. But I do know that they're expecting the Hollywood scriptwriter today.”
“Oh, really. How?” asks Belinda.
“You told me,” says Mary, not looking her mother in the eye.
“Did I?” says Belinda. “Oh dear, well, I think they might be waiting for him for rather a long time—like forever,” she says, collapsing into a fit of childish giggles.
“What?” asks Mary, looking down at her mother, who is still sitting in her chair.
“I sent him packing,” announces Belinda, with a satisfied smile and a wobble of her head.
“You did what?”
“I sent him packing,” she repeats, with relish.
“How?”
“I told him that the Casa Padronale was in another valley. Oh, the joy of seeing that swanky Mercedes turn around was just too, too much.”
“Mum, you didn't!”
“I did.” She grins. “Isn't it great?”
“Lauren will find out,” says Mary.
“Oh, who cares what the americana thinks?” says Belinda. “She's not long for this valley, anyway.”
“I think she's much more of a force to be reckoned with than you realize,” says Mary. “She was a Wall Street ball breaker who specialized in hostile takeovers.”
“Oooh … Very scary, darling,”says Belinda, with a little fake shiver. “One thing is certain, she doesn't know this valley like I do. She doesn't know the people like I do, and she will not be staying around to find out. My advantage is cultural, you see. She's the invading force, and I'm a stealthy local. I shall fight a guerrilla war. You'll see.”
“But, Mum,” says Mary, “she knows all about what you've been doing.”
“She does?” says Belinda, sitting rigid in her seat.
“Yes. She knows you called the Bell' Arti to try to shut her down.”
“That's old news,” Belinda assures her. “And, anyway, she can't prove anything. It's not like I actually went ahead with the petition or anything.”
“She knows that you canceled her advert in the Spectator and tried to put yours above hers, and she knows you keep sending on dud guests, so she'll also know you turned away her Hollywood scriptwriter.”
Belinda looks stunned and a little terrified. Her pink hand clasps the arms of the chair. The knuckles turn white. “She knows all this for certain?” she asks.
“Yes.” Mary nods slowly.
“How do you know?” asks Belinda, her small blue eyes staring at her daughter.
“Um,” says Mary, taking a step back and turning toward the open french windows. “Well, I've … um, heard something and um, well … Kyle told me a bit when you allowed me to have dinner with him, before you said that I wasn't to see him, so that's … how I know all that stuff …” she mutters, tugging her right earlobe.
“Oh,” says Belinda. “But some of it was after your dinner.”
“I know,” answers Mary, with stiff jocularity as she moves from one foot to the other. “But you know I hear things …”
“And you've only just decided to tell me?” says Belinda, standing up.
“Would it have made any difference if I'd said anything earlier?” asks Mary, her hands on her hips.
“Um,” says Belinda, trying to think. Lauren knows. But how does Mary know that Lauren knows? Who told her? Who has she been talking to? Who knew that Lauren had known all along? It's all so confusing.
“Coo-ee!” comes a broad Celtic brogue from in the hall. “It's only us! Sorry we're so early, but there was some sort of problem at Glasgow airport and we touched down earlier, and driving on the right was much easier than we thought so … here we are.”
Belinda turns the corner into her hall to be greeted by two large white Scots in matching black T-shirts and black cut-off denim shorts that stop just around the crotch. They are both wearing black sandals and matching, impenetrably black sunglasses that suggest their guide dogs are still in the car.
“Morag,” pronounces the one with hair the color of an orange highlighter pen, as she steps forward to shake Belinda's hand.
“Maureen,” nods the dark-haired one, whose shorts ride so high and tight around her backside it looks as though she was poured into them and someone forgot to say “when.”
“We're not lesbians, but we're sharing a room,” declares Morag, scraping her bright purple holdall along the floor. “Just in case you're a little confused.”
“It never crossed my mind,” Belinda tells them. “Anyway,” she laughs, “some of my best friends are lesbians.”
“It's a great place you've got here,” says Maureen, dropping her pink bag from waist height and walking out onto Belinda's terrace. She performs a yawn and stretch with such gusto that Belinda half expect
s a wind-breaking finale. “The views are good and I like the look of the pool down there.” She comes back into the sitting room. “Och,”she says. “I've got one of these old computers at home,” she adds, coming over to double-click on Belinda's e-mail icon. “Yes, it's exactly the same. They're okay, aren't they?”
“Yes, very nice,” mumbles Belinda, her back pinned to her hall wall. The invading Scottish hordes have wrong-footed her, and she isn't sure what to do. The normal hostess meet-and-greet scenario has gone right out of the window.
“Let me take your bags,” says Mary, as she's supposed to. Well done, Mary. Thank God for Mary. Belinda stirs into action.
“Yes, well.” Belinda recovers. “Welcome to Casa Mia, buon-giorno. ”That came out in the wrong order, but so far, so good. “Let me give you a little tour and explain a few house rules.” She feels life ebbing back. “Maureen's little visit to my terrace is her last,” she continues pleasantly, “as it is a private area.”
“Oh, right.” Morag nods vigorously. “I'm sorry.”
“That's okay,” says Belinda, her head on one side, “but don't do it again.” She lets go a little laugh; the two Scottish women join in halfheartedly. “As Morag noticed there is, of course, a swimming pool.”
“Maureen,” says Maureen.
“What?” says Belinda.
“As Maureen noticed,” she says. “As Maureen noticed the pool. I'm Maureen.”
“Are you?” says Belinda. “Good. Anyway,” she says, drawing an exaggerated breath to continue, “there are pool rules. No swimming before ten o'clock and after six …” She lists them off on her fingers.
“Why?” asks Morag.
“Why?” repeats Belinda. “Health and safety.”
“Oh,” says Morag, seemingly satisfied, if a little confused.
“Good,” reprises Belinda. “Anyway, there is a washing line for your wet things out of sight around the back.” Belinda points like an air hostess indicating emergency exits.
“Now, washing,” interrupts Morag.
“Yes?” sighs Belinda turning to face her.
“It says here in your stuff that you can do washing.”
“Only very, very occasionally,” says Belinda, flaring her nostrils.
“Well, how much for this lot?” says Morag, unzipping the bright purple holdall, releasing the dank smell of dirty clothes into the air.
“Thirty euros,” says Belinda, without looking.
“That's about twenty pounds,” says Morag. “That's more expensive than the Laundromat.”
“Yes, well,” snaps Belinda, “this is an upmarket bed-and-breakfast and we only do laundry in exceptional circumstances.”
“Right, well, thirty euros is fine,” agrees Morag, leaving her open purple holdall in the hall. “What other rules are there?”
“No smoking in the rooms, only in the areas where an ashtray is provided,” snaps Belinda.
“Where are they?” asks Maureen.
“Oh, they're around,” Belinda lies, with a small smile. “So,” she continues, “no personal stereo things by the swimming pool as they're so unattractive. Mobile telephones don't work here,” another lie, “so don't bother switching them on. Breakfast is served between eight and eight twenty-five and, of course, if you want supper you must inform us before midday. So, I presume you're eating out tonight?”
“Oh,” says Morag. “We'd planned on eating here.”
“So sorry,” says Belinda, with a little shrug. “Had we known in advance … but may I suggest the charming little town of Poggibonsi where there is an English-speaking restaurant with lovely chips?”
“Right,” says Morag.
“Do feel free to go down to your rooms,” Belinda contin-ues, “where you will find you own personal terraces, which get quite a lot of sun. Although,” she laughs, “with skin as pale as yours, I shouldn't think you'll be spending much time in it! Sometimes it does amaze me that you Scots travel at all! It must be such a chore covering up all the time.”
“Right,” says Morag, making to go downstairs.
“I'm afraid I'm chairing a committee meeting all afternoon,” adds Belinda, “so any little questions, you'll have to ask my daughter, Mary.”
“Oh, all right,” says Maureen. “Just a quick one. We were thinking about going in to Ser-anna, some time, possibly for dinner tonight?”
“Where?” asks Belinda.
“Ser-anna?”
“I'm not sure where that is,” she says.
“You know, the big Etruscan town down the road,” explains Maureen.
“Oh! Serraaana. Serraaaaana … What—instead of Poggibonsi?”
“Possibly.”
“If you insist. There are plenty of places there. Just keep your eyes open. You're bound to come across something. There really isn't a dud meal to be had in Tuscany. But then again,” she pauses, looking her guests up and down, taking in their soft pastiness, “if you don't like fresh fruit and vegetables, you might be a little stuck.”
Inspired by her little victory over her guests, Belinda feels upbeat as she wafts upstairs to change and reaccessorize herself for her festa meeting. Her previously anxious mood has been replaced by something more optimistic. Lauren may specialize in hostile takeovers, but Belinda is among friends, good friends, loyal, close friends, whom she has known for nearly five years. Quite why she is worrying about her position as chair of the festa meeting she has no idea. She is being silly. She is the Contessa of the Valley after all. She chooses a dark red shirt and a long navy skirt that stops just above the ankles, and adds a cacophony of silver bangles on her right arm for a more relaxed Bohemian effect. Just as she is about to walk out of the door, she remembers the yellow legal notepad. She rushes back to the sitting room to collect it, picks up a pen, and attaches it to the top of the pad. She checks the final effect in the hall mirror and is pleased. Efficient, businesslike, relaxed, and very Italian, it is the perfect ensemble to chair a Festa di Formaggio meeting in Tuscany.
s she walks through Lauren's open front door, Belinda is greeted by banter and light laughter from the open-plan kitchen area. There is a beguiling smell of coffee and warm cakes. She stands stock-still in the hall. She is late. But she can't be late. She's on time. It's everyone else who is early.
“Oh,” she declares, as she enters the elegant white room and sees the long wooden table lined with people. “I can't be late?” she asks, with a rattle of her bangles as she checks her wrist for a watch. The table falls silent and turns to stare. “How strange.
I thought you said four, and it's four. Well, anyway, here I am! I'm sooo sorry to have kept you all waiting.” She weaves her way toward them. “I had guests arriving and guests leaving … guests, guests, guests. But I'm here now.” She lifts her chin in the air as she tries to see through her very large, very round, very dark glasses. “You may start,” she adds, wincing as she knocks her shin on a chair, and sits down. She brings out her pad and clicks her pen. “So …” she starts, looking through her glasses. “Who've we got? It's very dark in here.”
“You've got your sunglasses on,” drawls Lauren, from the other end of the long table.
“Oh, God, of course I have,” laughs Belinda whipping them off. Two dark circles of sweat are already growing under her arms. “Would anyone like some of my paper to take notes on?” she asks hopefully, tearing off a leaf of the yellow paper.
“Actually,” says Barbara, from halfway up on the left, “Lauren has done these.” She waves a little pad, attractively ring-bound with a transparent plastic cover and a little cheese motif in the top left-hand corner of every page. “Aren't they gorgeous?” She adds, with a little shrug of her shoulders. “There's even one left over for you.”
“How kind,” says Belinda, pushing her fancy pad to one side. “So,” she says, with another click of her pen, “I was thinking—”
“Actually,” interrupts Lauren, “we were in the middle of discussing how to improve on what happened last year.”
“
Oh,” says Belinda.
n a white silk shirt and slim denim jeans, Lauren's sleek frame is backlit by the sun as it pours through the glass doors behind her. Her outline is silhouetted and her expression is impossible to read. Belinda squints. Lauren smiles. It's one of the oldest tricks in her negotiating book, but it always works. That, and starting a meeting fifteen minutes early.
kay then,” says Lauren. “What I was thinking was—” She stops. “Oh, Belinda,” she says slowly, “do you know everyone here?”
“Of course I do.” Belinda's head wobbles at the suggestion. “I've lived here for years. This is my valley.” She smiles looking down the table at Barbara, Derek, Howard …
“We haven't actually met,” says a rather attractive-looking woman with copper hair and russet skin. “I'm Jaqui,” she says, standing up and offering her hand. “Spelled J-a-q-u-i, just so you know.”
“Oh, how lovely to meet you,” replies Belinda, with a limp shake.
“I'm one of the founding members of the monastery commune.”
“How lovely.” Belinda coughs, searching for her P.C. face. “The Australian women's commune,” she adds, finally finding her liberal smile. “Lovely.”
“Yeah.” Jaqui nods. “We're really rapt about being involved in the cheese fest this year; we've never been invited before. Oh, and this is my partner,” she says, indicating the slim Eurasianlooking girl opposite with long black hair to her waist.
“G'day.” She nods. “I'm Paloma.”
“Paloma.” Belinda exudes tolerance. “That's very unusual.”
“I know, isn't it?” she enthuses. “I chose it myself ! It's after a song I heard on the radio. My real name's Kylie but I got so bored of it—everyone's called Kylie in Sydney, and I mean everyone. You hear it all the time. Kylie! Kylie! So I changed it a couple of years back, and now everyone calls me Paloma.”
“Good,” says Belinda. She smiles. “Excellent.”
“Right,” says Lauren. “Now that Belinda has been introduced, shall we get on?”
“Oh,” says Belinda.
“Sorry?” says Lauren, her long silhouette leaning down the table. “Did you have something to say?”
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