Tuscany for Beginners

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “Um,” says Belinda.

  “Good,” says Lauren. “So what else do we think was wrong with last year?”

  “Well …” says Barbara. Belinda shoots her a look. “Not an awful lot …”

  “The food on the expat table,” says Derek.

  “The food?” asks Belinda, a little shocked. “What was wrong with it?”

  “Well, it wasn't exactly gourmet, was it?” says Howard.

  “Howard!” hisses Belinda.

  “What?”

  “You don't really mean that. The food last year was wonderful. I made the pasta salad myself.”

  “Yes, well,” says Howard, looking down at his cheese-motif pad, “I was only making a suggestion.”

  “Might I suggest that as someone who clearly knows terribly little about cuisine, you keep your suggestions to yourself ?” says Belinda. “Honestly … Where were we?”

  “Improvements,” says Lauren.

  Belinda begins, “Well, I'd thought I could—”

  “We could do a barbie,” interrupts Jaqui.

  “Sorry?” says Belinda, looking down her short nose. “I—”

  “Yeah, great idea,” agrees Paloma. “We Aussies are practically born with tongs in our hands.”

  “I'm sure you're jolly good at barbecues,” says Belinda, “but they're not very Italian.”

  “Neither is pasta salad,” says Lauren.

  “What?” says Belinda, turning to look down the table.

  “Neither is pasta salad,” repeats Lauren's silhouette. “I think a barbecue is an excellent idea,” she continues. “All those in favor raise their hands.”

  “Actually, hang on a second,”says Belinda, half getting out of her seat. “I thought I was chair of this meeting.”

  “Oh, I'm so sorry,” says Lauren, sitting down. “I'm just so used to chairing things. Of course, you are indeed in charge of the cheese-festival committee.” She smiles. “Please go ahead.”

  “Good, right,” Belinda taps the sides of her yellow pad and double-clicks her pen. “So, who wants pasta salad? Like we had last year. And every year before that?” She looks up and down the table. No one moves. “What?” she asks. “No one? Howard?” He shakes his head. “Barbara?” She does the same. “Oh,” says Belinda, tweaking her damp red shirt out of one of her armpits. “No one for pasta.” She tries to write it down on her pad, but the pen doesn't work. “Gosh,” she says, clicking quickly again. “So no … nice … Italian pasta,”she mutters, as she writes. “And who wants an Australian barbecue?” she asks, her top lip curling. The whole table raises their arms. “Oh,” she says. “All of you.”

  “I think that's what's known as unanimous,” laughs Jaqui, leaning back in her seat.

  “Yes.” Belinda makes a small note.

  “Okay,” says Derek suddenly with a little cough, and he stands up. “Now who's going to be the Big Cheese this year? Who's rolling the expat cheese?”

  “Well, I'm the Big Chee—” says Belinda, cheeks pinking.

  “Belinda has done it every year for the past five years since she arrived in the valley,” continues Derek. “Haven't you, Belinda?”

  “Indeed I have.” She allows happy memories of past races to flicker across her face.

  “But it would be nice to win for once,” declares Derek.

  “It's the taking part—” Belinda starts, hovering over her seat.

  “So,” says Derek, with his hand in the air to stop her, “I was thinking that perhaps someone else should have a go.”

  “But—”

  “It's only fair,” continues Derek. “You've had a good run for your money, Belinda.”

  “Or roll,” giggles Barbara.

  “And I think … Lauren should be the Big Cheese and represent us this year,” he announces, looking down the table for Lauren's approval.

  Lauren smiles and slowly gets out of her chair. Howard looks down at the table and plays with his pad. Barbara laughs with embarrassment. Derek stands stiffly, looking at Lauren. The Australian lesbians stare at each other, bemused, while Belinda inhales sharply and stands up. The two women stand at opposite ends of the table facing each other.

  “No,” says Lauren, with a relaxed flick of her hair. “Big Cheese? I couldn't.”

  “She couldn't,” says Belinda quietly, her hands gripping the table.

  “It's Belinda's little thing,” says Lauren.

  “It's my little thing,” echoes Belinda, her eyes scanning the table for some sort of support or reaction. “It's my little thing,” she repeats, imploring someone to come to her rescue. “My little thing …”

  No one says anything. No one moves.

  “That,” Belinda continues, desperately trying to save face, “that … I am prepared to let you do.”

  “What?” says Howard.

  “Oh, yes! You don't think I care about representing the expat community in the cheese-rolling competition, do you? Honestly!” She chuckles on valiantly. “Big Cheese! That little thing! Really! What do you take me for?”

  “You see? I said you wouldn't mind,” agrees Barbara. “Didn't I, Derek? When we discussed it.”

  “You discussed it!” Belinda laughs as if she has just heard the best joke ever.

  “Yes!” says Barbara.

  “When?”

  “Oh, over dinner the other day.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” is all Belinda can manage.

  “So, you agree?” Derek asks Lauren.

  “Well, only if Belinda insists,” says Lauren.

  “She insists, don't you, Belinda?” says Derek.

  “Yes,” says Belinda, in a very high, very tight voice.

  “Oh! But she's got to insist it,” says Lauren, flapping her hand like a coy teenager. “Only if she says she insists.”

  “Go on, Belinda,” says Derek. “Insist!”

  “Yes, go on,” giggles Barbara. “Say it.”

  “Lauren, I insist that you become Big Cheese and take my place in the cheese-rolling competition representing the expat community instead of me,” says Belinda, a rictus smile on her face, as if she has been electrocuted.

  “Oh, now I feel awful,” says Lauren, clutching her white silk–clad bosom, her knees bending as she smiles. “Just terrible. I feel like I've stolen your crown!”

  SabatoSaturday

  Climafa caldo (hot)

  It is so hot today, I can hardly write. In fact, I notice I haven't been fulfilling my authorial duties terribly well of late. Whole days seem to be drifting by without my comments or aperçus. But I shall battle on, if only to tell you a funny little thing that happened the other day. It is terribly amusing, but I suppose, quite simply put, there has been a coup d'état in the valley!

  For the past five years I have been what is affectionately known as the “Big Cheese”—in charge of the Festa di Formaggio committee and, indeed, responsible for the rolling of the cheese on behalf of our small, intimate, friendly expat community that we have built here in Val di Santa Caterina. And I have looked upon this duty as an honor. I have enjoyed organizing the food, the table decorations, telling the others what they should be doing. I have also enjoyed the burden of the cheese rolling. It is a complicated skill that requires timing, application, talent, savoir faire, dedication, total support from others, and a deep understanding of all things Italian.

  And for the past five years I have served our expat group well. But now, it seems, my services and dedication are no longer required. They have decided to let the americana have a go. Actually, when I say “they,” I mean “we.” It was a group decision, a sort of generous way of trying to include her in our little community. Otherwise, what a horrid group of Judases they would be!

  Anyway, I really do wish the americana well. She will find that it is a lot harder being “Big Cheese” than she can possibly imagine. There are always people rolling up the rear, trying to knock you over onto your side. Arms, legs, necks have been broken in the past. The game is a lot more dangerous than it looks.

&n
bsp; Apart from that minor, insignificant change, life in Casa Mia is looking rosa. My delightful Scottish girls left the day before yesterday. I can't think why I had any reservations about them, they proved to be very law-abiding in the end, and they took direction well. I only had to point out and explain things to them a couple of times before they understood. It was a shame they had to leave early. I normally have a two-night minimum stay, which I think is standard in most B-and-Bs in the U.K. and also gîtes in France. But, sadly, they announced that one of their mothers had been taken ill and they needed to return to Scotland as soon as they could. They were happy to pay for the extra night, and I was very sorry to see them go. As a hostess, you do want people to relax and enjoy their holiday, and it is very inconvenient when something like family illness interferes.

  However sad I am at the departure of the Scots, it does come as a bit of relief to have no guests in the house as I am entertaining tonight. I am throwing open my doors to all my many friends, plus some Australians. What a cosmopolitan bunch we are! The confirmed spinsters who own the monastery are coming, as are Barbara and Derek, plus the americana and her rather unattractive son, as well as the famous writer Howard Oxford. I am planning a spontaneous evening that will be exciting, fun, and terribly, terribly relaxed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  elinda's demotion from Big Cheese to not-so-large cheese in charge of tables and chairs hit her hard. At the time she tried to take it well. Sitting in the bright sunshine, under the spotlight at the end of Lauren's table, she took her defeat on the chin. She smiled with a tense graciousness, went on to declare herself a “terribly good sport,” and then, as if to demonstrate exactly how sportif she was, she became positively, hysterically good-humored for the rest of the afternoon.

  She complimented Lauren on the strength of her delicious coffee, said how much she loved her homemade muffins, and interrupted everyone when they tried to speak. Rather like an overexcited Labrador, her conversation careered around, desperate to please. She insisted on talking Lauren through her cheese-rolling technique, she repeatedly told Derek and Barbara how clever they were for suggesting Lauren in the first place, and then, just as everyone thought she might spontaneously combust with joviality, she invited the entire lesbian community to her little soirée on Saturday night.

  Powered on by her own magnanimous marvelousness, she drove home, drank a whole bottle of corked white wine, sang loudly to Russell Watson, and picked a fight with her Scottish guests. They then rose early the next morning, announced that one of their mothers had been taken seriously ill, and left. Mary, in the meantime, was left desperately trying to think of some sort of positive spin to place on the whole wretched incident.

  But there really is nothing to be done. The next day Belinda is inconsolable, and no amount of forwarding e-mails from downmarket guests to Lauren's bed-and-breakfast or misdirecting others is going to make her feel any better. And, to cap it all, she is bored.

  Coming as it does at the end of July and the beginning of the school holidays, the Festa di Formaggio is one of the highlights in Belinda's calendar at what is usually a quiet time at Casa Mia. While beachside resorts are teeming with families of tetchy parents and screaming offspring in diminutive clothing, Casa Mia, due to its child-free policy, has plenty of vacancies. It is not until August, when the family bandwagon has moved on, that the executive couples and the migrating European masses start to fill up the rooms again. In the meantime, Belinda usually organizes the expat end of the festa and spends hours talking about cheese and rolling large pecorinos around the grounds of Casa Mia. But this year's task of organizing chairs and tables for the group will hardly detain her at all. All it will take is one telephone call to each of the cheese-festival guests to ensure that they bring their own seating, a little note to Giovanna about her trestle table, and her duty will have been done.

  So with little or, perhaps more honestly, nothing and no one to occupy her time, Belinda throws herself into the preparations for her party and, indeed, gives it a theme. She has concluded that if she can't roll cheese down a hill, she is going to throw a much better party with more panache than Lauren, and prove that, if nothing else, she is the best hostess in the valley.

  “It's rustica, ” she enthuses to Derek.

  “Oh,” he says, apparently not quite understanding exactly what rustica means. “Barbara was rather hoping she could wear those Aladdin hot pants. She's had them repaired at great expense.”

  “Oh, that'll be a treat,” replies Belinda. “Let's hope the seams are a bit stronger than they were last time.” She laughs a little too enthusiastically.

  “Yes, well,” says Derek, sounding a little quiet. “Rustica, you say?”

  “Rustica,” she repeats.

  “Is that a theme?”

  “Of course it's a theme, Derek.”

  “Mmm,”he muses. “So, have you organized your task for the cheese festival?”

  “My task?” asks Belinda.

  “Yes,” says Derek. “Tables and chairs—that's what you got in the end, wasn't it?”

  “Honestly, Derek,” exhales Belinda. “When one is used to organizing, as well as competing in, the Festa di Formaggio, something as little as chairs and tables can hardly be considered a task.”

  “I know, Belinda,” he says, “but they're still important, you know. We've got to have somewhere to sit, and the monastery girls have got to have somewhere to put their food.”

  “Really, Derek, what do you take me for?” laughs Belinda. “As former representative of the expat community, I'm sure I can manage a few chairs. Anyway,” she says optimistically, “I'm much more interested in my soirée tonight … Mark my words, Derek, it's going to be the party of the year!”

  “Well, you've got a bit of competition.” He chuckles.

  “What?” says Belinda, checking her reflection in the french windows.

  “You've a bit of competition after Lauren's do the other week.”

  “Call yourself a friend, Derek!” snaps Belinda. “You know perfectly well that my soirée will not only be more elegant, and more fun than the American's, but it will also be a whole lot more relaxed !”

  “Forgive me, Belinda,” says Derek, “but you're sounding a little tense.”

  “Tense!” she replies, her voice rising three octaves in one word. “I'm not tense, Derek,” she comes down the scale. “It is you that I might suggest who is being a little disloyal!”

  “Oh,” says Derek quietly. “I'm sorry you feel that way but—”

  “Don't interrupt, Derek,” she says. “Anyway, I'm afraid I can't talk to you now. I have things to do and finger food to prepare. So I will see you later,”she states, “with your wife hopefully not in her industrially stitched hot pants, and we will have a great party. All right?”

  “All right,” says Derek.

  “Good,” says Belinda. “At about seven thirty?”

  “Seven thirty,” repeats Derek.

  “Don't be late.”

  “No.”

  “Arrivadeary,” says Belinda.

  “Arrivadeary,” mutters Derek.

  Derek is not the only one desperately seeking enthusiasm for Belinda's party: Mary is also finding it difficult. But, then, Mary is finding it difficult to do a lot of things at the moment. Eating and sleeping are right up there with trying to whip up some sort of soirée interest, coupled with trying not to smile too much. Ever since Lauren's valley warming, Mary has been on cloud Kyle. What had started off as a mere marijuana meeting on a Tuscan hillside has now graduated into a full-blown love affair, and all of it behind her mother's back. And although Kyle is still technically not her lover, Mary is very much in love with him.

  Fortunately, her mother is too busy hating his mother for either of them to notice that their offspring disappear most afternoons for hours at a time. During those lazy postprandial moments, when the sun is high and hot and Belinda is normally flat on her back, snoring in sharp rapid bursts like a roadside drill, Mary makes her esc
ape. She runs across the dusty fields of yellowed grass and butterflies toward the ancient gnarled olive tree that Kyle chose as their rendezvous point three weeks ago. And while his mother presumes him reading Yale texts in his bedroom, and chants away her stresses in the fresco-free yoga room, he lies in the long grass, his arms around Mary, running his hands through her hair, as they whisper how happy they are that they've found each other.

  “You're nothing like any … other … girl … I … have … ever … met,” he says to her as they lie together in the grass, him kissing her hot lips between every word. “You … are … amazing.”

  “Do you think so?” she whispers, sitting up on one hip, her long dark hair falling over her shoulders.

  “Hell, yes,” he whispers right back.

  They spend at least an hour together and possibly, sometimes, almost two, horizontal in the long grass, trading thoughts, secrets, and dreams, while kissing and touching hair, skin, and hands. The rest of the day is spent in expectation of their hour together, or replaying the hour just past over and over again.

  And all day they each contend with derogatory comments from their parents. Lauren simply feels sorry for Mary: that the poor girl should have such a difficult mother inspires pity, plus a small amount of annoyance for what she regards as Mary's rather aggravating lack of spine. Belinda, on the other hand, views Kyle as a simple subset of all things americana and can't stand the sight of him. His straight white teeth, his intelligent, handsome face, his dark hair and eyes all get on her nerves. She is terribly glad to have nipped that relationship in the bud.

  “Is the americana bringing that ghastly son of hers, Kevin, along tonight?” asks Belinda, chopping up small squares of cheese on the sideboard in the kitchen. Mary does not bother to reply. Even the deliberate misnomer makes her heart race and her face blush. “I can't remember what I said when I got back after the festa meeting, whether he's coming or not. I do hope not,” Belinda continues, popping a cheese square into her mouth. “I can really do without his white smile in my house. What do you think, darling? Don't you agree?”