“I don't know,” says Mary, concentrating on chopping her pineapple.
“Don't know what?” quizzes Belinda, turning to face her, a knife in her hand. “Whether he's coming? Or whether his smile is too big and white and American?”
“Either,”says Mary, keeping her head firmly down. “Um, are these the right size?” she asks, offering her mother a small square of pineapple.
“Let's see,” says her mother, picking up a cocktail stick and sliding on a cube of cheese followed by another cube of pine-apple. “Not bad,” she says, holding the ensemble up to the light for inspection. “It is usually so much easier with tinned. Just as well you're here to do the chopping, darling.”
“I hope people find the seventies retro food amusing,” says Mary, still searching for her soirée interest. The possibility of Kyle's arrival in her mother's home fills her with both dread and delicious hope. The joy of seeing him will be muted by her inability to betray her true feelings.
“What retro food?” asks Belinda, threading another cocktail stick.
“The cheese and pineapple,” says Mary.
“Don't be silly, dear,” says Belinda. “We used to have these all the time in Tilling. Or at least right up until I left.”
“Oh,” says Mary.
“My finger food was always highly appreciated. Anyway, the olive,” she adds, taking a green one out of a preserving jar and forcing it on to the stick, “the olive on the end makes the whole thing terribly Italian and rustica. Look!” She smiles. “Delicious.”
Even with the little that she can remember from her term spent at Swindon catering college, Mary knows that a combination of cheese, olive, and pineapple is not a winner on any canapé circuit.
“How about we do pineapple and cheese and serve the olives on the side?” she suggests, trying to be helpful.
“Really?” says Belinda, looking surprised. “D'you know, darling? Catering is very much your little thing. I think I'll just go and concentrate on what I'm good at.” She smiles and takes off her apron. “Being a hostess.”
“Right,” says Mary, putting down her knife and blowing fronds of hair off her face.
“Yes,” she smiles. “I think I might leave you to get on with it, you know, fill those vol-au-vents I bought with some prawns, that sort of thing, and I think I might pop up to Giovanna's for a light lunch.” She smiles again, squeezing her hands together, raising her shoulders at the same time. “I'll get out of your rather sweaty hair.”
elinda decides to walk down the hill to the trattoria, thinking the exercise might do her some good. After all, Mary's walks have proved to be extraordinarily restorative: the girl has undergone a makeover of Richard and Judy proportions. Sporting her wide-brimmed mercato hat and long yellow and blue flowered dress, which she picked up at a boutique sale in Serrana, Belinda fancies she looks rather fabulous as she strolls along. She plucks a long grass out of the hedgerow and pops it into her mouth Tom Sawyer–style. She swings her hips and admires her ankles in the red strappy sandals as she walks along. She gazes down at the valley that falls gently away to her right.
The cypress trees that line the road stand still, exhausted by the heat. The fields of maize rise tall as men and the sunflowers are in their final flourish. Their bright yellow petals curl in the strong sun. The whole valley is enveloped in a shivering, shimmering haze. The crickets are humming. “When the animals sing, you know you're in trouble,” Belinda says to herself. It is hot, possibly the hottest day of the year so far.
Derek and Barbara are at home, she notes, and from the way the light dances on the water, it looks as though someone is in their swimming pool. The Bianchis' farm is unusually quiet. They must all be inside having lunch or asleep escaping the sun. There are also no cars parked outside the Casa Padronale. The americana is reassuringly low on guests. Belinda smiles. She too must be affected by the late July rush for the beach. Not that she is turning away guests: since the dawn departure of the Scots, Casa Mia has been empty, and will remain so till the middle of next week. But at least the americana isn't doing well either.
Turning the corner, Belinda walks into Giovanna's car park, through the now grape-heavy arches, and out onto the terrace. The place looks relatively full for a lunchtime. A couple of cars are parked, and a tandem is propped against the stone wall. At one end of the terrace a family of four are perusing their menus. Next to them is a young couple, with a small baby between them, drinking glasses of iced water and snapping bread-sticks. An elderly couple in his-and-hers plus fours sit in the far corner, away from the entrance, and are already tucking into what looks like a long and languid lunch. They both have wind-worn faces and wild white hair that stands to dusty attention. They are either English or German, Belinda can't tell which, but they have obviously spent many a summer cycling through Italy and are totally at home in their environment. They are eating the sort of food Belinda can never bring herself to order. The woman is lunching on a plate of raw shelled broad beans and a hunk of cheese, while the man has a plate of cold pork cuts, including different kinds of blood-rich salami. As Belinda walks past, her nose in the air, trying to see out from under her hat, they both nod and in accentless Italian say: “Buongiorno.” Belinda nods back.
The elegance of the elderly couple makes her sit straighter, and stare more meaningfully at the view. She smooths down her yellow flowered dress, flares her nostrils, puts her head gently to one side, and arranges her smile to appear to be thinking about beauty, watercolors, and art in general. Roberto arrives to take her order and is ebulliently enthusiastic enough to make Belinda look nice and local. She smiles across at the elderly couple. They nod back.
She settles back in her chair, looking like a regular and thinking about her party, flicking her insalata mista around her plate. Just as she is about to let off another smile in the direction of the smart couple in the corner, she sees two plump white women dressed in black shorts and black T-shirts walk through the grape-heavy arch.
“How about sitting here, Maureen?” asks the first, with bright orange hair scraped tightly into a face-lifting ponytail.
“But, Morag,” says the other, her black hair top-knotted in a pink scrunchie, “the view is better from here.”
Belinda recognizes her ex-clientele immediately—her antennae are working overtime. She has had walkouts before: the young Californians who couldn't stand her cooking, the middle-aged couple from London who couldn't stand her conversation, the brace of smart Parisians who couldn't stand her cooking or her conversation. But none of them had ever had the audacity to stay around in the valley to rub her retroussé nose in it. They spin their yarn about sudden illness, or bereavement, then usually have the decency to disappear, never to be seen or thought of again. Yet these two are still here and, judging by the conversation Belinda is overhearing, they appear to have booked in at the americana 's.
“Och,” says Morag, “I'm so glad I listened to you, babe, and made the switch. That shower I had this morning was amazing.”
“I know,” agrees Maureen. “And that Lauren is such a terribly nice woman. I really like her setup. You know, cool house, cool yoga room, and the food …”
“Yeah,” nods Morag. “Figs and peaches at breakfast. So Italian. It's just what you want.”
“That other place,” laughs Maureen. “I mean, please!”
“What was the old cow's name?”
Belinda sits stiff with irritation, listening to their eulogy of Lauren and ultimate dismissal of herself. They have so little regard for her and the delights of Casa Mia that they can't even remember her name. Safe behind the large brim of her mercato hat, she listens to a diatribe on the awfulness of her cooking, the unattractiveness of her decoration, the dullness of her conversation, and, inevitably, the width of her behind.
“And the place smelled,” adds Maureen.
“Yeah,” agrees Morag. “I'm not sure of what, though.”
“Old woman,” says Maureen.
“God, yes! You're r
ight, old woman. That's exactly the smell. Fusty old woman.”
“Miserable old woman, more like. Miserable old woman who's going to die on her own and only be found weeks later by cats.” Maureen laughs, her plump pink legs launching into the air.
Belinda is on the verge of confronting them, and berating them for their bad taste and general impertinence, but she hesitates and loses her nerve. The idea that her house smells of “miserable old woman” cuts her to the quick. She grabs hold of the table to steady herself. She stares at the view and inhales. What are they talking about? She isn't old. She's actually rather glamorous, sitting here in her yellow flowered dress. Lauren is the same age as her, for Christ sake. Belinda isn't miserable either. She has plenty of friends. Lots of them. In fact, if they really looked into things they would realize she is actually very popular indeed. And the idea that she might die on her own, only to be found by cats, is patently risible. Belinda hates cats. In fact, Belinda hates cats almost as much as she hates smokers and children. But instead of facing the two harpies, she decides an elegant exit is required. She stands up, pulls her hat low over her eyes, leaves Roberto a ten-euro note, and shuffles toward the archway. Just as she passes the Scottish girls' table, her nose in the air, she walks slap-bang into a short middle-aged man with dark hair and sharp black-rimmed spectacles.
“Jesus Christ!” he yells, his hands up like he's surrendering in a shoot-out. “Look where you're going, lady!”
“I'm terribly sorry,” says Belinda, all flustered and bothered as her hat falls off. She bends down to pick it up, and as she straightens she comes face-to-face with Lauren's Hollywood screenwriter.
“You!” he says, wagging his finger, his pigeon chest poncing about with anger. “I know you. I never forget a face. You're the woman who fucking sent me on a wild-goose chase all over the fucking Tuscan countryside.” His voice increases in nasal tone. “It's definitely fucking you!”
“Oh, my God, it's her!” squeal the two Scottish women, as if they've been caught bitching out of class—which, of course, they have. They cover their mouths with their hands and retract their legs for good measure.
“Good afternoon.” Belinda threads the brim of her hat through her hands as she nods to each of them in turn. “I trust you're all having a pleasant stay on the other side of the valley.”
“Yeah,”says the screenwriter, with plenty of “what of it?” attitude.
“Ladies?” asks Belinda.
“Yes.” Morag and Maureen nod, their pink cheeks blending with their sunburn.
“Good.” She smiles and makes her way toward the arch. “A nice sterile place with all the charm and atmosphere of a laboratory.” She pauses. “No wonder you three lab rats feel so at home there.” She turns and nods a departing smile to the elderly couple in the corner, and before any of Lauren's guests can recover themselves, she trots out on to the road as quickly as her strappy red sandals will take her.
ack at Casa Mia, Mary has been working hard. The plates of cheese and pineapple, bowls of olives, peanuts, crisps, and trays of prawn vol-au-vents and cocktail sausages are all laid out on the side, ready for the guests. She has put out the plastic beakers for drinks, and is sitting cross-legged, sifting through her mother's CD collection, thinking about music, when Belinda walks in.
“Maria, darling,” she announces, with a swish of her mercato hat as she wafts around the house opening the windows, “I simply don't think all that finger food on the side is Italian enough.”
“Oh?” says Mary, looking up, a Nothing but Country CD in her lap.
“Yes,” says Belinda, opening a window, flapping her arms, marshaling air into the house. “I want prosciutto, melone, prosciutto e melone, salami, mozzarella and—and—broad beans.”
“Broad beans?” asks Mary, finding a Paul Simon CD at the back of the shelf.
“Yes,” confirms Belinda. “The americana 's party was very American—”
“It was?”
“Yes, of course it was,” insists Belinda frowning at Mary's in-terruption. “And this party is going to be rustica and Italian, rustica italiana —in fact, molto Italian. Spontaneously Italian. With little bits of Italy everywhere. Full of culture and atmosphere. Italian culture and atmosphere.” She pauses. “Do you think this house smells?”
“No,” says Mary, getting up off the floor. “Of what?”
“Old woman?” asks Belinda.
“No,” shrugs Mary, looking at her mother. “What do old women smell like anyway?”
“I've simply got no idea,” laughs Belinda, flinging open another set of windows, letting in blasts of warm air. “Anyway, darling, you set about doing some molto Italian food. I'm off into town to buy lots of Italian things.”
Come seven o'clock, all is ready. Belinda is wearing what she describes as her very Italian Gina Lollobrigida outfit—a long black skirt with a long-sleeved, loose-necked gypsy top also in black, which should be held in at the waist with a shiny blackpatent buckled belt, but no amount of heaving and hoeing or lying on the bed and breathing in could bring the buckles together. So Belinda concentrates on her accessories. A red plastic comb pulls back one side of her hair, and a pair of silver high-heeled sandals, with slave straps that crisscross up her calves, give her legs a surgically laced salami effect. Even though she finds it hard to walk, Belinda is insistent on striding around, with her backside out and her breasts pointing toward the ground, to adjust her Italian decorations.
And in terms of buying Italian things, Belinda has done herself proud. So proud, in fact, that Casa Mia looks like the Italian section of a European Union home-produce fair. The sitting room is lined with red, green, and white bunting. The terrace is swathed in little red, green, and white flags and all around are melons, peaches and figs, slices of salame, whole salame, slivers of prosciutto, bowls of broad beans, and on one table a whole pecorino of the sort that Belinda would normally practice rolling about this time of year. Even the cheese and pineapple have been upgraded. Loath to throw away perfectly adequate finger food, Belinda made Mary put little Italian flags on top of every cocktail stick, changing it from Essence-of-Surbiton to Siena in one swift move.
“A relaxed evening … a relaxed evening,” mutters Belinda, as she totters around tweaking flags. “A relaxed … elegant rustica italiana evening.”
“I'm sure it will all be fine,” says Mary, as she stands in the doorway in her simple white sundress, which flares below the bosom and stops at the knee. Its thin straps show off her brown shoulders; her long dark hair is clipped at the back with a single white flower.
“You look, um, suitably rustica, ”says Belinda, looking Mary up and down. “Well done.”
“Thanks.” Mary chooses to take her mother's comment as a compliment. “You look very glamorous.”
“You don't think it's too much?” asks Belinda, walking to the hall mirror and snaking her hips and skirt into shape. She pulls out a red lipstick from her black clutch bag and draws a scarlet bow shape on her mouth. Her design has nothing to do with what nature intended, but Belinda admires her handiwork all the same. “I do hope it will be a good evening,” she says, leaning toward her own reflection and placing her finger in the corner of her open mouth to rearrange the bow. “It is quite important that tonight works.”
There is a knock at the door.
“Quick,” hisses Belinda. “Put some music on.”
“What?” says Mary.
“Something Italian.”
“Like what?”
“The Three Tenors, they're Italian,” says Belinda, checking herself once more in the mirror. “Whoever this person is, they're early,” she adds.
“I bet it's Howard,” says Mary.
Belinda opens the door. It is, indeed, Howard, and he looks ready for a party. He has on his usual festive wardrobe of opennecked denim shirt, jeans, brown sandals, and a jaunty red-and-white-spotted scarf tied around his neck. His wiry blond hair has been flattened into a side part with water and a comb.
“Belinda!” he says, giving her wide hips a small, drunken squeeze as he walks in, heading straight for the kitchen. “This looks very nice indeed.”
“Bene … bene. Do you think so, Howard?” asks Belinda trotting along behind. “As a fellow artist I'm interested in your opinion. Do you think it looks rustica italiana ?”
“Rustic Italian?” asks Howard, looking up and down the sideboard. “Um … Do you have any gin?”
“Gin?” asks Belinda, looking up at her flags. “Oh, sorry, gin.” She giggles, tweaking her Lollobrigida skirt. “I was thinking of just serving Italian wine tonight. But for you, Howard”—she smiles, bending down to open a cupboard— “there is gin.”
Ignoring the rows of plastic cups, Howard finds himself a half-pint glass on a shelf and adds a cube of ice.
“Say when,” smiles Belinda, pouring the gin. Howard looks the other way and appears to lose himself in deep thought. “When!” says Belinda. The glass is half full.
“Oh, sorry, when,” says Howard.
She adds a burst of tonic and a slice of lemon and hands it over. “There you go.”
“Cheers,”says Howard. He clears his throat, then opens it and pours down half his drink. “That's better,” he announces as he comes up for air. “Now, the decoration,”he says, looking around. “I see what you mean now, Belinda. I see what you mean. Yes.” He nods. “Very rustic. Very Italian. Good use of flags. Excellent use of produce. No, the whole thing has come together very well.”
“Do you think?” says Belinda, playing with her red comb. “Really?”
“Oh, no,” nods Howard again. “Certainly. Excellent. Rustic Italian. Well done.”
“If you think I've done well,” she smiles, ever so satisfied, “then I can rest easy.”
“Good,” says Howard, taking another large sip.
“So, how is your work going?” questions Belinda intelligently, her index finger curled around her chin. “Because, as I shared with you the other night, I've been having a bit of difficulty with mine. I mean, there are days, such is the block, when I simply can't put pen to paper. And then … then there are days when, quite simply, not even an e-mail inquiry could stop me!”
Tuscany for Beginners Page 20