“Yes, love,” he says. “I don't feel too special myself.”
“Right,” says Lauren, stepping into the breach. “Who hasn't eaten the prawns, apart from myself and Kyle?” She scans the terrace. No one has their hands up. “Howard?”
“I'm afraid I can't remember,” he says, taking another swig of his gin. “I don't tend to snack at parties, so possibly not.”
“Anyone else?” she asks.
“I've had only one,”says Selina, walking up the terrace steps. “But I have to say I don't feel great.”
“Okay,” nods Lauren. “Kyle and I will split up and drive everyone home.”
“Hurrrr,” comes a gut-wrenching noise from behind the rosemary bush.
“We need plenty of plastic bags,” continues Lauren. “Belinda?”
“Hum?”
“Mary,” says Lauren, “can you deal with this?”
“Yes, of course,” says Mary, rushing into the kitchen to riffle through the cupboards for bags.
“Okay, everyone.” Lauren claps. “Follow me. Divide yourselves into groups. Derek, Barbara, you're coming with me. Jaqui!” she yells into the garden.
“Hurrrrrrrr.”
“Kyle's taking you home, if you can make it to the car.”
“Okay,” Jaqui manages to shout back. “I'll come around the side.”
“Good,” says Lauren. “Off we go, then. Thank you, Mary,” she adds, taking the bunch of plastic bags. “Are we all ready?”
“Yes,” says Howard, moving slowly toward Lauren, holding his stomach. “Looks as though I might have had a vol-au-vent after all.”
“Right, that's it, we're off before you start throwing up, Howard. Come along, everyone. Selina come along,” she ushers. “Oh, good evening, Belinda,” she says, as she walks out of the door taking Belinda's poisoned guests in various stages of contortion with her. “Thank you for your party. What a great evening,” she says. “We must do it again some time.”
“Mm?” says Belinda looking up. “Oh.” She smiles. “Arrivadeary,” she adds, in a quiet little voice.
DomenicaSunday
Climafa caldo (Hot)
Forgive me, dear reader, if I ask you a question. I know the whole point of my jottings is to share my thoughts, ideas and observations, but sometimes even I don't know everything. Tell me, at what point in a failing relationship does one decide to withdraw the charming hand of friendship?
Is it when someone arrives in your valley in her flashy four-wheel-drive car and buys up the house you vaguely had your eye on? Is it when, having torn up the valley with her heavy-goods vehicles, and painted over some world-heritage frescos, she decides to open a business to rival yours? Is it when her hormonally challenged son can't leave your lovely daughter alone? Is it when she manages to usurp your position on the committee that you've put your life and soul into for nearly five years? Or, finally, is it when she abuses you with alcohol at your own party, then leaves, taking all your guests with her? At which point is it, dear reader, that one should consider withdrawing one's hand? For I now consider my appendage well and truly retracted.
And it's not as if I haven't made an effort to welcome her into my valley. I was in the first wave of the welcoming committee; I introduced her to everyone important in the valley. I even went to her party. I sent guests to her when, as so often happens, I was full. I have also helped direct her guests to her house. I then, pleasantly, invited her back to mine and entertained some grubby journalist type whom she insisted on bringing to my soirée, lowering the tone and everything. I can't for the life of me think that I could have been any more delightful or simpatico. All I can say is that she really will feel how cold and miserable life can be here without my support. I am Contessa of this valley. It is my valley and she and her white-toothed son really aren't welcome anymore.
I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm being so negative today. Today is a day for great celebration. It is the Festa di Formaggio, at which every year the whole expat community, including some of the waifs and strays from the neighboring valleys, come together to celebrate the rolling of the pecorino cheese down the hill. Lots of Italians come as well. Each group sets up its own trestle table and has a giant picnic that lasts all afternoon. There are various races—the children's race, the OAP race, and the open race where each table chooses its champion. I have, of course, rolled for the expats every year for the past five years. Until now.
And actually now, between us, I don't think I shall mind terribly that I'm not doing so this year. It comes to all ancient festivals eventually, and I'm afraid I suspect this one, too, might have had its day. I'm sure it won't be as good as last year when, if I remember correctly, I cooked up a storm, rolled like a dervish, and everyone said it was the best day of the year.
CHAPTER TEN
elinda wakes up in a determined mood. Not quashed by last night's debacle, she appears to have dug deep, regrouped, and is ready to do battle with Lauren McMahon all over again. In fact, as she walks downstairs in her cream nylon floor-length nightie, which she saves for guest-free days, Belinda seems remarkably buoyant, despite the bottle of limoncello she finished off while watching reruns of Changing Rooms on satellite tele-vision. A fan of the makeover-show format, Belinda spent most of the evening, somewhat uncharacteristically, shouting and spitting at Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen and his team while they restyled a sitting room in Solihull into Moroccan boudoir. But perhaps the yelling and the releasing of bile helped because when she finds Mary at the breakfast table, nibbling tentatively on a piece of buttered toast, Belinda is initially pleasant.
ooking forward to today?” she asks, flopping down on the hard chair usually reserved for breakfasting guests. “Um, yes,” says Mary, looking up, and hoping it to be the correct response.
“Good,” says Belinda, picking a sugar lump out of the white china bowl, a habit for which she has often scolded Mary. “I don't think I'll go.”
“Oh, Mum!” says Mary, with a warm, encouraging smile. “Don't be silly. You can't not go. It wouldn't be a party without you. You're the Contessa of the Valley; you've got to go. You'll be missed.”
“Good,”Belinda pops the sugar lump into her mouth. “That's exactly the answer I was after. I have a plan.” She crunches. “I think I'm going to turn up late today,” she adds, smiling at her reflection in the window, trying to smooth down her Einstein hair. “You know, late enough that everyone thinks I might not be coming so they miss me and get worried and then—then when they're all bored, waiting for some fun and excitement to begin, I shall arrive.”She gets out of her chair and starts to paint in her arriving marvelousness. “I shall waft in, looking fabulous, with a fabulous picnic and … and save the day.”
“You won't need a picnic, Mum.” Mary smiles. “The Aussie girls are bringing that, remember?”
“The lesbians?” huffs Belinda, tiring of her picture, putting her hands on her hips. “Don't you know anything, Maria?”
“What?” asks Mary.
“Homosexual men can cook like a dream; homosexual women cannot,” she pronounces. “It's famous.”
“Is it?” asks Mary.
“Of course it is. Anyway, I've always done the picnic. And I don't see why I shouldn't do it again this year.”
“There might not be many takers after last night.” Mary is trying to jolly her mother along.
“That was absolutely ridiculous,” disagrees Belinda, leaning on the back of the chair. “I have never heard such a load of fuss and nonsense about a few off prawns in my life. Honestly, you'd have thought that World War III had broken out, the way the americana was carrying on. God! And that smug son of hers—” Mary looks away. “Did you flinch then?” asks Belinda.
“No,” says Mary.
“Are you sure?” Belinda peers down at her daughter. “Because we know where we stand on Kevin.”
“His name is Kyle,” says Mary, her voice almost snapping.
“Kyle, Kevin, it's all the same to me,” says Belinda. “He's dreadful, an
d you're having nothing to do with him. In fact, I don't want to see you so much as look at him at the festa today, do you hear me?”
“What? Not even a quick glance?”
“Don't get pert with me,” says Belinda. “You know exactly what I mean. I don't want you to have anything to do with him.”
“I don't know what you have against him,” Mary continues. “I really don't. He's intelligent, he's handsome, he's studying music at Yale. Most mothers would be proud to have their daughter associate with a man like that.”
“Yes, well,” Belinda moves closer to her, “there's only one problem with that. I've met the mother!” She raises her eyebrows and turns away. “So, unless you want to be thrown out on to the street with no money, no job, and nowhere to live, I suggest you play by my rules.” She adds, with a shrug, “Or you could go home to your father's.”
Mary doesn't bother to reply. Instead, she slips lower into the hard guest's chair and carries on trying to eat her toast. The situation between Kyle and her is becoming unbearable. Last night as she cleared up after the party, listening to her mother shouting at the television, all she could think of was Kyle: the touch of his skin as he held her hand; the softness of his breath on her cheek as he spoke; the smell of his body as he stood so close to her, yet so out of reach. She knows he feels the same way about her. The illicit hours they've spent lying in the grass side by side, or sitting and talking under an olive tree, or very occasionally when they've dared to walk along the stream on the valley floor. All of the warm and private moments they've spent together tell her he likes her, too—the yearning in his voice, and the way he looks at her when he thinks she isn't paying attention. She knows he feels the same. She takes a small bite of her toast. The idea of going to the Festa di Formaggio and sitting next to her mother watching him, not being able to talk to him, touch him, or be with him—it's too much for her to endure.
“Mum?” she says quietly.
“Yes?”
“I don't think I want to come to the festa. ”
“What?” says Belinda, turning around to pay attention. “Of course you're coming.”
“I really don't feel like it, Mum. Please don't make me come,” says Mary, the full horror of the idea unfolding in front of her. She shivers. “I just don't want to go.”
“Are you seriously suggesting I go on my own?” queries Belinda. “After all that has happened? After the terrible mess you made catering for my party. You think you can leave me to face the music on my own? Covering for your mistakes?” Mary tries to speak. Belinda raises her hand and shakes her head. “I don't think so, young lady. You're coming with me, even if I have to drag you by the hair. And I'll hear no more about it. Now, go and telephone Giovanna and order a picnic in your very best Italian, will you, dear? I don't want any mistakes, so I'm going to get her to do it just this once. Tell her I want it as rustica and Tuscano as possible, all right?”
“Rustico and Toscano ?” checks Mary, wearily getting out of her chair and walking to the telephone. When her mother is as belligerent and insistent as this, there really is no point in trying to argue back. Mary is going to the Festa di Formaggio, she is going to have to sit next to the love of her life and not speak to, or look at, or communicate with him, and she's going to have to pretend she's enjoying herself.
Belinda rubs her hands together, congratulating herself on a job well delegated. She walks out onto her terrace and stretches in the morning sun. The valley below basks in soft, warm, yellow light. The Bianchis have harvested the tobacco field directly opposite Casa Mia. A few of their sunflowers are still in full bloom, their garish faces all pointing in the same direction, like a pool of secretaries on a lunch break, soaking up the sun. Belinda surveys her estate. The grass is dry and crisp from lack of water. Her lavender bushes need to be deadheaded, as do the geraniums. The fig tree sports three green fruit that have yet to ripen. She smiles; perhaps she should get Franco over for a little light labor next week. Her terrace could also do with a sweep. Giulia really should pull her weight a bit more. There are still a couple of half-drunk cups of last night's wine propped up in flower pots, such was the swift flight of her guests. Standing at the top of the steps, she spots a half-eaten prawn vol-au-vent sitting under a rosemary bush that not even the ants have seen fit to finish off.
“An awful lot of fuss about nothing,” mutters Belinda, walking over to kick the vol-au-vent out of sight. “Why that woman had to take everyone home with her I'll never know.”
“Mum?” says Mary, from the steps.
“What?” says Belinda.
“The picnic will be ready to pick up in about an hour.”
“Okay. Did you tell her rustica and tuscano ?”
“I said rustico and toscano, ”confirms Mary, “about three times. She checked, and I confirmed it.”
“Good,” says Belinda, rubbing her hands together. “That should show the others up, then, shouldn't it?”
“Anyway,I think I might have a shower, before we go?” says Mary.
“Off you go,” says Belinda, deep in thought.
“What time does the festa start?”
“Twelve,” says Belinda
“What time are we going?”
“Two.”
t one fifteen Belinda is putting two chairs into the back of the car. It is a complicated maneuver that seems to require her to push, shove, and swear a lot while her large backside, encased in a pair of rather tight and not overly sportif jeans, moons out of the car to not very elegant effect. She emerges with every pore on her pink face open and producing sweat. Her pale blue T-shirt is striped in damp, and the effect of someone who spends most of her time mucking around on boats, attending Tuscan picnics at weekends, is almost certainly ruined.
“Mary!” yells Belinda, sticking out her bottom lip and blowing up her face. “Where are you?”
“Here,” says Mary, coming out of the front door at a jog. “I'm sorry. I thought we weren't going till two.” She is wearing a white T-shirt and denim skirt with a pair of white sneakers. It's the sort of fresh look that Belinda is after, which looks annoyingly good on her daughter.
“Yes, well, it's too late now, isn't it?” huffs Belinda. “And I'm so hot and sweaty in this I'm going to have to change. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find an outfit that says,'Tus-can picnic'?”
“Well, I'm sorry,” says Mary, “but I thought we weren't leaving till two.”
“Yes, well,” says Belinda again, on her way into the house, “I couldn't see any point in hanging around any longer.”
“You just couldn't wait, could you?” mutters Mary.
“What?” says Belinda, turning swiftly.
“Nothing,” says Mary. “I'll wait for you here.”
Such is her desire to see if she has been missed that Belinda changes in two minutes flat, into the yellow and navy flowered dress, which she wore the day before. She pauses only to don a pair of fun flip-flops covered in plastic fruit and find her widebrimmed mercato hat in case she needs a couple of concealed conversations at Lauren's expense. She comes out of the house at a swift pace and meets Mary sitting on the steps outside the front door.
“Hurry up, hurry up,” she chivvies. “We've got a festa to get to.”
“I'm the one who's been waiting,” Mary points out.
“Oh, don't start being difficult, dear,” says Belinda over the car roof. “Not today of all days. I really don't need it.”
“I was merely stating a fact.”
“Get into the car,” says Belinda, placing her hat between the chairs on the backseat.
“Right.” Mary slams the door.
“Happy smiles when we arrive, and last night's prawns are a conversational no-no. Our response is something along the lines of ‘How very odd, I had five or six vol-au-vents and nothing happened to me.’”
“But we didn't.”
“Mary!” Belinda rolls her eyes. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours.”
“G
ood.” Belinda smiles tightly. “Now … Barb and I were very ill last night,” she says, in a deep northern voice, flattening her vowels in an attempt to sound like Derek.
“Oh, I know, Derek,” responds Mary, in a mock-innocent high voice.” ‘How very odd. I had five or six vol-au-vents and nothing happened to me.’ “
“Good,” says Belinda, and starts the car. “That's about right. Run into Giovanna's on the way and pick up the picnic.”
By the time Belinda pulls up outside the Santa Caterina church and the small patch of grass that constitutes the village green, everything is exactly as she'd planned. She is looking elegant in her hat, she has Giovanna's tasteful basket, covered in a white tea towel, containing her rustico toscano picnic, and everyone else is there, she presumes, awaiting her arrival.
The small green is packed with people, shouting, talking, laughing, gesticulating, drinking wine, smoking cigarettes. At the top to the side of the church, there is a sun-bleached sideless tent that contains a table loaded with three enormous silver cups. Mounted on wooden stands, they have silver plaques of winners' names shining all over them. They glint in the sun, and consistently pull quite a crowd of observers. All around the edges of the green, which has a square for dancing in the middle, there are long trestle tables loaded with wine and grapes, large round cheeses, and green-glass bottles of water. There are smaller round tables with families of six or eight squeezed around them. There are a few rugs, and a few canvas chairs. There is also a table, chaired by the ironmonger who made Be-linda's gates, that is a plank balanced on giant logs with all the festive guests sitting on smaller logs.
The air is hot and dry, full of smoke and the sweet smell of cooking meat. Like some medieval fair, there are small fires with skewered steaks and chicken, and more professional barbecues with root vegetables and aubergines. The young man who runs the porchetta van, selling cold roast pork in Serrana market, is roasting a whole pig. Having lit his coals at six thirty this morning, he is hoping to make a return on his investment when the aroma becomes too intoxicating to resist, come three or four in the afternoon.
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