Page 35 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

‘You don’t want to know,’ Warren said.

Singing English men? Unless they were from the choir of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, it usually meant trouble. In a town like Castellino, where the cops amounted to one, his deputy, the dog and its fleas, you couldn’t count much on their intervention. There was no crime or violence, thus no means of preventing it. This was definitely going to be a problem I’d have to solve. And it was a problem. I could smell it from miles away.

I shooed the kids back inside. ‘Warren, go inside and lock the front door.’

Unfortunately, he’d heard those words from me before and memories of his psycho father must have flashed before him, because he swallowed and asked, ‘Are they trouble, Mom?’

‘Of course not. Now go. Don’t forget to bolt the door.’

He nodded and went, and in the corner of my eye, I saw him look back at me over his shoulder as he did so.

Straightening my back, I strode over to meet the posse, who were waving their arms out the windows of the bus, looking like beef spilling out of a meat grinder. The driver of the bus was Italian and shaking his head.

‘Mi scusi,’ he apologized. ‘Non so dove vogliono andare.’ I don’t know where they want to go.

One look told me it was an English stag party. There were about a dozen of them, mostly blond, long dirty hair, all dressed in variations of English soccer gear. And the stink of beer was unbelievable.

‘’Allo, love!’ one said, jumping out the bus to the spot right in front of me.

I resisted the urge to step back. I was familiar with this kind of animal. Better show no fear.

‘Hello, may I help you?’

‘Yeah! We was overbooked at the Senese Hotel, yeah? No place to go now. Got rooms?’

I had loads of rooms, in fact. But that was none of his business.

‘I’m so sorry, we’re fully booked.’

‘Aww, c’mon, love – just a few rooms. You won’t even know we’re here,’ he coaxed as one of his buddies leaned out the window and threw up on the cobblestones.

And that was when bad-ass Erica of yesteryear was instantly back with another brainstorm idea. Ignoring the wino, I feigned real concern for their predicament.

‘Gosh, I’m so sorry, some big rich guy just booked the whole place for a business conference.’ Then I leaned in and whispered, ‘But I do have a solution if you don’t mind me suggesting one?’

‘Hell no,’ he said, and I grinned, turning him round to point north.

‘I’ll give your driver the directions, but right down in the valley there’s an amazing place – very similar to this – with lots of rooms. It’s called Tasting Tuscany. I think they’re actually hosting a beauty contest for the local TV or something,’ I added for good measure.

‘Cor, super,’ the Brit cheered, followed by the other hoodlums hanging out the windows.

I grinned amiably and pulled out my cell. I knew the bloody number by heart. ‘Let me book for you.’

‘Yeah, super.’

‘Tasting Tuscany,buongiorno?’ came Marzia Casciani’s familiar crow voice.

‘Yes, good afternoon. This is Erica Cantelli from A Taste of Tuscany.’

A long silence. ‘Ah. What do you want?’

To wipe you off the map, of course.‘Ah, I’m standing here next to a group – the South London Male Voice Choir. Classical music…’

The yobbo next to me sniggered and I raised my hand to shush him.

‘We have an overflow and simply don’t have the room. Can we send them to you?’

I wasn’t about to admit to her what she already knew – that she’d managed to put our business on hold for the time being. Better to seem pathetic for now if I wanted to reel her in.