Page 36 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

Another suspicious pause and I found I was holding my breath.

Then, finally, ‘Oh, yes, absolutely,’ came the snidey voice. ‘And thank you.’

Don’t thank me yet, I thought, glee pumping through my veins. ‘They’re on their way,’ I said and hung up.

The yobbo was already getting back onto the bus.

‘Cheers, love!’ he shouted, raising his thumb at me, and the herd inside roared in chorus, chanting all sorts of things that made me hope my children were out of earshot.

‘Just ask for the old Bettarini farm,’ I said to the poor bus driver. ‘The place is called Tasting Tuscany.’

The driver looked at our own sign reading A Taste of Tuscany and then looked back at me, confused.

I sighed amiably. ‘Long story. Here – for your trouble,’ I said, opening the larder door on the ground floor behind me and pulling out an entire cured prosciutto. ‘Take this for your family.’

The man’s eyes popped open. ‘Grazie, signora.’

‘Oh, you’ll be earning it, don’t you worry.’

He grinned. ‘Sì, signora.’

I smiled at him, stepped back and waved at the rowdy bunch. ‘Right, boys, off you go! Have fun. Happy holidays!’

South London Male Voice Choir, my foot. These boys were Neanderthal soccer hooligans and going straight to the Cascianis. I sagged in relief as they hit the horizon, a trail of dust in their wake, and I could only imagine the havoc they’d wreak once they were on our rival’s property. Did I feel guilty about it in the least, you may ask? Absolutely not. That’s what they got for trying to ruin our livelihood. Karma’s doing – not mine in the least.

A few moments later, Julian drove up in his tractor, all sweaty and shirtless, his body glistening in the golden light, his face a mask of danger. He jumped off the tractor, looking for all the world like a fuming cowboy, a rifle over his shoulder, taking long strides toward me, his eyes scanning his surroundings.

‘Where are they?’ he demanded.

‘Who?’ I asked innocently.

‘The thugs.’

‘Thugs?’ I laughed.

Warren must have called him, bless his little soul, just as he’d done the last time I was in danger, under the threat of Ira’s baseball bat, and Julian had come running, breaking my front door open like a real hero.

‘Oh, they were just looking for a place to stay. The South London Male Choir Voice, I think they said. I sent them to our rivals, of course.’

Julian grinned and wrapped his arm around me. ‘You little schemer.’

If only he knew. Better let sleeping dogs lie.

‘Where did you get that rifle?’ I asked just as Marco and Giacomo brought up the rear, sporting a rifle each, their eyes glittering. Men and their tribal instinct. ‘Never mind,’ I said, exhaling.

Back at The Farthington, if there had been a problem, all I’d had to do was call security. Here, my security was Julian and our friends. Julian scooped me up in his sweaty arms, his T-shirt hanging from his back pocket, his jeans having seen better days. He kissed me thoroughly, like he always did when we were apart.

8

The Miracle Maker

As I was furiously slapping something together for dinner or, rather, pureeing anything that got between my fingers, Julian came into the kitchen with his laptop.

‘OK, listen,’ he said. ‘I’ve just received an email from Laura Magri.’

Our lawyer. Laura the lawyer, my mind wandered. Fat lot of good she did us, attracting the attention of the bloody NAS.

‘Our pictures are being deleted from their website and the same goes for the description.’