Tuscany for Beginners

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “I know you're supposed to serve this on that thin toast,” says Barbara, as she sits down, “but Derek and I prefer chunks of bread. I hope you don't mind.”

  “No, not at all,” replies Howard, his mouth already full.

  “No,” says Belinda, pulling out the inside of her bread with her fingernails. “What an ingenious way of doing it—but I'm afraid I just can't eat all this starch.”

  “Well, I think it's delicious and very generous of you,” says Mary.

  Derek is unable to reply. He is trying to swallow a rather large mouthful, and his eyes are watering under the strain. By the time he ensures its wine-assisted departure, Steve walks in holding a bottle of Prosecco in either hand.

  “Derek! Barb! Ladies! Gents!” he says, with a nod and a smile to each and every one of those assembled. “Sorry I'm so late. What can I say? I just had to close a deal near San Jimmy, and I've driven here like my balls were on fire…. So what have I missed?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all,” says Barbara, pushing a parcel of food to one side of her mouth and talking out of the other. “Sit down, Steve, sit down.”

  Short and neat, with closely cropped hair, there is a touch of the terrier about Steve. His eyes are bright, his manner is sharp; he is full of energy and extremely alert. One of nature's survivors, he is the sort of bloke who can sniff a deal at forty paces.

  “Do you want me to put these in the fridge, Barb?” he asks, waving the two bottles aloft.

  “Don't be silly,” says Barbara, pushing his shoulder with her hand. “You sit yourself down. I'll do that.”

  “Oh, great, pâté,” he says, and pulls out the chair next to Belinda.

  “It's foie gras, ” corrects Belinda.

  “Oh, right.” Steve grins.

  “Have you met everyone?” says Derek, and clears his throat.

  “No, no, I don't believe I have,” sniffs Steve, troweling foie gras onto a hunk of bread.

  “This is Howard, our writer in residence,” says Derek. Steve nods, chomping on his sandwich. “This is Mary, Belinda's daughter.” Steve nods again. “And this,” he pauses. “This is Belinda, our new writer in residence and the Contessa of the Val-ley.”Derek is almost on the point of applauding. Belinda smiles.

  “All right, Linda,” says Steve. He swallows, clicks his tongue, and shoots her with his right index finger.

  “It's Belinda.”

  “Sure, whatever,” he says. “Anyway …”

  As Steve inhales his food at the speed of the starving, the conversation is dominated by his day. Between and during mouthfuls, he tells them about the deal he has just closed with a couple of Brits who have paid over half a million quid on a villa, with a pool, just outside San Gimignano. “A nice place,”he says. “Amazingly, it was worth half as much three years ago. You lot are sitting on gold mines here. The valley's not much to write home about, but you're so close to San Jimmy you're bloody laughing.”

  Everyone smiles and quietly congratulates themselves on the increased value of their own property, pleasantly aware of their fabulous foresight in getting their place in the sun ahead of the herd.

  While Barbara serves her signature avocado-stuffed chicken breasts in a cream sauce, Steve enlightens the table on the price of reroofing Derek's chestnut barn with reclaimed terra-cotta tiles. Belinda sits, her elbows in, her head cocked to one side, a fixed smile on her face as she pretends to listen.

  Howard has requisitioned his waterglass as a backup wine container and lost control of his facial muscles. The more Steve talks, the more Howard drinks—and the farther his cheeks slide off his skull and his body slips under the table.

  Barbara punctuates Steve's stories and assertions with appreciative glances and little moans of agreement.

  Derek nods away knowledgeably, while Mary eats her food quietly and counts the minutes until she can go home.

  “Do you know they're tarmacking the white roads in the next-door valley?” asks Steve, his spoon pointed in the air, his pink strawberries-and-pannacotta pudding spinning in his open mouth, like clothes in a washing machine.

  “Oh, really?” says Barbara.

  “Mm,” he continues. “They'll probably be doing it to yours soon.”

  “I shouldn't think so for a minute.” Belinda smiles.

  “Why?” asks Steve.

  “Because we would know about it,” says Belinda, with a quick sip of wine. “There is nothing that goes on in the valley that we and, certainly, I don't know about.”

  “She's right, you know,”insists Derek, his eyes watering from the wine. “She knows everything that goes on in this valley. She is the Contessa, after all.”

  “Honestly, Derek, shush.” Belinda tweaks her artistic outfit.

  “Did you know an American's moving into your valley?” asks Steve, pushing his empty pudding bowl toward the middle of the table.

  “I'm afraid we've all known that for a long time.” Belinda gives a confident little laugh.

  “We have?” asks Howard, his whole body wobbling with the effort of conversation.

  “Oh, yes,” asserts Belinda, her eyes narrowing.

  “Oh, right.” Howard looks quizzical. “I wonder what sort of American buys a near wreck of a property in central Tuscany?”

  “I don't have a clue,” giggles Barbara with a little shrug.

  “An intriguing one,” says Howard, tapping the side of his increasingly red nose.

  “And a rich one,” adds Steve. “Because that house hasn't got any water.”

  “It hasn't?” asks Barbara.

  “Well, that's what I was told,” says Steve, with a knowledgeable sniff.

  “People are always saying that about the houses around here,” Belinda puts in. “I mean, they said it about mine.”

  “But yours didn't,” says Howard, leaning on an elbow that slips across the table.

  “It did, actually, Howard, if you remember correctly,” says Belinda crisply. “It just ran out when I filled my enormous swimming pool.”

  “Your pool isn't that big,” states Howard.

  “Well,” says Belinda, her mouth pursed, “at least I have one.”

  “Shall we go and sit soft?” asks Barbara.

  “Good idea, my love,” says Derek, placing his palms on the table and scraping his chair along the flagstone floor as he hauls himself up.

  “So, you've known about the American for a while, then?” asks Steve, pushing his chair back under the table.

  “Oh, yes,” says Belinda, trying to sound jaded. “Roberto and I have been talking about it for a while now. In fact, Derek and I were discussing it only the other day, weren't we, Derek?”

  “Absolutely, Contessa, just the other day,” confirms Derek.

  “So you knew they were planning to open a hotel?” asks Steve, with a broad, pleased grin painted all over his face.

  Belinda is too shocked to move. Atrophied by the surprise information, the notion of competition makes her blood run cold.

  “A hotel?” says Barbara. “That's nice.”

  “With a bar?” asks Howard.

  “Or a spa?” Barbara giggles.

  “I'm not sure about the details,” says Steve, walking through into the sitting room.

  “Well, that is news to us,” admits Derek. “Can I get any of you a sticky to accompany your chocolates? Barbara? My love? Anything for you?”

  “Ooh, Mr. Hewitt!” She giggles, shoving her husband's shoulder.

  Belinda is left alone with Mary in the dining room. “A hotel? Right here in my valley?” Belinda whispers slowly, holding the back of her chair for support. “Maria darling,” she says suddenly. Mary gets out of her seat. “Maria darling,” she repeats loudly, her face composed, her smile stiff, as she walks into the sitting room. “Barbara, dear, I have a feeling that the foie gras must have been off. I feel terrible, and have been struck down by a sudden and desperate desire to go home.” She pauses as if draining her last reserves of energy. “Arrivadeary!”

  “Oh
, poor you, absolutely!” exclaims Barbara, rushing over. “You go home, arrivadeary, dear, arrivadeary! ”

  “Arrivadeary,” the others reply.

  Sabato Saturday

  Climafa caldo (Hot!)

  Siamo aperto! We are open! Let my glorious hospitality commence! I know it sounds a little different, and not at all English, but I do love all the busy hard work of the beginning of the season. It is such fun! It is so invigorating.

  It will probably also sound a little odd to those of you who are unfortunate enough to live in the city, but the beginning of the holiday season is just like when one of nature's seasons comes into my valley. It is like the germinating and the harvesting of the sunflowers, the changing and the falling of the leaves, the final gathering of the plump, ripe, oil-producing olives. So the beginning of the tourist season always heralds for me the start of summer.

  And the long hot summers in Italy are so lovely. Blissfully warm days when the sky is azure and cloudless. There is not a breath of wind to stir the trees, and the swallows swoon to dip their wings in my lovely swimming pool. The evenings are just as wonderful. There is no greater pleasure than sitting on one's terrace, looking down into one's valley with a small drink in one's hand, watching the fireflies displaying to each other. Sometimes I am filled with such joy that all I want to do is don something floaty I bought in the market and run through the fields of poppies near the Bianchi farm.

  I honestly can't believe how lucky I am. I remember the time I used to waste looking through the property sections of newspapers, watching programs on television, talking about buying places with my friends, and ever since I lost my husband I have been living the dream. Now I watch those shows from my own place in the sun. Whoever said that life begins at forty (or indeed forty-four) is entirely correct!

  Anyway, my delightful Belgians arrive today. As I sit here at my desk, overlooking my valley, listening to birdsong, the Bianchis' water pump and the other comings and goings of peasant life, Maria is downstairs in the kitchen cooking up a relaxed, yet light, italiano storm. She is, fortunately, a professional. And, take it from me, having worked in the hostessing profession for five years now, I know it is the detail and the atmosphere that count. Detail and atmosphere are the hostess's mantra. Spaghetti Bolognese on its own is fine, but eat it at a table with a small vase of hand-picked spring flowers and it is sure to taste better. Another tip for the budding hostess is to keep the cuisine local.

  Only last night my dear friend Barbara suffered a culinary disaster by serving some franglais dish that she had picked up somewhere— pâté and stuffed chicken are not the first choices when it comes to italiano food. But fortunately it didn't hold us back. We managed to have one of those flowing, relaxed, loose suppers again, like we always do.

  The famous writer Howard Oxford turned up. He'd managed to tear himself away from his desk and his sure-to-be bestseller and make it across the valley. He regaled us with witty stories and sharp anecdotes about his glamorous life in London. A regular at Casa Mia, Howard is a dinner party must-have on the social scene di Toscana. Derek and Barbara were their usual generous souls and had invited a well-known interior designer called Stephen. He filled us in with some great property stories and what we should be doing with our curtains this season! He also confirmed what I already knew—that an American was moving in on the other side of the valley. We all sat back and applauded their courage, myself especially, as the Casa Padronale is unfortunately renowned for not having any water. So the poor devil is going to have to put in a big pump, at great expense, and haul it up, liter by liter, drop by drop, from the valley floor. It may well end up putting him off all together! We shall see….

  CHAPTER THREE

  elinda has been up since the crack of dawn. Having drunk three cups of coffee with Hermesetas on the run, she is now pacing her terrace, working off the caffeine overdose her binoculars hanging around her neck. For the past ten minutes her routine has been the same. Dressed in her navy easy-on trousers, with elasticated waist, and a short-sleeved flowered shirt. Her hair styled like that of a genius on the verge of a great discovery. She marches to the end of the terrace, stands by a pot of pink geraniums, and exhales loudly. She then tugs at her bottom lip, stares at the Casa Padronale through her binoculars, spins on the bare sole of her foot, and returns to the comfort and convenience of her lounger, where she maintains an all-too-brief seated position, before repeating the whole process all over again.

  “Mum?” asks Mary, arriving on the terrace, dressed only in a large T-shirt and underwear. Her slim legs are just beginning to change color in the sun. “What on earth are you doing?” she asks, rubbing her eyes, which are still puffy with sleep. Belinda doesn't appear to hear. “Mum?” she repeats. “What are you doing?”

  “What?” says Belinda, finally grinding to a halt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Oh?” says Belinda, her arms hanging by her sides. “Oh,”she repeats. “I'm just worrying … I think.”

  “Oh,” says Mary. “Whoever you're thinking about, I'm sure that spying on them isn't going to make any difference.”

  “I'm not spying,” protests Belinda.

  “What are you doing, then?”

  “Looking.”

  “You're doing a lot more than that.”

  “Well, looking closely, then,” admits Belinda.

  “Yeah, well, it sure looks like spying to me,” says Mary, turning to go back into the kitchen. “Do you want some coffee?” she asks.

  “No,” says Belinda, walking back to the edge of the terrace, fiddling with her binoculars. “Oh, go on, then, yes,” she adds, with a flap of her hand. “I may as well die of something, and caffeine poisoning is as good a way to go as any.”

  “So, what have you found out?” asks Mary, over her shoulder.

  “What?” says Belinda, distracted.

  “What have you seen?”

  “Well,” says Belinda. Her eyes strain through the lenses and her short tongue sticks out of her mouth as she surveys the valley below. “Not much, not much.” She stiffens as she spots something. Like a feline predator tensing before the kill, she takes a tentative step forward. “But there is definitely something going on down there,” she says.

  “I've seen at least three people walking around. Here's one of them now.”

  “Can you see the American?” Mary is back on the terrace, hands on her hips, waiting for the kettle to boil.

  “Don't be stupid, I have no idea what he looks like.”

  “Well, you know, anyone who looks American?”

  “If you mean someone in loud shorts the size of a beach ball, then no, I haven't,” says Belinda, her tongue flicking in and out with concentration as she tries to follow a moving, and extremely diminutive figure below.

  “Can I have a look?”

  “No,” says Belinda, holding on to her binoculars tightly. “You have no idea what you're looking for. Hasn't that kettle boiled yet?”

  “I'll have a look,” replies Mary, and wanders back into the kitchen.

  The diminutive figure in jeans and a white top goes back inside the Casa Padronale and fails to rematerialize. Like a sniper with his weapon trained on enemy lines, Belinda doesn't move. She keeps her position. In fact, she moves a step closer. Elbows out, eyes unblinking, she searches the countryside for more targets. She scours the land in and around the Casa Padronale. She combs the long, unkempt grass in and around the two fig trees in front of the house, and between the nine or ten olive trees to the right. Nothing. The track that leads from the house to the white road is also empty.

  “There doesn't seem to be any car,” she mutters to herself. “They either walked or they were dropped off before dawn.”

  “Have you been here since dawn?” asks Mary, holding two mugs of coffee.

  “Pretty much …”

  “Gosh,” she says, as she sits down on the steps at the edge of the terrace, sleepily staring into space, before blowing on her cup and taking a t
entative sip. “Don't you think you're overreacting a bit?”

  “Overreacting?” Belinda spins around. Her binoculars follow a full second later and hit her on the chest. “Overreacting? Are you accusing me of overreacting? Do you have any idea what this could mean to us? To me? To you and me? To my business? To your livelihood? To your future inheritance?” Mary's mouth hangs open. “The American could ruin us. His arrival— in my valley—could be the end of our world! Do you understand what that means? Do you?” By now Belinda is somewhat hysterical. The combination of too much wine last night, too much coffee this morning, and foie gras constipation has made her both jumpy and irritable. “Do you?” she repeats. “Because from where I'm standing it doesn't sound like it!”

  “It's just a bit of healthy competition,” says Mary, in her softest, most placatory voice.

  “Since when has competition ever been healthy?”

  “Since—”

  “Since never!” screams Belinda, throwing her fat-fingered hands in the air. She marches up to her steaming coffee and takes a large, hot swig. Mary inhales. “Ouch!” Her mother exhales immediately, spitting her mouthful of coffee across the terrace. “Jesus Christ, that hurt!” she shouts, covers her mouth with one hand, and stares aggressively at the cup. “That coffee's bloody hot!”

  “I've only just made it,” explains Mary. Belinda cannot reply. “Anyway,” she continues, compensating for her mother's burned silence, “he's not in competition with you.”

  “He's not?” she mumbles, Belinda's voice is uncharacteristically quiet.

  “No,” she explains. “He's opening a hotel, and you run a B-and-B.”

  “An upmarket B-and-B,” corrects Belinda.

  “An upmarket B-and-B, then, but it's still a different market,” insists Mary. “I mean, when have you thought, Should I stay in a B-and-B, or Should I stay in a hotel? You might think, Should I stay in an expensive hotel or a cheap hotel? But not, Should I stay in a hotel or a B-and-B? It's a totally different experience.” She struggles on. “One is about being made to feel part of a family, part of someone's home, the other is about being part of nothing. You pay your money, you take your room, you use the facilities, and then you leave. That's it.”Mary smiles. “It's not competition. In fact, they could complement each other.”