Tuscany for Beginners

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “Yes,” hisses Belinda, walking toward the french windows. “I am well aware of that.”

  Belinda swans upstairs and spends the rest of the day locked in her bedroom riffling through her wardrobe. Having her advances thwarted, and her painting trip more or less ruined, it has made her even more determined that her arrival at tonight's party is to go without a hitch.

  The role of uninvited guest is a difficult one to dress for, and she is determined to get it right. A little overdressed and there'll be the whiff of desperation—you look as if you've tried too hard. A little underdressed and you look as if you've caught yourself, as well as your hostess, unawares. So, something along the lines of smart, casual, and terribly relaxed is what she's after. Relaxed, of course, being the most important. She is, after all, arriving with an air of forgiveness. She is forgiving Lauren for leaving her off the list.

  So, Belinda spends the majority of the afternoon trying to work out which is the more forgiving color: green or purple? Green is too associated with that grubby emotion, jealousy, she thinks, and eventually plumps for purple. It's imperial, as well as relaxed, which, in Belinda's eyes, is such a winning combination. So, in the purple kaftan costume, she whistles with delight as she admires, in the hall mirror, the genius way in which she has wrapped the purple-and-gold-trimmed belt around her hair. It makes her head look like a boiled sweet.

  “Do you think this is a little too much?” she asks Mary, her large, beaded, chatty earrings swinging wildly.

  “Well …”

  “I don't want to dominate the proceedings.”

  “Right.”

  “I don't want to overshadow the americana 's party in the slightest,”she continues, “but occasionally one does have to look the part. And as far as I can remember Derek couldn't keep his hands off me when I last wore this.”

  “That was mainly because he'd drunk so much grappa after Barbara had gone home when she'd split her Aladdin hot pants up the back,” says Mary.

  “Lord! That was so embarrassing.” Belinda chortles at Bar-bara's humiliation. “I always said she was too overweight and middle-aged to play Aladdin.” She shakes her purple and gold head. “Honestly, the vanity of some people.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ooh, bella donna! Bella donna! ”says the major, on walking into the hall. “Two bella donna !”

  “Two belle donne, ” corrects Belinda. “Honestly, Major, have you made no progress at all in your Italian since last year?” she asks with a small laugh. “But I have to agree with you that Maria has scrubbed up rather well.”

  “Sorry?” says Mary, rather taken aback by her mother's compliment.

  “But you do, darling, you do,” says Belinda, craning forward with a tight smile. She takes her daughter's hand. “You and me together tonight, darling, allies, partners in crime!”

  In a ruby-red top with a low drawstring neck and a tiered black skirt, Mary has scrubbed up extremely well and looks like some exotic Spanish dancer. Her long, dark hair is smoothed off her face and clasped at the back of her neck with a red flower. It is a simple and beguiling combination. The major can't resist giving her backside a squeeze as he walks by.

  “So,” continues Belinda, “I think we deserve a couple of drinks before we go, don't you, Maria, to get the show on the road, so to speak?”

  Three gin and tonics and a short drive later, they arrive at the Casa Padronale to find the party in full swing. Mary pulls up on the smooth stone drive, alongside a line of cars already tucked on the verge. The sound of a jazzy trumpet calls them toward the house.

  “I've never seen so many cars in the valley,”says Belinda, teetering along in a pair of gold sandals.

  “It's amazing, isn't it?” agrees Mary, as she breathes in the warm evening air and gazes up at the young stars shining in the clear dark blue sky. “Look! Howard's here—there's his car. And so are Derek and Barbara and …” She pauses. “Is that the Bianchis' Panda?”

  “I don't know, darling,” says Belinda, looking down her short nose at the dusty, rusty car. “She can't have invited them, surely.”

  The jazz grows louder as they approach the house. Despite the large tracts of torn-up earth where the construction vehicles have been driving back and forth, the house and the land surrounding it look amazingly presentable for having just undergone such a dramatic refurbishment.

  “I see she's bought the garden center,” says Belinda, remarking on the line of ten terra-cotta pots full of red geraniums outside the house and the new row of cypresses along the drive. “She's even shipped in a few olives. Has she got money to burn?”

  “The front looks lovely,” says Mary, staring at the new shutters, the clever use of old tiles on the new roof, and the shiny copper gutters.

  The front door is open, so they walk in. The hall is white. In the middle there is a long plain wooden table with a large stone bowl on it containing water, rose petals, and floating scented candles. Through another large open door to the right they can see an expansive four-poster bed of unvarnished oak, made up with crisp white linen and covered with a couple of pashmina shawls. Belinda and Mary carry on through in silence. Mary is on tiptoe, as if she's about to burgle the place, and even Belinda is feeling a touch reticent. The music grows louder as they go through the next door. They both stop.

  “Oh, my God,” says Belinda, eventually. “She's knocked out nearly the entire ground floor.”

  Mary can only stare at the stunning open-plan kitchen, sitting room, and dining room area. “It's enormous,” she says, eyes shining.

  “It's very un-Italian,” says Belinda.

  The white space is huge. The kitchen is made up of wooden free-standing units, including a butcher's block, shelves, and cupboards that flank a catering-size steel cooker with eight rings. Pots, pans, and strings of garlic hang from hooks in the ceiling. Opposite stands a long wooden table, capable of seating twenty with an eclectic collection of chairs, all made from the same wood, around it. There are three large bowls on the table filled with a similar water, rose petals, and candles combination as they saw in the hall. The whole room is lit by small candles— they grace nearly every flat surface. They cover the wooden tables at either side of the fat cream sofas. They run the length of the bookshelves, and they are also along the edge of the terrace outside.

  Inside, the jazz competes with the noise of the guests, who are sitting on the chairs and sofas. Mary recognizes the majority of the Bianchi family at the long table. The parents, the brothers, and their wives are sitting down talking animatedly, but Gianfranco is nowhere to be seen.

  “Good God! The Bianchis are here,” sighs Belinda, walking over to the line of Prosecco bottles on the side in the kitchen. “I think I need a drink.”She picks up a flute and takes the dregs from three empty bottles to fill her glass. There is a blue bowl of small eggs on the side. “Good Lord,”says Belinda, curling her nose. “What are they?”

  “Quails' eggs,” says Mary. “Don't you think we should find our hostess?”

  “Quite right,” says Belinda, taking a large sip of her flat fizz.

  Outside, blue fairy lights are glinting in the trees, and bamboo flares light the garden paths. A four-piece band is playing to the left of a collection of small tables covered with candles and white cloths. About fifty people are talking, laughing, drinking, and dancing.

  Standing on the terrace in her purple ensemble, Belinda is nothing if not conspicuous.

  “Contessa!” shouts Derek from his table, where Barbara and Howard are sitting. He stands up to give her a large wave. “Over here!”

  Belinda raises her glass an inch and gives a small wave back. As she surveys the party, offering little smiles and waves to Giovanna and Roberto's table, which also contains her hairdresser from Serrana, Belinda notices a tall blonde figure in a white cotton dress approaching her. It is Lauren, and she is coming at speed.

  “Betina!” she says.

  “Lauren! Dear!” says Belinda. “How lovely to see you. What an amazing
party!”

  “How amazing to see you here,” replies Lauren, putting her hands on her hips, her toned arm blocking the way.

  “It is so lovely of you to invite me,” says Belinda, taking a sip of her drink and smiling over her hostess's shoulder. “You remember my daughter?” she adds, pushing forward a reluctant Mary.

  “Yes … I remember your daughter,” replies Lauren, looking at Mary with a warm, sympathetic smile.

  “Anyway, we're thrilled to be here,” continues Belinda, still looking over Lauren's shoulder.

  “But you weren't invited,”says Lauren, in a low but perfectly audible voice.

  “Oh, I know,” agrees Belinda, giving Lauren's white shoulder a little shove with her hand. “I've made the same mistake myself.” She nods, her eyes rolling. “Anyway, just in case you're worried,” she leans forward to whisper in Lauren's ear, “I forgive you. I mean, what's a little invitation between friends?”

  “There you are!” blusters Derek, edging between them. “We've been wondering where you were, Belinda. The invitation said six!” he chortles. “Trust you to be fashionably late. You'll learn this, Lauren,” he says, turning to his hostess, “about Belinda, when you get to know our little gang properly. She's always fashionably late, but, then, she's such a fashionable per-son.”He places a hand on each of her shoulders. “You look fantastic, dear. Fantastic. Don't you think so, Lauren?”

  “Yes,”says Lauren, eyeing Belinda up like a prize heifer in an agricultural show. “I'd say you look truly fantastic.” She smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes. She leans forward and whispers, in Belinda's ear, “Very brave.” Before she sashays away, she adds, “Have a nice evening, Betina.”

  “Oh, Betina! That's a good nickname.” Derek chuckles. “Haven't heard that before. Come along, Betina—”

  “Belinda,” hisses Belinda.

  “Oh, right.” He stands corrected. “Come along! Barbara and Howard are keen to see you.” Putting his arm around Belinda, Derek weaves her through the party, while Mary follows behind, eyes scanning the crowd, looking out for Gianfranco.

  “Sit down, sit down,” says Barbara, her large blue eyes round with excitement, a heavy golden bangle shining in the candlelight. “Honestly, Belinda,” she enthuses, “can you believe such a party? Can you believe the house? It's so stunning, so beau-tiful. We've never seen anything like it in Val di Santa Caterina! Oh, have you seen the food? She's got these little yummy things. … Have you seen the band? Have you seen the decorations? Have you seen all the champagne?”

  “It's Prosecco,” says Belinda.

  “I know but, really,” Barbara draws breath, “this is the best party I've ever seen in this valley. Ever. Howard agrees with me. Don't you, Howard?”

  “Absolutely,” says Howard, his eyes almost closed with intoxication.

  “You've got to admit, Belinda,” Derek leans back in his chair, “this … this is better than any party any of us has ever given.”

  “Well, technically, I've never actually given a party,” says Howard.

  “Well, neither of us, then,” continues Derek. “I mean, you haven't done anything like this, have you, Belinda?”

  “I have also never painted over frescos like her either,” pronounces Belinda, pouring herself some more Prosecco from the bottle on the table.

  “Has she?” says Barbara, popping an anchovy toast into her mouth. “Mmm, oh, my God, that's delicious. Belinda, have one.”

  “Yes. She's actually painted over the whole thing. Even though those Bell' Arti art police had to come and stop her.”

  Belinda goes on to explain Lauren's cultural vandalism to a distracted and disinclined audience.

  ary is bored. The evening is young, the stars are shining, and the jazz is so beguiling that she is almost tempted to go and dance on her own. But instead she sits, taps her feet, sips her Prosecco, and stares at those on the dance floor. Giovanna and Roberto are trotting around the floor together looking like an old couple still very much in love. Belinda's hairdresser looks as if she can really move, as can Kyle. In a white shirt and jeans with bare feet, he is twirling one of the Bianchi daughters-in-law around as if her life depended on it. Mary watches him. He is laughing and smiling, making giant gesticulating gestures with his hands as he talks in Italian. The girl is smiling back at him. Mary smiles, too. She scans the crowd again for any sign of Franco. They hadn't talked of the party earlier when they met in Serrana, but now, having seen his whole family here, she is sure he must be, too.

  Suddenly there's a rustling in the bushes behind them. Derek turns around. “What the heck?” he says.

  “Bloody hell,” says Howard, trying to focus.

  There's more noise and, from the darkness, a tall dark figure appears. It's Franco. His open-necked black shirt is unbuttoned, his smooth, toned stomach shines in the candlelight, his dark hair is ruffled. He looks so handsome that Mary has to dig her nails into her palm to stop herself from making a noise.

  “Signore,” he says, his lips curling into a smile as he bows and clicks his heels together.

  “Hello, Franco,” say Belinda, Barbara, and Mary in unison, as they all smile and stare.

  “It is a very nice evening,” he states.

  “Yes.” All three women nod.

  There is some more rustling, and out pops a pretty girl with long, dark, curly hair. Her head is down as she stands posting her round bosoms back into her white, front-loading bra.

  “Oh, Dio!” she says as she looks up, shocked to find she has an audience. “Um. Buona sera, ” she adds.

  All three women at the table deflate like punctured party balloons.

  “Buona sera.” Franco nods as he takes her hand and they giggle off into the darkness.

  “The Italians are incorrigible,” says Belinda, draining her glass. “The things we've done for that boy and look how he behaves.”

  “I know,” says Barbara.

  “We have him in our houses.”

  “I know,” nods Barbara. “I mean, we employed him only the other day. Yesterday—”

  “Excuse me.” Someone taps Mary's shoulder.

  She turns around. “Kyle,” she says, startled.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  “Who? Me?”

  “No, your mother.” He laughs. “Of course you.”

  “Oh, um …” Mary hesitates.

  “Please,” he smiles. “I don't often beg.”

  “Oh, okay, then,” says Mary, standing up. “I'm not very good.”

  “Neither am I,”he lies, putting his hand into the small of her back, directing her toward the dance floor. He weaves her expertly through the tables and the crowd, taking her hand as they reach the dance floor. As they stand opposite each other, the music moves up tempo. “I love this one.” He nods in time to the music. “Are you ready?” Mary smiles. “Just follow me.”

  For a man who is really rather good at everything, Kyle is particularly good at dancing. He steps forward, takes hold of her waist in one hand, then turns and twirls her in time to the music. Mary is nervous at first, hesitant and unsure, but Kyle is so certain of his moves that all she needs to do is relax and feel the music flow through her. Within a couple of minutes they have created quite a space on the dance floor, as people move back and out of their way. Others stand at the edge tapping their feet or clapping along as they watch. Kyle's dark hair and wide smile catch the light as he spins Mary around the floor. At the end of the song, just as the trumpet reaches its crescendo, he holds her up in the air, catching her back in his arms on the final beat. As they stand cheek to cheek, breathing heavily, Mary can feel the heat of his body and his heart beating against her own chest.

  “Thank you,” says Kyle, pulling her away from him. “That was great.” He bends down to kiss her cheek. “You dance quite well.”

  “No.” Mary laughs. “You dance extremely well. I was putty in your hands.”

  “Well, you make mighty fine putty,” he says. “Do you fancy a drink?”

&
nbsp; “That would be lovely,” says Mary, following him to a table.

  “Stay here,” he says. “What would you like?”

  “A glass of Prosecco would be nice.”

  “Some bubbles it is, then.” He points a finger at her. “And don't you dare move!”

  He runs off up the stairs into the kitchen. Mary smooths her hair and gazes into the crowd. Suddenly she sees Franco, sitting with his brothers at another table. He is full of sexual swagger, his arm draped around the dark, round-breasted girl. They are laughing and talking loudly, his right hand wanders lazily down her top and plays with her bosom. She doesn't say anything, but every so often he pulls her toward him and puts his tongue into her mouth. Mary rests her chin in her hands and stares. Did Franco like her? Or was he just leading her on? Playing with her like a cat with a mouse? Had the whole flirtation been in her head?

  “Here you go—one glass of bubbles,”says Kyle, sitting down opposite her and blocking her view of Franco. “Are you okay?”

  “Thank you, I'm fine,” says Mary, sitting up straight.

  “Oh, you looked deep in thought.”

  “No, I'm fine,” she insists. “Thank you. To your new house,” she says, changing the subject.

  “To our meeting,” says Kyle, clinking glasses.

  “To our meeting and your new house.” Mary smiles, taking a small sip of Prosecco.

  eanwhile, on the other side of the party, Belinda has finished off a whole bottle of Prosecco and, with the resultant conversation, her three friends.

  “What the rest of the comune thinks about her painting over the frescos I dread to think,” she says, her chin up as she tries to look out from underneath her head wrapping. “It is part of our heritage, you know. I did tell them she was American.…”

  “Well, most of the comune is here.” Barbara points with a square-tipped index finger. “And none of them seem to mind.”

  “She's winning over their hearts and minds with champagne,” says Howard, helping himself to another glass. “She's given them a shock-and-awe party with some hearts-and-minds canapés. The woman's a genius.” He laughs. “And a rather attractive genius as well.”