Tuscany for Beginners

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “Here we go,” she says, her shoulders bracing slightly as she prepares to meet her public. She takes the large gray mouse in her pink-tipped hand and manages to make the e-mail icon work after a couple of attempts. “Go on,” she mutters, “work, you bastard.” The old machine whirls into action and dials. While she waits, Belinda notices that her Uffizi souvenir calendar is on the wrong month. She stands, changes it, and by the time she sits down at her desk again she has three new messages. She clicks on the first.

  “Dear Mrs. Smith,”it goes. Belinda does like a formal beginning to an e-mail. “My partner and I …”

  “No!” says Belinda, with a dismissive click of the mouse. “Partner,” she mutters at the screen. “What does that mean? Business or sexual? Partner … Honestly, whatever happened to the word boyfriend ?”

  She opens the next.

  Dear Mrs. Smith,

  We have long been planning a trip through Italy and are truly delighted to have stumbled upon your advertisement in the Spectator. Your house looks like just the perfect place for me and my friend Edith to pass a couple of idyllic days. We are both in our eighties and as Edith has just had her hip replaced we were wondering if stairs and access would be a problem. Edith can negotiate most things. It's just that a handrail goes a long way to alleviate her mobility problem….

  ” ‘Dear Veronica and Edith,’ “ sighs Belinda, “ ‘I'm afraid we have no facilities for the disabled, Yours Belinda Smith.’ Honestly,” she presses Send, “this is just too depressing. Do they seriously want me to turn my house upside down adding handrails so that Peg-leg Edith can jog up and down my stairs? Really!” She sighs as she clicks on to the third and final e-mail.

  Dear Ms. Smith

  [Belinda is not a fan of the “Ms.” form of address but she decides to overlook it just this once],

  We r 4 kids frm California on a grand tour of Europe. We r doin' France, Spaine and Italy and we were hopin 2 come 2 u're place some time in August. As we r students on a budget we r wondering if we cld get a discount for 4 of us. Yours fingers crossed:

  —Burt, Jenny, Adam, and JoJo.

  It takes Belinda a while to understand this message. The shorthand and spelling mistakes confuse her and their request for a discount astounds her. “Dear Burt, Jenny, Adam, and Jojo, Piss off, Yours Belinda Smith,”she writes, and is about to press Send when she thinks better of it.

  Dear Burt, Jenny, Adam, and Jojo,

  Sadly, due to the exclusive nature of my establishment, I cannot take tour parties. However, there is a place in the same valley— the Casa Padronale—that is also run by an American who I'm sure would be happy to accommodate you. Please find her details below.

  Yours, Mrs. Smith

  Belinda sits back, smiles, sends, and gets up from her chair. She turns on her Russell Watson CD and walks onto the terrace, stretching out her arms. Just as she is about to launch into the chorus of “Bridge over Troubled Water,” the telephone rings. Two short monotone blasts, and then it stops. Very odd, thinks Belinda. It keeps doing that. But Russell distracts her. The thought of his ‘laying himself down’ is enough to entertain any woman d'un certain âge, particularly since no one has done that for Belinda in a while. Well, more like three years. Or is it four? And does that time when she pinned the rather nice farmer from Cirencester up against the hall wall after too much grappa actually count? He did feel her breasts, after all?

  The telephone rings again.

  “I'll get it,” shouts Mary, sprinting down the stairs from her bedroom. “You carry on,” she says, sounding remarkably civil. “Pronto,” she sings. “Sì …Sì …certo.” She replaces the receiver.

  “Who was it?” calls Belinda, from the terrace.

  “Wrong number,” says Mary.

  “Really?” says Belinda, turning to look at her daughter.

  Mary seems different these days. It's not something she can put her finger on. But she definitely looks different. She looks shiny and glossy. Maybe it's just the tan.

  “It seems to be happening a lot recently.”

  “What does?” asks Mary, sounding distracted.

  “Wrong numbers.”

  “Oh,” says Mary, “no more than normal.”

  “I bet it's got something to do with the americana, ”says Belinda, her finger in the air.

  “Why do you say that?” asks Mary, looking at the floor.

  “Oh, all my problems stem from that cow,” says Belinda. “The whole festa committee has to meet at her house this afternoon. Quite what's wrong with Giovanna's or here, I have no idea. We've all got to troop down to her monstrosity of a place. Anyway”—Belinda smiles— “I got my own back this morning. I've sent on some more requests to her.”

  “Mum!”

  “What? I'm only helping her out, darling. We're full, and I was merely being a generous neighbor. The fact that they're Californian students on a budget is not my fault. I just thought she might like some fellow Americans.”

  “Honestly, Mum,” says Mary, shaking her head. “I'm going for a walk.”

  “Now?” says Belinda. “Is that a new top?”

  “It has to be worn some time.”

  “If you insist.” Belinda shrugs. “But you will say good-bye to the major? He and his wife are leaving in a while.”

  “I'm sure they won't notice if I'm not here,” she says, walking toward the door.

  “Don't be silly, Mary, the major's very fond of you.”

  “Yes, but I really must go.”

  “Have it your way,” says Belinda, with a wave of her hand. “I have more important things to think about.” She exhales. “I'm just glad you've found yourself a nice cheap hobby.”

  As Mary sets off on her walk with surprising enthusiasm, Belinda, faced with the departure of the major and the arrival of the Scottish couple later that afternoon, decides she needs to do something about her dearth of interesting guests. She telephones Howard. “Hello,” comes a hungover voice down the telephone.

  “Pronto, Howard. It's the Contessa here.”

  “Oh, hello, Belinda.”

  “I haven't woken you up, have I?” she asks. “It is eleven o'clock,” she justifies herself.

  “No,” says Howard. “I got up at six.”

  “You don't sound as though you've been up since six.”

  “Well, I tried to write some of my book, I drank a bottle of red wine, and I went back to bed. But I did get up at six, which was the main thing,” insists Howard, with all the logic of a seriously blocked author.

  “Good,” says Belinda. “So I did wake you?”

  “Technically, yes.” Howard yawns. “I was asleep. But I was awake earlier.”

  “Right,” says Belinda. “Anyway, I'm glad I've got you. I just wanted to pick your brains, ask un po d'adviso. ”

  “Okay,” says Howard. “I'm not sure how useful I'll be.”

  “Well, you see, I am looking to expand my client base,” she begins. “I do have most of my avenues covered, and, indeed, I'm booked up for the whole summer. In fact, I'm turning people away…. I'm busy, busy, busy.”

  “Ri-ight,” says Howard, thinking about opening another bottle of red wine just to get through this conversation.

  “The short of it is, Howard,” continues Belinda, sensing his waning attention, “I want to know what sort of magazines you read?”

  “Oh,” says Howard, evidently susprised by the question. “What magazines I read?”

  “Yes, Howard,” confirms Belinda. “I'm after the intellectual pound, Howard. Where do I find it?”

  “Interesting,” says Howard. “The intellectual pound, you say? One problem with intellectuals, Belinda, is that they tend not to have many pounds.”

  “Oh,” says Belinda, sounding terribly disappointed. “What, none?”

  “Not many, and certainly not many spare ones.”

  “Oh.”

  “'Fraid so.”

  “But they must holiday somewhere?”

  “At home.”

 
“All of them?”

  “Or with one another.”

  “Howard, you're being no help whatsoever.”

  “I'm sorry, Belinda, but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say.”

  “Give me the titles of the magazines you take, that's all.”

  “Well, that is also just it. Magazines are expensive, so I don't take many of those either.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I do subscribe to the TLS, ” he adds optimistically.

  “The TLS, ”repeats Belinda, jotting it down.

  “The Times Literary Supplement, ”says Howard.

  “I knew that,” she says.

  “Of course.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The New Humanist. ”

  “Oh?” says Belinda, not sounding terribly sure. “The New Humanist … What are humanists? Do I want humanists in my house?”

  “Ooh, I don't know,” says Howard. “They're terribly antiestablishment.”

  “Are they?” says Belinda. “Would that mean they'd be anti my establishment?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Well, in that case,” says Belinda, “any other magazines?”

  “Not really,” says Howard. “Razzle?”

  “Razzle?” repeats Belinda, jotting it down. “What sort of magazine is that?”

  “It's a gentlemen's magazine,” says Howard, trying to stifle his laughter.

  “Really?” asks Belinda, approving and intrigued. “That sounds perfect. What sort of gentlemen?”

  “Well …” Howard starts to laugh.

  “Howard Oxford!” trills Belinda. “Are you teasing me?”

  “I might be.” Howard giggles.

  “Well, in that case,” she says, “I'm hanging up.”

  “Oh, I'm sorry, Belinda,” he says. “I was just brightening an otherwise dull and frustrating morning.”

  “You creative types,” laughs Belinda. “Honestly!”

  “Yes, well …”

  “Am I seeing you later?”

  “What for?”

  “The festa meeting.”

  “Oh, Lord, that. I was thinking I might give it a miss. Deadlines and all.”

  “Oh, Howard, you can't,” remonstrates Belinda. “I need an ally.”

  “An ally?”

  “I mean a friend.”

  “But I am your friend. Derek and Barbara are your friends. We're all your friends.”

  “I would just like you particularly to come,” she says, childishly.

  “Whatever for?”

  “Just in case …”

  “In case of what?”

  “Oh, God,” she snaps. “Arguments, Howard, arguments. I'd like to be able to count on your support and loyalty. I'd like to know that you'll back me up.”

  “Right,” says Howard. “Um …”

  “So, will I see you later?” she asks.

  “I'll think about it.”

  “I'm counting on you, Howard,” she says. “I'll expect to see you there. Arrivadeary. ”

  “Arrivadeary,” replies Howard, his voice flat and resigned.

  he loud scraping sound of the major's suitcase being dragged up the stone stairs and into the hall announces the Chesters' departure.

  “Do, please, try to lift your suitcase, Major,”suggests Belinda, walking toward him with a pleasant smile and clutching her flowered visitors' book and matching pen. “It creates terrible wear and tear.”

  “Sorry, Belinda,” huffs the major, his face pink and sweaty. “It's all the pottery that Pat bought in Serrana market—it weighs a ton.”

  “Oh, really?” says Belinda. “Did she buy a lot of that blue-and-white stuff ?”

  “Judging by the weight of this thing, she bought the whole stall.”

  “Right,”says Belinda, with a tight little smile. “It's very popular with tourists.”

  “She showed you some of it the other day,” says the major.

  “Did she?” says Belinda, sounding suitably vague. “One tries to forget these things.”

  Pat appears behind the major, wearing her pistachio traveling slacks and matching floral blouse.

  “Careful with all the china, dear,” she says, blinking down at the suitcase.

  “Yes, all right, dear,” replies the major. “I've no idea why you had to buy so much.”

  “Anyway,” breezes Belinda, “do please sign the visitors' book.”

  “Oh, don't mind if I do,” says the major, putting down his suitcase. “It will be interesting to see what we wrote last year.”

  “Yes,” agrees Pat, following him to the small table in front of the mirror in the hall that Belinda keeps especially for signings.

  “Look,” says the major, leafing back through the collection of names, addresses, and little bons mots left by other guests. “Here we are.'Lovely house, lovely food, lovely swimming pool, lovely hostess—thank you, love Major and Mrs. Chester. P.S. Don't forget to buy some lovely pottery in Serrana Market!'”

  “Well, you haven't forgotten this year,” says Belinda.

  “No!” says Pat, letting off a clap of laughter. “I think we've made up for last time!”

  “Ye-es,” replies Belinda. “You certainly have.”

  “Oh, here's a good one,” says the major, still reading the book.” ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, this place is great, and so are you! Love Dave and Angela from Southampton. P.S. Go to the English-speaking restaurant in Poggibonsi.’ And further on down someone went there,” continues the major.” ‘Thanks for the tip, English-speaking restaurant great—good chips!’ That's great,” says the major, looking up at Belinda. “You should keep this book out all the time so people can look through it for little bits of information.”

  “Well, it's not really for the comfort and convenience of the guests,” says Belinda. “It's just a little record for me of who has been here and what they thought. I tend not to leave it out to be leafed through.”

  “Oh,” says the major, “but it would be good to know about things like the English-speaking restaurant.”

  “Oh,” says Belinda, sounding deeply disappointed. “I wouldn't have thought it was your sort of place, Major. A cultured man like you. Had I only known—”

  “No, no, perhaps you're right,” he says, and clears his throat. “Now, where would you like Pat and me to sign?”

  “Wherever you want, Major, but chop-chop,”she says, looking at her watch. “Ticktock, ticktock, it's almost twelve, and you really should be checked out and gone by now.”

  “Oh, gosh, is that the time? I think I'd better load up the car while Pat does the signing. Come along, Pat, here you go,” he says, handing over the flowered pen.

  The major marches back and forth, loading up the suitcases and various plastic bags, straining under the weight of retail.

  Pat bends down and, blinking rapidly behind her large spectacles, strains to think of something interesting or witty to say. “Oh dear,” she says, hunched over the desk, atrophied by her own creative indecision. “Hum …”

  “Just say something along the lines of ‘Thank you, I had a lovely time,’ “ says Belinda, arms folded as she leans against the wall, waiting, staring.

  “I'm sure I can come up with something a bit better than that.”

  “Yes, well, you'd better hurry up about it,” says Belinda. “If you'll excuse me, I really must get on. I have a meeting to attend this afternoon and more guests to welcome, and I have to organize Mary to sort out your room.”

  “Of course, you go ahead, dear, I won't be another minute here.”

  After a few more of Belinda's chivvying remarks and ticktock comments, the Major and Mrs. Chester leave. Their overloaded car crawls out of the drive, back up through the Mont Blanc tunnel, and on to the U.K. As Belinda stands on the steps, giving her special departing-returnee-with-a-ten-percent-discount wave (a gentle window-polishing movement she'd perfected that morning in the mirror) she wonders again whether she will bother to accept their reservation next year. After all, the C
hesters had been something of a disappointment. The major had been a lot less keen on Art than before. They had managed only two watercoloring sessions in total, and he had agreed to the second sortie only after much insisting on Be-linda's part. Also, last year he had certainly been a lot more racy and jovial. Belinda had quite fantasized about spontaneous clinches in various attractive and fecund spots around the house and its grounds, but the major had rather annoyingly proved to be all over his wife. Last year Mary had complained about the odd goosing, and he was still up to his old tricks, so his sex drive wasn't on the wane. It was most odd, Belinda thinks, and even a little irritating. What is the point of having the major to stay if he isn't going to flirt and paint with her? Surely she can't have imagined that he'd taken a shine to her the year before? No, those little looks, those little glances, they were definitely real. She walks back into the house and picks up the visitors' book, keen to see Pat's long list of platitudes. “Thank you, we had a lovely time,” it says. “Major and Mrs. Chester.”

  “I definitely need some more upmarket guests,” mutters Belinda, putting the book away in its special drawer. “That is the only way forward.”

  Walking back into the sitting room to scroll through some e-mails and work out a new plan, she hears the unmistakable crunch of fat tires on gravel as a car pulls up in the drive. Belinda sighs and tweaks her hair in the mirror. Then she rearranges her red, white, and blue skirt and white T-shirt as she steels herself to go outside. Her new guests are very early. How is she going to convey her irritation at their arrival, as well as maintain some sort of hostess meet-and-greet charm? She walks outside with a tight smile. “Buongiorno.”

  A wide grin suddenly cracks across her entire face, lighting it all the way up to her irises as she comes face-to-face with a large black Mercedes with smoked windows. The back right window lowers and a dark-haired, middle-aged man with a close haircut and sharp black spectacles pokes out his head. “Hello, buongiorno, ”he says, in a distinctly American accent. “I'm looking for Lauren McMahon's place. Do you know it? The new B-and-B place that's opened up around here?”

  “Come?” says Belinda, in her best Italian.

  “Lauren McMahon?” he says again. Belinda does her best to look puzzled. “Casa Padronale? Americano? ”