Page 25 of A Wedding in Tuscany

‘Right, of course!’ he replies. ‘Other than daytime, my internal clock has no idea what time it is.’

‘I’m starving,’ I whine. Cat turns around and tuts at me. ‘All very well for you?having lunch in Milan.’

‘At the airport,’ she retorts.

‘Still counts,’ I mutter, aware that I’m being bratty. It’s just that travel weariness has hit hard and even though my outside feels refreshed?and recently ravished?I am dangerously close to a low blood sugar episode. I’m already lightheaded. I check my watch, which I set to Italian time just before we landed. 3:38pm. Twenty-two minutes until siesta officially ends. I can wait that long?I’ll have to.

‘Let’s just explore the town, then stop for something to eat,’ says my sister sensibly.

‘Sounds good.’ Josh is being diplomatic, I’m sure of it?his stomach just growled.

Just ahead, off to the left, is a wide street?almost a square of sorts and it screams, ‘I am in Tuscany!’ There’s an unspoken agreement to stop and take it all in?the red-bricked monument in the middle of the street, surrounded by park benches; the double clock tower on one of the buildings, one clock set to the correct time and the other, well, not; the cream and white facades of the buildings, most with painted window shutters and some with Juliet balconies; and that pristine-looking church that’s tucked away just off the road. It’s a ‘pinch me’ moment and my hunger is instantly forgotten.

I’ve travelled to Italy many times before and all bar one of those trips was while leading coach tours. A ‘simple walk into town’ took precision planning and a vigilant eye on my tour group. Fifty people?even adults?can get themselves into all sorts of trouble while travelling through Europe, particularly 18–35s from the UK, Australia, and the US. I would spend most of my time corralling them off the roads and shushing them so the locals didn’t get pissed off.

But this? This is me and my favourite people soaking it all in. I am in ITALY! We keep walking, now descending further into the town, the street getting narrower.

‘Hey, Sez?’

‘Mmm?’ I tear my eyes from the buildings surrounding us and Cat is pointing to Pizzico, a trattoria and enoteca across the way, just past the next crossroad. I look before crossing the streets and run up to the front door which is gated. It’s a tiny establishment but from what I can see, this is the place where we will eat?so many most exquisite wares pack the shelves. I turn to the others, who’ve caught up, and grin.

‘And it opens in twenty minutes,’ says Josh pointing to the sign, a sandwich board written in chalk.

‘Let’s explore some more, then come back,’ I say excitedly.

Our exploration reveals a large town square?actually, more of a town oval?with shaded park benches around the outside facing inwards and one side blocked off to traffic. There is a gelato stand but it’s shuttered at the moment. Mmm, gelato?maybe after we eat proper food. We do a circuit of the town oval, take a short detour down a side street, finding the supermarket, then meander back to our trattoria.

We arrive five minutes before opening, but a smiling woman sees us through the window and unlocks the door, then the large gate, swinging it open. ‘Buonasera, signori,’ she says beckoning us in. When the four of us step inside, joining her and a man who I’m guessing is her husband, the tiny place is now chockers.

As I’d seen through the window earlier, so are the shelves and display cases. I could happily live off the contents of this shop for months. Cat and I immediately start exchanging exclamations. ‘Oh, my god, Sarah, look at this?how good does this look?’ ‘Yeah but look at this.’ ‘Oh, we have to get some of that! And some of that.’ It occurs to me that the guys are watching us amused and this time, it’s my stomach that rumbles loudly.

Right?shopping for treats to take back to the castle can wait. ‘Can you ask about the menu?’ I say to Jean-Luc, our appointed linguist, in a loud whisper. He nods at me.

‘Buonasera, signora. Un tavolo per quattro, per favore?’ he asks. Now, it could be because his Italian accent is so good or that Jean-Luc looks like a French film star, but our hostess bats her eyelashes at him, grins, then hands over a single sheet of heavy stock paper and indicates the small seating area outside. And in the nicest way possible, she shoos us out of the shop just as an older couple appears at the door. We situate ourselves around a tiny metal table and Jean-Luc graciously lets me and Josh read the menu first?except it’s written in Italian and I only understand every fifth word?well, tenth.

Josh sits back in his seat, defeated. ‘I can read it to you,’ says our linguist.

‘Please,’ replies Josh. ‘You’d think that four years of high-school Spanish would at least help,’ he adds.

‘The Latin language thing?’ I ask.

‘Yeah.’

‘It is my pleasure.’ Jean-Luc reads the short menu to us and by the time the signora comes to the table to take our order, he rattles it off and adds a large bottle of acqua frizzante. Ooh, I know that one!

‘You know Jaelee, my friend who’s coming to the wedding?’ Cat says to Josh. I don’t correct her by adding that Jaelee has actually helped plan it.

‘Yeah. She’s dating Alistair, the Scottish guy, and they’re flying in from Edinburgh, right?’

‘That’s the one?well, when we were on our trip together, that bus trip a few years ago?all the way through Italy, she just spoke Spanish to everyone. Unapologetically.’

‘Hah!’ laughs Josh. ‘That’s awesome.’

‘And that worked?’ I asked.

‘It worked. They’d speak Italian back to her and she’d have whole conversations with people.’

‘That’s impressive,’ says Josh, though Jean-Luc is shaking his head and smiling. ‘Well, not as impressive as speaking eight languages,’ he says to Jean-Luc.

‘It is only four?fluently, that is.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ They share smiles across the table and I love this so much. I must savour these moments?especially the moments with just the four of us. In two days, wedding guests will start arriving and by the end of the week, we will be a party of sixteen?including our mum, who can be a little intense sometimes, and Jean-Luc’s nasty sister, Cécile. I’m positive that Cat and I will be running interference for each other so intensely and intently, we’ll be ready for our rugby jerseys by the time we return to our respective homes.

And that’s another thing … I really need to get my sister alone at some point, because she and Jean-Luc still haven’t told us where the matrimonial home will be. Yes, really. There’s dating long distance and there’s being married and living in different countries.

But every time I’ve brought it up?and I mean every single time?Cat gets cagey. Is she just letting Jean-Luc think they’re going to live in his flat in Paris? Because she’s told me that’s a no-go?though she’s never explained why. I mean, who doesn’t want to live in Paris? Well, okay, there’s visiting Paris and soaking up all the gorgeousness, and moving there. I’ll admit, those two experiences are probably quite different. And Cat’s French language skills are, well, rudimentaire at best, even now. Or maybe they’ve decided on London and are going to announce it at the wedding as a surprise. Who knows?! (And she knows I hate surprises.)

Cat’s flatmate, Jane, may know. If I can’t get Cat to tell me soon, I’ll corner Jane when she arrives and weasel it out of her.

Signoraappears with our plates of food, and my sardines and crusty bread and fresh salad look and smell so amazing, I think I may cry (again). Serious life discussions can?and must?wait when there is good food to be had. In Italy!

---