Page 28 of A Wedding in Tuscany

Wonderful. And by that, I mean bollocks.

Two hours and twenty-seven minutes after the Italian call centres open for business, we locate my garment bag. It’s in Milan at the baggage storage place in the airport. And it will cost €320 to have it sent to us?in a fortnight. Maths is not particularly my strong suit, but I do know that a fortnight from now will be after the wedding and after we have returned home.

Meanwhile?just in case that’s where it ended up being?Josh has been searching for round-trip tickets to Milan?fly up today, get the dress, fly back today?and at each result, he grimaces. The last-minute flights are either exorbitant or we can’t get there and back in less than four days. We can’t be stuck in Milan while our family and friends arrive and Sarah and Jaelee finalise the details of the wedding. Besides, I’d miss my hen’s.

‘How much to send it to London via slow boat?’ I quip to Jean-Luc. If I can’t wear my dress, then at least I can sell it to someone who can.

Jean-Luc presses his lips together in sympathy and asks the cost of sending it to London if it’s ‘non c’è fretta’?meaning there’s no rush. He covers the handset and says, ‘One-hundred-and-twenty euros and it will take …’ he shrugs, indicating that there is no clear indication of how soon I will receive my dress.

My dress! My perfect, perfect dress?the one Mich and I found after an exhaustive search comprising four full-day outings, nipping in and out of every bridal shop in Greater London, wearily wondering by the end of each day if I should settle for something ‘close enough’ and have it altered. When we finally found it, late afternoon on an unseasonably warm September Saturday?and at forty per cent off because it was last season’s design?I actually cried. Cream-coloured silk, lace overlay, plunging neckline to show off the girls, nipped at the waist, A-line to my ankles, and an exact fit for my petite frame, no alterations needed.

Utter perfection?if it wasn’t in Milan.

I nod at Jean-Luc and he gives them my name and address in London, then rattles off his credit card number by heart. I always have to look mine up, I think. Focusing on banal details is easier than admitting to myself that I only have a week to find a suitable replacement?and potentially get it altered?in a foreign country. Jean-Luc wraps up the call. ‘Ready?’ he asks.

‘I suppose. I’ll just text Sarah.’ She and Josh went on a walk around the castle grounds about an hour ago?no doubt a far more interesting pursuit than eavesdropping on our conversations with Italian call centres.

Our plan for the day, now that my dress has been located, is to head to San Gimignano, a walled city forty minutes from here that Sarah has been raving about. Once a tour manager, always a tour manager, I suppose. And, as it’s our last day with just the four of us before the hordes arrive, I’m more than happy to ‘mooch about’, as Sarah says, have what will undoubtably be a delicious lunch, and just soak up the ‘Italianness’.

I’ve also been promised gelato and I am so looking forward to drowning my sorrows in chocolaty goodness. ‘Catherine,’ says my soon-to-be-husband, head cocked in concern, ‘I would marry you even if you only wore a bedsheet.’

‘Is that an option?’ I ask, eyeing the bed linens.

He smiles before kissing my forehead. ‘Andiamo, chérie.’ He’s so clever, he can placate me in two languages.

‘This place … it’s sublime,’ I say as we emerge from a narrow street into a piazza. We’ve been wandering for more than half-an-hour now, accompanied by Sarah’s impressive tour manager-style commentary, and she was right?it is lovely just soaking up the Italianness. A thousand-year-oldItalianness, I remind myself. I feel a bit like I did when I was in Rome on that bus trip, suddenly struck by how much history surrounds me.

This place is practically drenched in it?the cobblestones, the irregular brickwork facades of some buildings, the (often patchy) rendering of others, plaster breaking away in places to reveal the bricks below, the arched doorways, and succinct rectangular windows, many with dark brown shutters that look almost painted on.

But I think I love the towers most of all. According to Sarah, they weren’t built until the 1300s?medieval skyscrapers built by rival families in a feudal race to assert their importance, surprisingly straight and true, a stark contrast to the brilliant blue sky and the wispy fluff of the clouds. She says there used to be more than seventy of them?they must have blocked out the sun!?but there are only fourteen now. Still, they make this town distinctive and sightseeing is just what I’ve needed to take my mind off THE DRAMA OF THE MISSING WEDDING DRESS.

Well, mostly, as it’s still there lurking behind the ‘ooh’s and ‘ahh’s?probably because Sarah has spent the past hour interspersing her commentary with intense gazes into shop windows?extremely unsubtle wedding dress shopping. Fruitless too, as you’d be hard pressed to find any kind of dress here. Leather handbags, absolutely. Ceramics, art, cured wild boar, definitely. But this town is hardly the epicentre of Italian couture.

‘Sarah, I love you,’ I say as she pauses in front of another shopfront, ‘but if you don’t stop that, I’m asking Mum to be my Maid of Honour.’

‘How very dare you!’ she says with mock indignation and we indulge a ‘we love all things Catherine Tate’ giggle. ‘Besides, it would be Matron of Honour. Hey …’ She grabs my hand and stops walking, letting the guys go on ahead. ‘What do you want to do about a dress?’

‘To be honest, I’m still a little numb, but Jae arrives tomorrow?and Mum and Dad. Maybe the four of us can go shopping the day after tomorrow.’

‘You want to take Dad shopping for a wedding dress?’ she deadpans. I roll my eyes and start walking again and she falls into step behind me. ‘You could wear mine if you wanted?it’s not exactly bridal but it could work. Maybe we can get someone in town to take it in.’

‘That’s sweet, Sez, but then what would you wear?’

‘How about that?’ she asks pointing to an apron hanging out the front of a tourist shop. It’s white with red piping and has a panorama of the town screen-printed across the bottom.

‘Right.’

‘No, hear me out. I buy two, and wear one in the front and one in the back. Very festive.’

‘Thanks for trying to make me feel better.’

‘We’ll find something, Cat, I promise. Something beautiful. Siena’s not far and they have some really nice clothing stores.’

‘Thank you. I’m sure you’re right,’ I say. Inside, I am less than confident. Just in case we don’t find anything suitable in the next six days, I texted Jaelee this morning. She and I wear the same size and she’s promised to bring a few of her dresses for me to try on. Jaelee’s clothes do lean towards ‘Miami clubwear’ but I suppose a sexy nightclub dress would be preferable to a homemade toga.

Ahead, in the centre of the piazza, Josh is taking photographs and Jean-Luc is looking about, just soaking it all in, his face tipped to the sun and a slight smile on his face. I know right in this moment that I would marry him if he were dressed in nothing but a bedsheet.

Perhaps that’s the solution?homemade togas all around. Come, one and all, dressed in your best bedsheet! Jane would think it a laugh, no doubt Cécile would find a way to look chic and sophisticated, just so she could rub my nose in how superior she is to me in every way, and Mum would pass out from the shock.

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