Page 27 of A Wedding in Tuscany

‘Hello! Um, are you are the flat?’

‘Yes, just got home. What’s up?’

‘We’ve gone and left my bloody wedding dress in London!’ Jean-Luc sits next to me and our eyes meet, his hopeful.

‘Oh, not to worry, I’ll bring it with me. Where is it? In your wardrobe.’

‘Yes,’ I say, sounding more convinced than I am.

‘So, how is it?’

‘How’s what?’

‘Italy?’

‘Um, yes, lovely.’ I could be on the moon right now and not want to talk about how amazing it is that I’m here.

‘Right, I’m in your room …’ she says commentating as I hear her moving hangers about in the wardrobe. ‘Hmm.’

‘Hmm? That doesn’t sound good.’

‘Um, Cat, I’ve checked all the way through the wardrobe?twice?and the back of the door. Hang on, you didn’t put it in Alex’s old room, did you?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I say, my voice steeped in panic.

‘I’ll check.’ She’s on the move again and moments later, she says, ‘I’m so sorry, love, it’s not here.’ Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. ‘Did you leave it on the plane?’

‘Um, not sure … I’ll let you know. I’ve got to go.’ I hang up on Jane and look at the three stricken faces watching me, Sarah’s eyes filled with sympathy.

Oh, my god. Where the fuck is my fucking wedding dress?

Things you cannot do of an evening in Italy: contact an Italian airline’s baggage department, an Italian airport’s luggage storage department, an Italian shuttle bus service, or an Italian rental car company’s service desk.

I know this because we tried.

Sarah and Josh scoured websites?mostly written in Italian?for the phone number of a customer service team, then I’d dial and hand the phone to Jean-Luc so as not to torture the Italians with my extremely poor Italian. Another thing to chastise myself about. I have known for months that I would be here and did I learn more than the basics? No, I did not!

Each time Jean-Luc made his way through the automated menus?‘Press one for panicky brides who may or may not have left their wedding dress at our place of business’?he would hang up and say we had to call in the morning.

Four phone calls, zero progress. ‘Mon amour, we will call first thing tomorrow and find your dress, d’accord?’

I sit heavily on the bed, having worn myself out entirely with thirty frantic minutes of pacing. ‘D’accord,’ I say.

‘Why don’t you have that shower, then come join us on the balcony?’ asks Sarah.

They’re all looking at me, practically willing me to adopt a stiff upper lip approach, which makes sense as I can do nothing about this situation. However, I may have lived in England for fifteen years and I may sound like an Englishwoman, but my upper lip is decidedly limp and all I want to do is crawl into bed and cry.

Tuscany, Tuscany, Tuscany, I remind myself.

‘All right,’ I say instead. The relief in the room is so palpable, it’s like watching the air release from a bouncy castle.

Sarah disappears outside then immediately returns with a bright blue can of Aerogard, which she tosses onto the bed. ‘And you’ll need that,’ she says, ‘the mozzies are brutal.’

‘What?’ Josh and Jean-Luc have made themselves scarce?probably desperate to get away from the emerging Bridezilla?and Sarah just smiles at me pityingly.

‘Yeah. It’s beautiful here, but the mozzies are so big, they need landing gear. I read it on Trip Advisor.’ As my mind struggles to grasp what this will mean for the rest of our stay, including my wedding, she adds, ‘Don’t worry I brought four cans. We’ll be right.’

We may very well ‘be right’, but it looks like I may be walking down the aisle?if there is one, as that is another detail I have left to my sister and mother?wearing nothing more than fancy undergarments and heels and smelling like citronella!

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