Page 50 of My Fake Italian Marriage

Rephrasing the question in English didn’t help her any. How was Cleo supposed to answer that? “No, I’m here for business” or “No, I’m married to Luca Fioravanti”? Even thinking about telling such a big lie to a stranger made her want to break out in hives, so she mumbled something about “my friend Sarah.” Her cheeks must be crimson. Would lying ever get easier?

Unconcerned by the indistinct reply or the sudden rush of heat in her face, the woman gave her sweaty clothes a quick glance. “If you’ve been running, you need something more filling for breakfast than a fewcornetti.” She added a couple ofsfogliatelle, the shell-shaped pastries filled with orange-flavoured custard, and a few round, crispy pies dusted with icing sugar that looked to Cleo rather like English mince pies.

“Pasticciotto Leccese,” the woman explained. “They are cream-filled pastries from the region of Puglia. They are our specialty. We have been making these for three generations, since our grandfather came here from Lecce.” She smiled warmly and nodded over her shoulder at the man rolling out dough in the kitchen behind her, the same man Cleo had seen opening the bakery with her earlier. “I am Mirella, and that is my brother Michele.”

Cleo smiled back. “I’m Cleo. And thank you, these look delicious.” Though the box was loaded with more carbs, sugar and cream than she usually allowed herself in an entire month, she figured she’d earned a treat with that hill climb. There weren’t many hills her side of London, and her legs were already feeling the workout.

Luca was in the kitchen when she let herself into the apartment. He grinned at the sight of the box. “You’ve met the twins, I see.” He opened the box and gave a moan that sounded decidedly sexual. “Pasticciotto, my favourite!” The heated look he swept over her felt just as sexual. “Take a shower, and I’ll make us cappuccinos.”

* * *

Despite her reservations about living with Luca, it was surprisingly easy to fall into a new, and rather pleasant, routine. Every morning, as the sun rose, turning the sky from blue to pink and bringing colour and life to the landscape, she explored the surrounding countryside, the white dirt roads dotted with farmsteads, olive groves, wheat fields and terraced vineyards, running through the gently rising and falling landscape criss-crossed by streams and mule tracks. At that time of day, the area felt unspoiled and quiet, and she was completely alone, apart from the occasional hare or roe deer, and once even a fox which she startled out of the scrub.

In London, she ran with earbuds in her ears, playing music to block out the never-ending traffic noise, but here she listened instead to the birds’ dawn chorus, interrupted by the occasional crowing of a farm rooster.

Before returning to Luca’s little house sandwiched into its street of other narrow houses, she stopped at the bakery where Michele and Mirella were setting out the first pastries and breads fresh from the oven. By the second day, they’d heard through the town gossip mill that she was Luca’s new “wife”, and had a box ready and waiting, including Luca’s regular order ofpane Toscano, the round, soft, unsalted local bread.

“Tell him we’ll give him a bigger one than usual from now on,” Mirella said with a mischievous grin, “since he is no longer eating alone.”

As if Luca usually ate alone. Cleo didn’t quite believe that.

Since she couldn’t bear to disappoint the twins by explaining that she didn’t eat bread, she accepted the loaf and ducked out before her blush grew any brighter.

While she showered, Luca made them frothy cappuccinos, which they enjoyed together on his sunny balcony, the neighbour’s black cat twisting around their legs in hope of scraps. Unlike Cleo’s usual morning rush standing in the kitchen to eat a hurried bowl of muesli and low-fat yoghurt before joining the flood of commuters on the tube train heading into the city, there was no sense of urgency here. They took their time, until Luca, finished with his breakfast, would change from sweatpants into trousers and a button-up shirt and head to his office for a couple of hours.

Once, she went with him to the suite of rooms he kept above a bank, and was introduced to his assistant, a motherly, grey-haired woman who made such a fuss of her that Cleo felt overwhelmed with guilt. Discovering that her colleagues had absorbed much of her workload while she was on “holiday”, she instead spent the hours while Luca worked exploring the hidden corners of the town, the churches and squares, cobbled streets and bell towers, all unchanged since the Middle Ages, and everywhere she looked, the enotecas, or wine bars, selling the local Brunello wines.

Later in the morning, Luca drove them to the vineyard where they worked side-by-side in Giovanni’s office. One afternoon, Silvio took her around the farm, teaching her about the Sangiovese grapes they grew, explaining how the vines were fertilised, mulched, irrigated and kept pest free in an environmentally friendly way. In the winery, he and Luca showed her how the wines were pressed and stored. Luca knew an impressive amount about winemaking for someone who claimed to have little interest in it.

That buzz of excitement she felt whenever a company she worked with turned a corner because of something she’d done—a buzz she hadn’t experienced in months, maybe even years—began to hum again.

A few evenings of the week, she accompanied Luca to his football practice on the field beside thefortezza, the fourteenth century fortress with its imposing medieval walls which dominated the town. She met his teammates, among them boyishly energetic Federico with his distinctive mop of dark curls, Niccolò, the earnest school teacher, and Yassine, the tall Tunisian who worked as a nurse at the town’s nursing home.

Luca played football in the same hell-for-leather style he drove, his entire focus on the play around him. As much as Cleo enjoyed watching him – especially watching him in a pair of shorts and a body-moulding tee-shirt – there was only so much football practice a girl could take without getting bored, so she was delighted to be introduced to Niccolò’s Swiss girlfriend, Gigi, the blonde waitress from Bruno’s restaurant on the piazza. They spent the first half hour of their new friendship drooling over the footballers, before slipping away from the field to anenotecain Via Ricasoli, to sample local wines. Another new routine Cleo could seriously get used to, especially since the owner knew Luca’s favourites, and every time she walked out with an armload of bottles.

Most evenings, before dinner, she and Luca joined thepasseggiata, ambling slowly through the streets to socialise with the town’s residents. They strolled uphill to thecentro storico, the historic heart of Montalcino, past the town hall and the bell tower, past stores where the shopkeepers stood in the doorways passing the time with their neighbours, past the pizzerias and restaurants slowly filling with customers and a burgeoning number of tourists.

Gone were the day’s work clothes, as everyone dressed for the occasion, except the tourists in their shorts and day packs, who stood out from the crowd like the scarecrows her brothers made for her father’s vegetable fields. She hadn’t realised how isolated she’d grown living in London, until she walked down a street where people stopped to talk with one another, to share the stories of their everyday lives, until she’d lived in a place where making eye contact and smiling at someone wasn’t considered impolite.

Word had spread that the town’s most confirmed bachelor had brought home a wife, and everyone wanted to meet her, so even the shortest walk took an age. Since they were on show, Luca held her hand as they walked. Of course, it was all an act, and she couldn’t allow herself to enjoy it too much. Any of it. Because if she enjoyed this new life too much, she would miss it even more when she returned to London, where she barely recognised her neighbours and none of the store owners knew her name, despite the fact that she’d lived in the same neighbourhood for years.

When they returned to Luca’s house, he made dinner for them, accompanied by a background soundtrack of Italian pop music. Not only did he enjoy cooking, but he was really good at it. He spoiled her, insisting she relax with a glass of wine at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room while he moved around his compact kitchen with the same confident composure he did everything else. He made it look easy, making pastas and sauces from scratch, and chopping fresh vegetables like a professional. They ate on the balcony as the sun set, then lazed, sipping wine and watching the canopy of stars emerge. Luca taught her to recognise the flavours in the wines, to appreciate the heavier reds of the region, explaining the different grapes and blends of the wines they tasted. After the lights of the town slowly winked out one by one, they retreated to the living room to read or chat or watch football.

Cleo couldn’t remember when last she’d gone more than a few days without obsessively checking emails outside working hours or sitting on her laptop until the early hours of the morning. Who knew it could be so easy to establish a healthier work/life balance? When she returned home, she was definitely going to maintain this new habit of savouring life.

If she ignored the low, static buzz perpetually between them, it really was like living with a housemate, someone she could talk to and laugh with. She even got used to seeing Luca emerge from the shower, hair wet, with droplets running down his bare, tanned chest, a towel wrapped around his hips. Okay, “used to” was a slight exaggeration. The sight didn’t get any less enticing with regular exposure, but at least she was able to brush her teeth beside that glorious expanse of chest and abs without drooling.

Friday was Montalcino’s market day. While Luca met clients in his town office, she joined Sarah and Beatrice Rossi to browse the market stalls on Viale della Libertà, sampling cheeses and breads, and buying basketfuls of fresh vegetables and fruit. She recognised many of the locals from their evening “visiting hour”, and they all wanted to stop and say hello. As Beatrice translated, and Cleo found herself embraced and kissed on both cheeks by a never-ending parade of people, she had to be careful not to catch Sarah’s eye. Her friend found this all far too entertaining.

“Marriage suits you.” Sarah nudged her as they surveyed a dizzying variety of pecorino, the famous sheep’s milk cheeses from Pienza. “You’re glowing.”

“Am not,” Cleo retorted. “It’s the new tan I’m acquiring in the Italian sun, that’s all.”

Beatrice’s eyes widened. “You are not happy being married to Luca?”

Cleo laughed. “Oh no! I’m very happy.” And she was. Sure, their relationship lacked a few of the basic essential ingredients of a proper marriage, but it was fun to play-act at being part of a couple. Maybe this was as close as she’d get to the real thing, in which case it was nice to be able to say she’d experienced it. She could tick “being married” off her bucket list.

Past Beatrice’s shoulder, Cleo spotted a woman at a neighbouring stall eyeing them intently. The woman was curvy, with an abundance of long, dark hair, dressed in heels and a figure-hugging dress of Tiffany blue, and she carried herself with the poise and sex appeal of a vintage movie star. Though Cleo was sure they hadn’t yet met, the woman nodded once to acknowledge her, before turning away to pay for her basket of fresh vegetables.

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