The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy) (8 page)

The Cantellis had met the Bettarinis at a wedding in Boston a few months after they’d immigrated. You know, those big Italian weddings
à la
Godfather
where there’s enough food for even the relatives still living in Italy? One of those. And then, amidst the singing, the dancing and the food, boy’s eyes meet girl’s. Only this time it was a bit more complicated.

The girls were four—Marcy and her three younger sisters, Maria, Martina and Monica. And my father was so blown away that he couldn’t decide which he liked best. I know that because once I found a picture of a beautiful young Bettarini brunette in his wallet and when I asked which one of my aunts it was, he almost had a fit. I think he was secretly in love with one of them but for the life of me I couldn’t understand which of the belles it was. They were all beautiful and classy and above all, smart—something Marcy wasn’t.

The picture was not clear and the four of them were almost exactly alike, with their lustrous thick dark hair, ivory skin, naturally full lips and innate class, the youngest and the eldest being ten years apart, sort of like a live demonstration of a camera speeding up through the years, taking you through each phase or season of life, the youngest with a fresh face, the oldest, my mom, bearing the knowing, sensual look. But as the years progressed, although Marcy was still gorgeous, it was obvious that she was the oldest of the four.

And because she was the oldest, she was the first in line to be married off. Which was good news to her because she hated living with her sisters. She still hates them today and for the life of me I can’t understand why. Judy once suggested it was because they reminded her of what she used to look like when she was young.

I’d given Judy a jab in the ribs to silence her, but it was too late. Marcy had already heard and had sulked all week, checking her appearance in the mirror more often than usual, which I always thought was an impossible feat.

My aunts were very close but they weren’t, as one might imagine, one entity. They all had different interests and personalities. The only thing they agreed on, in fact, was how to run a business and how great my dad was. They were in complete adoration of him. And when he’d chosen my mom, they’d all taken it in their stride, fawning on him and doing for us all the things Marcy couldn’t. There were never any hard feelings against him for not choosing one of them—just a wistful resignation that immediately amped up to enthusiasm whenever they were needed around the house, which was always. Because, as bright as Marcy’s beauty shone, it wasn’t strong enough to make the house sparkle.

After they married, Dad opened
Italian Gift
Store
. When it became obvious that Marcy wasn’t much help behind a counter,
Nonna
Silvia stepped in and invested some of her Tuscan money in the shop.
Nonna
and Dad became equal partners and grew and grew until we were the best-known and most-trusted Italian shop in all of Little Italy and Boston.

Which was great for them. But all my life I’d wanted to reverse family history, buy a farmhouse, open a B&B and be my own boss. Whenever I spoke my mind, Marcy said that it was selfish of me to nullify all the hard work put in by
Nonna
Silvia to come to America to give us an opportunity to live The American Dream (even if so far my life in America had been more of a nightmare), and Ira had said, among other things, that it was selfish of me to turn my children into Italians when clearly they had more opportunities here. Opportunities for what, I wondered? To get stuck in traffic, to breathe exhaust fumes, to freeze your ass off ten months of the year, to look up and see only skyscrapers?

I sighed. Tuscany was
my
dream. My lifelong dream. I envisioned what I’d have to go through to get there eventually. Because I had to.

The British couple on TV was shown three more farmhouses. The prices were unbelievably high even for Tuscany, but the woman had followed Marcy’s advice. She’d married rich and her dream home in a warm country was only a choice away. While here I was in a cold, cold city with a cold, cold soon-to-be ex-husband while I longed for some warmth—any way I could get it.

But for now I’d have to face reality, face my life and keep my chin up as always. I looked down at my meal of Lasagne and shepherd’s pie and when I tallied up the calories I’d eaten I burst into tears. Another day, another pound on. Resigned, I returned to the Old Faithful diet—the only one that never ever failed me (not that I’ve put it much to the test recently): lettuce, low-fat cream cheese and rice cakes. Way to go.

Chapter 9:

Spider Man

“G
od, I
hate
her,” the whisper slithered up my back like a traitor’s caress.

“I
know
—you’d think she owns the joint, the way she barks orders around.”

I power-smiled to myself to bury the soft-as-mush me, swung around on my sturdy heels without breaking my stride and, raising my world-famous Evil Eyebrow, retraced my steps towards the doomed girls at the reception desk of my reign, The Farthington Hotel.

Two idle busboys caught in the crossfire started and stood to attention as I brushed past them. The so-called receptionists, Lesley and Lindsay, both sporting an improbable shade of blonde and still trapped in the eighties make-up wise, turned crimson as I came to a stop before them, dark and ominous in my perfectly tailored albeit a tad too severe, Plus Size suit. Okay, so maybe I was trapped in something worse than them—my own body.

“Ladies. If you’re used to working in
joints
, then maybe you should both consider returning to one, which can be arranged in the blink of an eye.”

Not a word. They were too stunned by the fact that I’d heard at all. Was starving making me an even bigger bitch or what? Plus, when you’re a mother, you develop a bat’s hearing. And when you’re practically a part-time mom like me you develop all sorts of telepathic abilities, but unfortunately no telekinetic, automatic house-scrubbing or kid-feeding powers. Apparently my sole strength at work was the fact that I scared the crap out of my staff. Good enough for me.

“It’s not your
job
to like me,” I continued. “Your job is to mind the front office and at least
look
professional. Do you think you can manage that?”

Lesley and Lindsay nodded, turning, if possible, a deeper red, making their peroxide manes look almost white. “Yes, Mrs. Lowenstein. Our apologies, ma’am,” whispered Lesley, the blonde bimbo with less make-up. They weren’t stupid, in all fairness—just very young and too preoccupied with their looks. They’d learn.

“Right. Now both of you switch your brains on and don’t let me ever catch you in an unprofessional situation while in this establishment again. And smile.”

Gordon Ramsay couldn’t have done it better. Boy, had I come a long way from my job as junior receptionist on the English Riviera.

Yep, I acted like I owned the joint. Truth be spoken, in my position as manager of The Farthington Hotel I was in my element. I could make the five-star, eighty-bed hotel run like Swiss clockwork, day in, day out. I had the entire staff terrified but synchronized. Cooks, cleaners, drivers, Accounts, Maintenance, the IT team, the Madam’s flashy girls who appeared in the lobby at cocktail hour. Of course I’m joking because I chased them away ages ago, but I suspect my head chef Juan dabbles in that avenue of pleasure every now and then.

If anyone here screwed up, it was my butt on the line, and if we were to live up to our reputation as the best hotel not only in Boston but in North America, we needed to keep our socks up every day and every night. An impossible, herculean feat—for most people. For me, it was a cinch. A breeze. It was my
personal
life that was killing me, and by personal life I mean my beloved food—or lack of it.

* * *

The good news was that Paul had gotten us into tango classes during the two hours that the kids were at ballet and soccer. Now, if you think that all gorgeous gay guys dress like models and dance very well, you’re absolutely right. Paul already knew all the steps and guided me like a pro, causing the envy of many girls (and guys) in there. He made me buy a wide skirt and heels.

“Hey,” I exclaimed as he pulled me and pushed me around the floor like a light, old mop. He obviously didn’t need lessons. “Where did you learn?”

“My mom was a dance teacher, remember?” he said, winking at me, and after a moment’s shock, I got it and smiled gratefully at him. He had enrolled us for
me
. To get me moving, to make me happy, and take me away from my life for a couple of hours a week. I couldn’t have loved him more. And whirling and twirling across the dance floor, I realized it was fun, not having to worry about looking like a respectable kick-ass boss who scared the pants off her staff. It felt exhilarating just to move to the sound of the music. Dancing was carefree and didn’t have a purpose except to make me feel good (and shift some pounds, of course). Just moving around for the sheer fun of it and not because I had to hustle and run errands was elating. And how long had it been since I laughed? I almost felt silly, but I shrugged it off. There was more to me behind the mother, manager and betrayed wife. I was a girl again in Paul’s arms, just like twelve years ago, when we were young and wild and free. Paul was still all of the above. Me? Getting there, slowly but surely.

I glanced around at all the couples of every color, shape, age and size having a great time, leaving their worries at home. Sure, they were always there when they got back, but at least an hour of dancing would have given them some happiness and fortified them for the rest of the week until it was once again time to tango! So when in the dance hall, I danced. I danced my heart out, thinking that if this was going to be the new and improved Erica, it wouldn’t be half as bad as I’d thought. I’d missed me, missed the person I once was. The one that used to be able to laugh at anything.

Paul twirled me and swirled me, guiding me through the complicated steps that after a while became easy. I relaxed in his arms, confident there was no way I could ever let him down, not even if I screwed up his steps. Paul was my lifeline.

Saturday lunchtime, while I was washing up after the kids’ lunch, I got a call from Paul. He was in the hospital with a broken leg and just wanted me to know in case I needed him. That was Paul for you. The one time he needed a friend he was worried about
me.
Knowing I couldn’t depend on my siblings or my aunts who were leaving for a holiday in Mexico for the week on a trip organized by the Italian community in Little Italy, I turned to my last resort and called Marcy to see if she could babysit for me. All I needed was an hour or so to run a few things over to him.

A sigh. “Erica, I’m getting ready to go out for dinner,” (
at one p.m.?
) “with some friends. I don’t have time to come babysit your kids.”

Why was I even surprised? Did I think she’d managed to change overnight? And did you notice she didn’t even ask me what was wrong with Paul?

Didn’t she remember when she made me drag my kids across town at night to the hospital for an ingrown toenail op? And now that I needed to rely on someone for a couple of hours tops, I was on my own.

“Never mind,” I snapped. “I’ll take them with me. As you so often remind me, children belong to their mothers and not their grandparents.” Before she could replicate, I hung up on her for the very first time in my life.

I called an emergency service babysitter and within twenty minutes I had a Mrs. Doubtfire lookalike at my door. Ever grateful, I shoved the list of emergency phone numbers (all mine) at her and in three minutes flat I was out of there. Which was unlucky for me because five minutes later I was squirming in my Kia van, dying for a pee. I pulled over into a plaza and charged into a nice-looking bistro restaurant.

Finally a relieved woman in every sense, I stepped out of the stall and lathered my hands with some rose-scented soap.
Did I remember to get Paul’s slippers? I can’t rememb—what the hell?
A tickling, multi-legged slimy sensation under my pants made me freeze as my mind knew there could only be one explanation. A spider!

A horrible convulsion shook my body at the realization of my worst phobia. Never mind heights, open spaces or closed spaces—the only thing in the world that scared me were those wretched beasts.

I remember screaming and beating my leg to kill said beast, but the thought of it crushed to a pulp against my flesh sent me into a mindless hysteria. I was beyond panicking. I remember throwing myself on the floor in a fit of terror for what seemed like days because darkness kept washing over me and I must’ve been near passing out several times until someone—a man—gripped my arms.

“What’s wrong?”

“Help! Take my pants off!” I shrieked.

“What?”

“A spider in my pants! Take them off!”

“Your pants?” he asked dubiously.

“Please!”

“Are you sure?”

What the hell was wrong with the guy? “Now!”

At that, the blessed man obliged and yanked on my zipper. “It’s stuck,” he informed me.

“Just rip them off!” I begged him and he easily tore my pants from my front zipper down and pulled them off my legs, checking every inch of wobbly thigh as I frantically kicked, repeating, “
Kill it, kill it!”
I didn’t give a shit if he saw my flesh flailing in the air—I’d never see him again. All I wanted was to be rid of the monster.

At some point I finally collapsed under him, exhausted, but still digging my nails into his flesh, still shaking and bawling and clawing at his shirt until he was half-naked next to me. He felt so safe, so solid, like a nice cozy cabin in the middle of a snowstorm. And he smelled fantastic, like a real man, without the nauseating mist of different colognes I have to fight through to get from the lobby to my office every morning.

But more than anything, I remember how he’d calmed me down with his deep, soothing voice and how it had enveloped me, warmed me, like a father’s should when you’re a scared child or a husband’s when you’re a woman down in the dumps. I had never had either source of comfort in my life from my dad or Ira, and it was like the other shoe had finally dropped. This voice, this presence, this kind of man, was what I’d lacked my entire life. If I’d had this kind of solid support and understanding all that time, and not for just a few terrifying seconds in the ladies’ room, my whole life would’ve been made. I’d be a different woman today. Sweeter. More self-assured. Less aggressive. More loved.

This was the kind of patience and loyalty that I needed. Someone who would believe me and act upon my fears as if they were as important to him as they were to me. This man had taken me seriously. This man had been my security. If Ira had been there with me, never in a thousand years would he have agreed to rip my pants off just like that.

The stranger put his lips against my ear and whispered, “It’s all right. It’s gone. Calm down now.”

“Are you sure?” I croaked, burying my head deeper into his chest, my arms and legs still wrapped around him like a real whack job.

“Positive—take a look for yourself—see?”

I stopped and lifted my face to scan the floor with trepidation. He was right. No sign of the thing. The coast was clear. And then I finally looked up at him. And almost fainted dead away again, but for another reason this time.

He was surreal. Handsome didn’t even begin to cut it. Wide shoulders. Muscles. Strong. Perhaps enough to lift
me
. Black hair that fell over his forehead. Big green eyes and the most awesome, longest lashes. Dark five o’clock shadow. Pure man. Pure, sinfully gorgeous man.

“Hands up!” twin voices echoed in the empty bathroom.

My savior turned toward them and raised his hands, his torso still stuck to mine so that he looked like he was doing sit ups against my breasts.

“It’s okay, lads. It’s only me,” he assured them.

One of the guards re-holstered his gun. “Sorry, sir.”

“It’s fine. A little accident with a big hairy monster,” he explained, tucking his shirt back into his jeans as the two guards looked at me.

I crossed my arms in front of my chest and shot them an evil glare. “He means the spider.”

One of the guards stifled a snort and I shakily crawled for my trousers, which were now in shreds, too humbled to look my savior’s way. It was a good thing that Paul always waxed the hell out of me, otherwise the guards would’ve thought the poor man was tackling a grizzly bear in the ladies’ room.

“Oh, okay,” agreed the other guard all too easily.

I hid my face in my torn trousers. “He was just helping out a hysterical lady,” I contributed, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “Go now, please. I’m in my underwear in case you hadn’t noticed.” And they weren’t my best pair, either.

At that my savior chuckled and wrapped his jacket around me like a kilt. I’m big, but this thing fit all the way around me. My face still hidden, I muttered a muffled, “Thank you,” and crawled back into the stall—a different one, though.

“Okay, let’s give the lady some breathing space,” I heard my hero say. Was he the manager of the restaurant? He sure had authority.

“I’ll be sitting outside if you care to join me for lunch, madam?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Thanks anyway.”

A pause. “Okay, then. I hope to see you again soon.”

Yeah, like that was ever happening. “Me, too, sir. Thank you.”

“We’re at our desk if you need us, ma’am,” called one of the guards.

“All right. Thank you. And thank you, again,” I called to my hero from over the stall, too embarrassed to show my face.

“My pleasure, madam,” he said. At least that’s what I think. He had a crazy accent I couldn’t place.

I raced home wearing the guy’s jacket around my hips, up the stairs past the aghast babysitter who must’ve thought I was a freak, and hopped back down the stairs, one leg into a pair of jeans. By the time I got to the front door I was dressed. When you’re a working mom you learn to multitask very quickly.

“I’ll pay you the extra time!” I shouted over my shoulder as I catapulted myself out the door and into my Kia, flooring it. No wonder I always got speeding tickets.

Paul was sitting up brightly in bed as if he’d just had a groovy haircut instead of a broken leg.

“Hey, sunshine, what’s up?” he chirped as I kissed his cheek and sank down winded in the chair next to his bed, his overnight bag at my feet.

“Are you all right?” I asked in a ragged breath. “How did it happen?”

Paul shrugged. “It’s nothing. It’s not broken, just badly sprained. A sex accident. We slipped in his shower this morning.”