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heavyweights,
declared the banner headline in one of the tabloids.

    Gian Lorenzo turned to page three to discover what merited such a comment. Paolo’s bride-to-be was six foot two—an advantage for a model, I hear you say—but there the comparison ended, because the other vital statistic the reporters latched on to was Angelina’s weight. This seemed to vary between three hundred and three hundred and fifty pounds, according to whether it was reported by a broadsheet or a tabloid.
    A picture is worth a thousand words. Gian Lorenzo studied several photographs of Angelina, and concluded that only Rubens would have considered her as a model. In every picture of Paolo’s future bride, no amount of skill displayed by the couturiers of Milan, the stylists of Paris, the jewelers of London, not to mention the legions of personal trainers, dietitians and masseurs, was able to transform her image from sugar plum fairy to prima ballerina. Whichever angle the photographers took, however considerate they tried to be, and some didn’t, they only emphasized the transparent difference between her and her fiance, especially when she stood alongside Roma’s former hero. The Italian press, clearly obsessed by Angelina’s size, reported nothing else about her of any interest.
    Gian Lorenzo turned to the arts pages, and had quite forgotten about Paolo and his future bride when he strode into the gallery later that morning. As he opened the door to his office, he was greeted by his secretary, who thrust a large, gold-embossed card into his hand. Gian Lorenzo glanced down at the invitation.
     
    Sienor Massimo Porcelli
    has pleasure in inviting

    to the marriage of his daughter,
    Angelina,
    to Signor Paolo Castelli
    at the Villa Borghese.
     
    Six weeks later Gian Lorenzo joined a thousand guests in the grounds of the Villa Borghese. It soon became clear that Signor Porcelli was determined his only child would enjoy a wedding that not only she, but everyone else present, would never forget.
    The setting in the Borghese Gardens, perched on one of the seven hills overlooking Rome, with its imposing terracotta and cream villa in the background, was the stuff of fairytales. Gian Lorenzo strolled around the grounds, admiring the sculptures and fountains while catching up with old friends and contemporaries, some of whom he had not seen since his school days. Some twenty minutes before the ceremony was due to take place, a dozen liveried ushers, in long blue coats trimmed with gold braid and wearing white wigs, moved among the throng. They invited the guests to take their seats in the rose garden as the wedding ceremony was about to commence.
    Gian Lorenzo joined a large crowd as they made their way toward a recently constructed stand with an elevated semi-circle of seats surrounding a raised stage with an altar as its centerpiece; not unlike a football ground where a different form of worship takes place on a Saturday afternoon. His connoisseurs eye took in the magnificent view over Rome, a scene made even more dazzling by the number of beautiful women, dressed in clothes that he suspected had never been worn before, and in some cases would never be worn again. They were complemented by elegantly dressed men in tailcoats and white shirts, with only different colored ties and cravats to suggest the peacock in them. Gian Lorenzo looked around to find that he was surrounded by leading politicians, captains of industry, actors, socialites, as well as many of Paolo’s old teammates.
    The next actor to take his place on the stage was Paolo himself, accompanied by his best man. Gian Lorenzo knew he was a well-known footballer, but couldn’t recall his name. As Paolo strode down the grass path and onto the pitch, Gian Lorenzo understood only too well why women could not take their eyes off the man.
    Paolo walked up onto the stage, took his place on the right of the altar and waited to be joined by his bride.
    A forty-piece string orchestra, almost