Marco leaned over to Ignazio and stage-whispered, ‘I think we are in trouble, here.’
‘Sì. For more reasons than one.’ Ignazio’s nostrils flared, a worried expression filling his face.
Sat across from Marco, Stella relished the excitement he expressed. So animated. So happy. He was charismatic and enthusiastic, and when he smiled, it always reached the corners of his eyes.
Was Marcella right? Were they so attuned to each other’s thoughts and patterns that itmightseem as if they ‘shared a brain’? She’d never noticed before. The comfortable chats and long conversations just came so naturally to them. They were always talking. And often finishing each other’s sentences.
Marcella’s words reverberated around her mind.‘Just get married, you two!’
Is life really that easy? Not my life, for sure.
And it was at that very moment that their eyes locked across the table. Stella’s chestnut and Marco’s deep intoxicating brown. Something suddenly shifted, as if the energy between them changed, taking on a bright new sparkle. It was invisible to the others, but both Marco and Stella felt it. They shared a meek smile before returning their attention to the cards.
And thepandoro.
trentasei
Stella didn’t feel well.
Sitting upright, propped against her pillow, her head throbbed. Her mind was cloudy and she felt as if she had swallowed an espresso cup whole. She let out a little gagging noise, trying to clear the sensation in her throat, but it only made her feel worse. Reaching her hand to her forehead, she felt clammy and warm. Grunting, she threw herself back against the pillow.
Stella had planned a cheeky mid-week run, a few hours at the market to make the most of the peaking tourist flow, followed by an hour or so of painting at Bar Luna e Lupa. She looked over at the pile of papers and contracts on her desk, sent via courier on Boxing Day from the AAI. There was much to do, andnotime to be sick.
Reverting to a tea, cereal and toast breakfast, Stella forced down each bite despite the scratching sensation that etched its way down her throat. Every mouthful made her feel queasy.
Adding a teaspoon of honey to her tea, she messaged Marcella, telling her that she had woken up unwell. She added that it might be best if Marcella ate at the restaurant rather than eat anything Stella had prepared – a sick chef was, after all, a chef who couldn’t work.
Then, after some grim reflection, she advised Marco that she wouldn’t be painting today. She flopped back into bed with the tea, closing her eyes and listening to the soundtrack Rome had on constant repeat: track 1: passing scooter; track 2: nondescript siren of an emergency vehicle; and track 3: chatter of pedestrian gossip on the street. She listened until she found sweet relief in sleep.
Waking several hours later, Stella found a message waiting for her from Vincent.Hope you slept well. Off to a conference tomorrow. Don’t know if/when I can ring. Message if you need me. Will see you NYE.
Stella rolled her eyes and shot back:Hope it goes well. Woke up feeling sick, most likely a cold. Can’t wait to see you.
The truth was that she couldn’t wait to see him on New Year’s Eve to put an end to their ties. Although she had mentally checked-out of the relationship, his lingering presence in her mind, in her memories, in their apartment, felt like a blocker. She needed closure from Vincent. From all his lies. His deceit. It clung to the air in the apartment like a rank smell, embedding itself within the fibres of the walls.
Figuring that the present was as good a time as any, Stella got out of bed, threw on her cardi and a pair of socks, and made her way to Vincent’s room. She hadn’t stepped foot in there since the afternoon of his departure. Opening the door, his unmistakable scent managed to make it past her blocked nose. Her stomach turned. The room, where she had spent so much time with Vincent, felt foreign and devoid of life. The air was stale and cold and she fought all the voices in her head which told her to run and hide.
You’re mad. Get out of here. This will bring no good.
Stella poked her head in the drawer to his nightstand. She found a pen, a half-empty pack of condoms, and some loose change.
Moving to his desk she carefully shuffled through some of the papers stacked by the lamp. Odd bills, a few receipts and some notes with details about projects and shoots for the paper.
Opening the left side of his freestanding wardrobe, Stella thumbed through his clothes hanging all perfectly pressed. Opening the right side, she looked through the series of shelves, noting his jeans, a few random books and odds and ends. Nosily she flicked through the books, not knowing what she might find trapped behind the covers.
On the top shelf of the wardrobe she found Vincent’s smaller collapsible rucksack, rolled into a tight bundle. She moved it aside and let her hand feel behind it. Her fingers met a cardboard box much smaller than a shoe box, but large enough to hold two or three novels. It was sealed with tape around the edges. She gave it a little shake to get a sense of what it contained, as it was quite heavy despite its size. Within she heard the rustle of paper.
She stood at a crossroads. Should she open the box? Tampering with the taped seal would reveal interference. Instinctively, she stopped momentarily.
No. Put it back. It’s not yours.
Should she put it back? What would its contents change, anyway? He had betrayed her and hurt her. Nothing could take that back. And surely his actions far outweighed anything that might be in that little curious box?
Throwing caution to the wind she found the end of the tape with her fingernail and unwound it from the rim where the lid overlapped the sides of the box. Taking a seat at Vincent’s desk she opened the box revealing its contents: a collection of approximately thirty letters, read, but still in their original envelopes. Taking the top one from the pile she ran her fingers over the blue cursive.V. Baker, followed by an address in Paris. She turned it over in her hand, revealing the sender’s name on the reverse side:C. Beaufort.Stella withdrew the letter from the envelope. It was well-worn and had clearly been read a number of times. The handwriting was difficult to discern, and the French script didn’t help either. It was addressed to Vincent, that much she could tell. The following pages were beyond her rudimentary knowledge of French art vocabulary. Flicking to the last page she hoped it had been signed-off a little more clearly.Affectueusement, Céline.
Stella’s heart suddenly skipped.
Now you’ve opened Pandora’s box, you have to deal with the consequences. Idiot.
