Stella stood in silence, gazing at the wall. She was used to working within the confined boundaries of her paintings and had never dared venture intothiskind of territory. She liked being able to control the little worlds she created, intimate and hidden. Stella took the fine-bristled brush from Marco’s hand and walked over to the wall. It was an earthy, golden colour, much like the clichéd images of rustic Tuscan villas she so desperately avoided. Running her hand across the wall, she was surprised by its texture; it was smooth, cool to her touch and almost comforting. She closed her eyes, her weight instinctively shifting into her left shoulder, leaning her in closer to the wall. She felt vibrations rattle through it as another crash escaped from the back of the bar. The wall suddenly felt alive.
Stella’s focus was suddenly broken by the explosion of Marcella’s laughter. Flirting with one of the tradesmen, Marcella had taken hervolpepose – breasts poised, ready to attack like a fox on the prowl. The man, who was sucking down a cigarette, might as well have been breathing for the both of them. There was very little space between the two, who were completely oblivious to everyone else in Bar Luna e Lupa.
‘I swear, if it has a pulse!’ Stella muttered under her breath.
‘Allora?’ Marco brought her attention back to the question on the table. ‘What do you think?’
Stella’s eyes glazed over the mess surrounding them and came to rest on the box labelledsperanze e rimorsi– hopes and regrets. Her heart dropped a little, recognising in Marco a desperation she too possessed. They clearly shared an unrelenting desire to keep pushing, to break through, no matter the obstacles.
Nevertheless, Marco’s proposal was out of the question.
‘I have never painted anything larger than a standard portrait,’ she began, her voice crackling behind the impending rejection. ‘This would be a . . .’ She stopped, searching for the right word. Spotting a fridge magnet of the Colosseum attached to the rusting coffee machine, she finished, ‘. . . a colossal job.’
‘But of course! Romawasn’t built in a day,’ he reassured, clearly hoping to lure her into the task with his wit.
‘In any case,’ she pulled him over to the wall, ‘see this?’ She pointed to the finish. ‘This needs oil-based or acrylic paint. Something thicker and stronger. Watercolour is painted on thick, absorbent paper, almost like card. I’ve never worked in any medium other than watercolour.’ She paused for a moment, and their eyes locked. ‘Sorry, Marco. I don’t think I’m the one for you.’
‘There’s always a first time,no?’ He was sweet in his attempt to convince her, but Stella wasn’t sold.
‘Asking me to paint anything but watercolour is like asking the Three Tenors to rap. It’s still music, but sounds very different.’ She took his hand. ‘Mi dispiace, but I can’t.’
‘Va bene.’ Deflated, he conceded defeat and kissed her on the cheek as she prepared to leave.
‘I’ll bring this back on Monday for you.’ She motioned to the painting. ‘Marcella,andiamo!’
Entering the apartment that afternoon, Stella’s gaze was immediately drawn to a small cellophane-wrapped box of chocolates sitting atop the dining table.
She reached for the white gift tag and her eyes widened as they traced the unfamiliar handwriting.Because I’ve been a miserable bastard. Sorry about that. V.
‘Ma, no!’ A gobsmacked Marcella took the card from Stella’s hand in disbelief, silently mouthing the words as she read it to herself.
‘This is a good sign. Progress.’ Stella clapped her hands victoriously, then inspected the box of chocolates. ‘Delicious progress.’
Marcella gasped, examining the box from over Stella’s shoulder. ‘Santa Maria!’
‘Aren’t these the ones you can only buy from—?’
‘Sì!’
‘Aren’t they really expen—?’
‘Sì!’ Marcella snatched the box from Stella’s hand and began tearing through the plastic.
‘Oh my G—’
‘Sì!’
Just as Marcella opened the box to reveal the silver and red wrapped buds of chocolate, they were interrupted by the turn of a key in the door behind them. On cue, both turned in unison.
It was Vincent.
‘Buongiorno!’ Marcella announced, hands on her hips.
‘Ladies. I see you have found my attempt at raising a white flag.’ He smiled sheepishly, setting his gear down by his feet. ‘I’m calling a truce and asking for a fresh start.’ Vincent raised his hands submissively. ‘My bad.’
Having lost the abrasive and aggressive front, Vincent now seemed far calmer and more collected. His frame stood less rigid than it had that morning. He was softer and more welcoming.
Stella suddenly felt as if she were being drawn backwards through a vacuum, with the universe blurring in her peripheral vision, leaving her only with the vision of Vincent, now caught in one of Marcella’s trademark hearty embraces.
