Marcella burst into the apartment, unannounced and very much unexpected.
Fuck.
Stella’s body suddenly went limp with disappointment, and she watched as Vincent’s eyes snapped shut, drawing his brows taut.
Marcella dropped her bags by the door. ‘Ma, dove siete? Anyone home?’
Stella, still tangled among Vincent’s limbs, meekly replied, ‘We’re down here.’
‘Santa Maria!’ Marcella gasped, clutching her breasts. Grabbing her things, she asked, ‘Finito? It’s ok, I’ll go and smoke in the piazza. Message me when you are done!’ Quicker than she had entered, she was gone in a flash of curves and curls.
The energy between Stella and Vincent had completely shifted. The delicious throb of potential had been replaced by tension and unease. She could see his eyes trace her face, trying to read the change in her, but all Stella felt was embarrassment at their situation.
Marcella’s going to have a field day with this.
Stella had been ripped from the moment. She made to sit up, but Vincent – misreading her move as an advance – caught her arms. Stella couldn’t feel the heat resonate from his torso against hers, let alone his excitement press against her. It was all grey space and white noise behind the realisation that he had pinned her to the floor by her wrists.
Her pulse began to race, pounding with increasing speed behind the pressure Vincent held her with.
Vincent lowered himself so that their lips could meet.
Pound. Thump. Trapped.
Without thought, Stella pulled away and wriggled herself free. She scuttled along the floor on her hands and knees as quickly as she could, wanting to disappear from view.
Vincent, clearly confused and concerned, sat upright. ‘Are you ok? Did I . . .?’
Stella couldn’t look at him. She felt her eyes begin to sting as they welled with tears. Waving a hand as if to say, ‘I’m ok, just leave me alone’, she stood up and swiftly exited the apartment.
The internal stairwell of the palazzowas always cool and refreshing, even in the peak of the stifling Roman summer. Stella shrugged her shoulders tighter into her cardigan as she descended the flights. The feet of countless users had worn a gentle curve in the marble steps, cushioning each tread that Stella took. Popping out onto the street, she wound around the locals and parked scooters until her route opened up onto Piazza Santa Maria.
Marcella was easy to distinguish from the crowd, dressed in chef’s whites and wrapped in her fire engine red leather jacket and sat at the base of the piazza’s central fountain. Puffing her cigarette contentedly, she was startled to see Stella walking towards her. ‘You are finished already?Bravo,Vincent!’ She clapped her hands, cigarette poised perfectly between her lips. ‘Allora,dimmi. . . how was it?’
Holding back tears, she plonked herself next to Marcella.
‘What’s wrong? It was that good,eh?’ Marcella grabbed her chin, giving her a playful shake.
‘No. Nothing like that.’ Stella began to sob quietly, dropping her head into her palms. ‘He tried to kiss me.’
Marcella, gesticulating in the hope it would help her understand what was going on, tried to gather her thoughts. ‘So . . . there was no sex?’
‘No.’ Stella’s sobs escalated to a tear-fuelled breakdown. She dropped her head between her knees, which were propped up at chin-height. ‘What’swrongwith me?’
Marcella took one final long drag of her cigarette and tossed the butt aside. ‘Ok,tesoro. What’s going on?’ She scooted herself up to Stella’s side, wrapping her leather jacket around her, as if to protect her from the world. ‘Eh? Look at me.’
Stella’s cheeks were flushed and hot, her tears glistening in the light emanating from the restaurants and bars on the piazza. ‘Marcella. I never told you what happened to me back home. I’m so sorry. I never really dealt with it properly. It’s all so . . . raw. I’m stuck in this mess. I’m so broken.’ Completely inconsolable, Stella was now in Marcella’s full embrace.
As Marcella gently stroked Stella’s hair, she said, ‘Let’s go somewhere to chat. Somewhere a little more private.’
The piazza was buzzing with people: some tourists, the odd street vendor selling gimmicky knick-knacks to small children, but most were locals. The piazza tonight was no place to talk.
Pushing through the heavy wooden door of Santa Maria, Stella followed Marcella into the last pew of the church. The air, kissed with the hint of frankincense and myrrh, immediately soothed Stella. With only the usual church-going do-gooders there, Santa Maria was relatively quiet. A few people pottered around lighting candles, while an elderly gentleman kneeled before the altar lost in prayer. No one, no matter how lonely or sad, could ever feel alone here.
A tangible reverence settled over the two of them, enveloping them as they sat quietly together. Stella was happy for Marcella to hold her hands, but could sense that she was eager to know more about what caused the evening’s emotional breakdown.
On a number of occasions, Marcella had attempted to ask questions about Stella’s romantic life back home in Melbourne, but Stella was always able to placate her with excuses and distractions. Up to this point, this was a world Stella had no intention of sharing with anyone. No one would know her story. She refused to be defined by her past.
It’s now or never. Just do it. . .
