Stella scowled into the intercom, so close that her lips grazed the brass plate. ‘Leave my . . .’ She lowered her voice, taking a cursory look over both shoulders, ‘. . . perfectlynormalunderwear out of it.’
‘I’m joking,no?’ Marcella said, and Stella could discern the click of her cigarette lighter through the intercom. ‘Calmati!’
‘The door, Marcella?’
‘Allora, what’s the secret password?’
Stella winced. ‘C’mon, just let me up. I’m exhausted.’
‘Parola d’ordine!’
‘This is so childish.’ Stella laughed. Marcella went quiet. ‘No, I’m not saying it.’
‘Would you like me to send a pillow and some blankets down from the window? The cobblestones won’t be very comfortable, I imagine.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Stella sighed to herself, blaming her lack of persistence on jet lag. Pressing the speaker button, she lowered her voice and paused for a moment before asking, ‘Penne o pene?’
‘Ahem.Ahem.’ Marcella probed through the intercom, clearing her throat.
Stella’s shoulders drooped. ‘Fine.Controparola?’
‘Pene, grazie!’
The latch released with a deafening clunk.
‘Brava, Stella. See, that wasn’t difficult,eh?’
‘Are you alone?’ Stella asked with the wary tone of experience.
Marcella giggled. ‘Stella, don’t flatter yourself. If there’s someone here, I’m not going to stop on your account.’
‘I’m coming up. Stopwhateverit is you might be doing.’
‘Whatever, orwhoever?’
Stella groaned. ‘Gross.’
Marcella’s laughter, followed by her throaty smoker’s cough, was the last thing Stella heard before ascending the stairs to their apartment on the third floor.
After dumping her things in her room, and despite her need for a steaming hot shower, Stella joined Marcella at their small table for an intimate welcome home dinner.
‘And Mamma Chiaro? She is well?’ Marcella asked wide-eyed, clearly happy to have her flatmate back.
Stella nodded. ‘Seems to be. And it was great to see mynonni,ziiandcuginiagain. The only downside of coming from a huge Italian Australian family? The constant stream of visitors. Lots of questions. Next to no privacy.’
Marcella laughed, her dark curls bouncing. ‘And your friends?’
‘All doing great. It was lovely to see them again in person instead of on a screen.’
Marcella, mouth full, continued. ‘And what about the job . . .?’ She paused for her lack of vocabulary.
‘Prospects?’ Stella’s gaze dropped to the pasta bowl in front of her, shaking her head in time with the twirl of her fork. ‘Negative.Nada. I’ve followed up with everyone I spoke to before I flew home and it amounted to absolutelyniente. Rejections left, right and centre; from Rome and Florence, even Sydney. And the last of the Melbourne contacts have now been drained of their potential.’
Marcella’s expression dropped a little. ‘Not the man from the art and play centre at the Museo d’—?’
‘Nope. Job went to a friend of the director.’
‘That pop-up gallery by the—?’
