After a few moments, Stella took a deep breath and turned to face Marcella. ‘Andrew . . .’ she said.
‘Sì?’ Marcella nodded, squeezing Stella’s hands a little bit tighter.
‘Andrew was my partner back home. We lived together for many years. Too many years.’ She shifted uncomfortably on the pew, overwhelmed by the familiar rush of adrenaline that charged through her veins.
Catching a glimpse of her reflection in one of Marcella’s large polished earrings, Stella was saddened by the drawn face staring back at her. For a moment, she didn’t recognise herself. The face wasn’t that of the twenty-seven-year-old creative free spirit she thought she had become; the face that met her gaze was that of another person from another time. This was the old Stella; the Stella who second-guessed her every move, the Stella who lost her independence and let a man control and belittle her, the Stella who constantly made excuses for his behaviour, the Stella who always put herself second.
‘What happened with Andrew,cara?’ Marcella asked softly.
‘We met at uni. After both false starting in other degrees, we came to our art history degree a little later than planned. But we had that in common. In fact, we shared majors. I went on to study minors in studio art and the Italian Renaissance, whereas he studied some random post-modernist subjects to fill out the degree. I moved into his little one-bedroom apartment way too soon, but I thought we were happy. From then, things . . . changed.’ The stinging returned to Stella’s eyes and she snuggled into Marcella’s shoulder.
Much like a mother would comfort a distressed child, Marcella rocked her back and forth in her embrace. ‘Changed?’
‘Shifted. The way he treated me. He would analyse everything I did. Every move I made. Criticising me. Questioning my decisions. Sucking the life from me. His words became hurtful, and he would constantly put me down. My friends couldn’t stand him. They all said he was arrogant and had issues, insecurities.’
‘What was he insecure about?’
‘Well, we were both painters. I worked with watercolour and Andrew worked with oil on canvas. We had totally different styles. I would paint whimsical landscapes with blurred lines and faded tones, whereas Andrew worked with bold colours and harsh, straight edges. Our work really represented the clashes in our personalities.’ She paused to wipe her nose with the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘The final Dean’s Scholar award was up for grabs at the end of our last semester. We both submitted entries, knowing very well that the competition was tough. Our work joined a collection of around twenty shortlisted pieces and we both agreed that if the other should win, we would only be happy for them. No resentment.’
‘You won, didn’t you,tesoro?’
‘Yes. I won fifty thousand dollars and a three-month internship under the leading curator at the state gallery.’
‘Che brava!’ Marcella’s excitement was hard to mute. Her outburst turned the heads of the people sitting a few rows ahead of them, to whom she gestured her apologies.
‘Shh, Marcella!’ Stella urged. ‘Andrew pretended to be happy for me for a while, but I knew deep down he was angry that his work didn’t win. After the award presentation night, we went home with my painting. I propped it up on the entrance hall table. We were going to hang our entries side by side the next morning . . .’
‘What do you mean, “were going to”?’
‘I went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea to take to bed. There was a loud bang, followed by a crash.’
‘What did he do to it?’ Marcella’s jaw clenched.
‘He kicked his foot through it and split the hardwood frame in half.’
Marcella let out a gasp and once again grabbed Stella’s cold trembling hands. ‘Oddio!’
‘Then he started at me. Carrying on, screaming, using crazy analytical terms. His words initially had no meaning at all. Just rambling, really.’ The words tumbled from Stella’s lips, and she had no control over them. ‘He eventually grabbed my arm and dragged me to the floor until my face was pressed against the floorboards. “See this? See this?” He said it over and over again. He held a shard of the smashed frame in one hand and had me pinned to the floor by my right wrist with the other.’
‘Did he hit you?’
‘No. I thought he was going to. I remember closing my eyes and bracing myself. But Andrew went quiet then broke down into tears. He threw the piece of broken frame across the hallway and smashed a vase of flowers I had displayed that morning. He then crumpled into a heap, crying uncontrollably.’ Stella paused to regain her composure, moving in closer to Marcella.
‘In Italian we say,la goccia che ha fatto traboccare il vaso. You know what it means?’ Marcella asked.
‘The drop that made the vase overflow.’
‘Sì, the vase breaking in this case was literally the last straw.Ironico, no?’
Stella sat, silenced by this adept view of the situation. As if reliving the moment in slow motion, she saw Andrew throw the frame joint at the vase with all his might. The oversized vase, which was of no particular importance to Stella, split upon impact, sending a rush of water down the corridor. The water met Stella’s feet and legs on the floor, where she remained crouched. It might as well have been liquid fire burning her skin as the shock of the incident radiated through her.
‘He got up, took his keys and walked out the front door. Not another word was said.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I just lay there, among the water and broken pieces of frame for perhaps half an hour or so. I was in shock. Kind of frozen.’ Stella sighed, lost in her memories. ‘When I finally peeled myself off the floor, I called for help – Mum, of course. She helped me grab as much of my stuff from the apartment as possible. I was shaking and trembling. I wanted to get out of that place before he could come back.’
‘Where did he go? Do you know?’
