‘Did you say “cute”?’ Stella asked, now in the ground floor lobby.
‘You heard me. Now,silenzio!Andiamo a letto. Che sonno!’ She let out a whiny yawn.
Stella began plodding her way up the stairs, drained from the evening’s events. Marcella, however, took a moment to pause at the door. She cast her eyes across the night sky, catching the silhouettes of the neighbouring palazzi in her peripheral vision. The stars seemed extra bright tonight, dancing merrily against the endless indigo backdrop.
Just as she was about to turn her back on Rome for the last time that night, Marcella caught the glittering dance of a shooting star; small and delicate, it pranced in the direction of the glowing moon. She smiled to herself before taking a final drag, casting the withered butt to the cobblestones.
‘Marco Luna,’ she said, winking at the moon.
sei
It was the smell of coffee that roused Stella the next morning, not the arrival of a visitor to her bedroom.
‘Marcella?’ she asked, unable to see between the darkness of the room and her dry, heavy eyes.
‘Sorry to disappoint.’ Vincent stood at the door, an espresso in one hand and a plate of almondbiscottiin the other.
Oh God. . .It wasn’t just a bad dream.
‘May I open these?’ he asked, carefully gesturing to the curtains with his elbow.
‘Yes,’ Stella croaked, not even recognising her own voice.
Entwined with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee was the smell of Vincent; clean linen and the breeze that lingers after a heavy storm. He set Stella’s breakfast down on the nightstand and opened both the window and external shutters. The radiant Roman sun burst in, pompously casting aside the final remnants of the night. Stella covered her eyes, shielding herself from the sudden explosion of light.
Noticing that she had slept in her clothes from the day before, Stella was quick to hide under her bedding.
‘Marcella gave me strict instructions to let you sleep in this morning, but to wake you before eleven o’clock.’
‘What time is it?’ she asked from under the pillow.
‘Ten fifty-nine. I’m a man of my word.’
Stella giggled, despite the pit of dread returning to her stomach. She had to deal with what had happened the night before.
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘No,’ she replied, still out of sight. Feeling Vincent’s weight sink into the side of her mattress, Stella emerged from her cotton cocoon, embarrassed and dishevelled in equal measure. ‘So, uhm . . .’
‘I’ll start.’ Vincent stopped her. ‘I’m sorry if my advances came on a little too strong last night. You were well within your rights to react the way you did. I guess I was just a little thrown by your react—’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ Stella interrupted. ‘I overreacted. I’m just . . . Well, I’m trying to deal with something at the moment, and what happened sort of plunged me back into that. It caught me off-guard.’
Respectfully, Vincent didn’t press the point. Sat on the edge of her bed, he looked down at her as she cowered under her sheets, with only her head and neck visible. ‘Ok. So we agree to move on and start fresh today. Is that ok?’
‘More than ok.’
He smiled at her, gently moving a few strands of hair from her face. ‘Well, eat up. Roma’s waiting.’ He handed her the espresso cup, steaming welcomingly in the sunlight.
‘What do you mean? I’m not selling at the market today. I was going to continue job hunt—’
‘No, you’re going to keep me company on a last-minute shoot today,’ he corrected.
April second, Stella. Not a day to waste.
‘I could really use another set of hands.’
Stella buried her concerns as best as she could, but wondered if Vincent too could hear the incessant tick-tock that tried to goad her to decline. ‘What are you shooting?’ Stella asked, sipping down the caffeine-laden nectar.
