As Stella stepped aside to return the call, Vincent’s frustration got the better of him. Twice now Marcella had inadvertently thwarted his attempts to kiss Stella, and now he felt tense and embarrassed. He looked across the river at the perfectly shaped silhouette of the Vatican in the distance. The moment was gone, like the sun which had descended behind the dome.
‘You’re not going to believe it,’ Stella said, returning to Vincent’s side. ‘She’s snagged a table at La Strega e La Scopa. It’s foraperitivotonight. Like, now. She’s there, holding the table. What do you say? It usually has a three-month waitlist for reservations.’
Seeing how the colour had returned to Stella’s cheeks, Vincent swallowed his pride and tried his best to shelve his disappointment. ‘How far is it from here?’
Stella was already plugging the address into Google Maps. ‘Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen? How fast can you walk?’
‘Fast enough.’ He handed her a small equipment bag. ‘Could you carry this? I’ll take the rest.’ With a few clicks and tightening of sashes, his gear was neatly bundled together and tossed over his back and they set off, leaving Vincent’s crumpled pride and their mounting sexual tension in a smouldering heap by the balustrade of the bridge.
sette
‘It’s been three years.No, four.Santa Maria. It’s gone so fast. It seems just like the other day when I moved in. Trastevere has never been the same!’ Marcella waved her hand around, causing the cigarette between her fingers to litter ash on the table top. A subtle breeze rustled through the al fresco dining area of La Strega e La Scopa, catching the ash and dropping it to the cobblestones of Piazza Navona. ‘I followed a man here.’ Her eyes met Stella’s, sharing in a moment of understanding. ‘Abadman, Vincent.’ She took a drag on her cigarette, blowing the smoke away from the table. ‘That’s the end of the story.Veni, vidi, vici,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’ asked Vincent.
‘You know, Julius Caesar? “I came, I saw, I conquered.”’ Marcella sat upright in her chair, a force to be reckoned with. ‘Roma’s mine now.’
‘And Carlotta? The woman who lived in my room. What’s her story?’ Vincent asked, taking a sip of his negroni sbagliato.
‘Carlotta’spapà—’
‘The infamouspapà,’ Stella interrupted Marcella.
‘Eh,sì. He and Giulio are cousins. Or second cousins. I can’t remember.’ Marcella gestured to the waiter to bring her another glass of wine. ‘Even though she is from Roma, she found living with her parents very difficult.’
‘She’s a very independent, headstrong woman. Intelligent and fierce,’ Stella added.
‘Those are good qualities to have,’ Vincent said, picking at the olives.
Stella and Marcella both chuckled.
‘In the ordinary world, yes,’ said Stella. ‘But her father didn’t approve of her career path. Travelling the world, working with fabric importers and manufacturers.’ She shook her head. ‘Would’ve much preferred his only daughter to live a more . . . What would you say, Marcella?’ Stella raised her eyebrows. ‘Domestic life?’
‘Esatto!’ Marcella tossed an olive pit into the small porcelain bowl. ‘Like the 1950s.’
Scrunching his nose, he said, ‘That’s unfortunate.’
‘They are always at each other. Too similar. Very direct and both opinionated.’ Stella used her straw to prod at the slice of orange in her spritz. ‘Shame, too. Her mother just lets it all happen.’
‘And where is Carlotta now?’
‘Firenze, living her corporate dream. She’s in an executive role for the design firm she worked for here. Their head office is up there.’ Stella pointed to the sky to indicate north.
‘Good for her. And Giulio and Elda? Anything I should be mindful of?’ He licked the peppery olive oil from his fingers.
‘Not really,’ Stella said.
‘They trust us to take good care of theappartamento. It belonged to Elda’s great-aunt,’ Marcella added. ‘She inherited it many years ago. The rent pays their bills.’
Vincent selected another olive and popped it in his mouth. ‘Makes sense.’
‘They’re so wonderful,’ Stella gushed. ‘Elda’s a New Yorker from way back, and he’s obviously from Rome. They met on a cruise ship. You wouldn’t believe it. He was the head chef in one of the kitchens, and she was the lead singer for one of the cabaret dinner shows.’
Vincent smiled, taking the now naked pit from between his teeth. ‘That’s great.’
‘They’re in their seventies. Both retired. Now they just work the market for pleasure and the social interaction. I met them at the market, actually. Bought somepecorino frescofrom them. We got to talking – you know, this and that. Anyway, I said how I was new to Rome and they explained how they had the apartment and a spare room, and the rest is history.’
‘Lucky,no?’ Marcella beamed, giving Stella a sideways cuddle.
