‘Someone’s cousin’s uncle’s someone got it.’
‘That friend of a friend of a friend from the Centro di St—?’
‘Made redundant.’ Stella paused for a moment. ‘Like me and my Melbourne team.’
Marcella popped her fork down long enough to take a decent swig of wine. ‘Allora. What now?’
Stella exhaled sharply. ‘I have given myself six months. If by the start of next April I don’t have a job in a gallery or museum or even an education centre of sorts – and not just a hospitality or retail job, because that’s not the point of me being here – then I’ll go home. To Melbourne.’ Stella’s stomach tightened. ‘For good.’
‘But Stella . . . you belong in Roma. It’s part of you. It’s who you are.’
Her flat expression was the only cover for her anxiety. ‘I can’t pay my rent and fill my stomach with Roman-tinted daydreams, Marcella.’ She took a mouthful of wine. ‘It’s time to grow up. And that might mean leaving all this behind.’ Her eyes travelled across their little apartment and eventually settled on the curvaceous brunette across the table. ‘I’m twenty-seven. It’s time to get my career happening. Again.’
‘It’s not your fault you lost your job back home,cara,’ Marcella was quick to remind.
‘I know. But the gallery booting the education department gave me the chutzpah to come here and try to start over. Even though I have failed at that too.’
‘For now.’
Stella forced an appreciative smile through her heavy jet-lagged eyes. ‘In a city of galleries and museums – some of the biggest and most famous in the world – the workforce is saturated with overqualified, unemployed arts professionals. I am merely a number.’ Feeling the last of the air deflate from her once buoyant spirit, she added, ‘I’mno onehere.’
‘Not to me,eh?’ Marcella reached across and took Stella’s hand into her own. ‘You will find a way.’
‘I have until April second.’ Pulling an airline ticket from her back pocket, she flattened it on the table between them. ‘This is the motivator. Rome to Melbourne. One-way.’ Stella detested the wave of sadness that the discussion had brought to the table. ‘Can we talk about something else? This is just depressing. Tell me aboutyou. What’s been happening in your world? How are things at the restaurant?’
‘Same-same. This.That,’ Marcella replied, and Stella, perhaps on account of her grogginess, didn’t notice the subtle smirk, or the quick flick of Marcella’s gaze down the corridor to their bedrooms.
‘I see your English hasn’t dropped off without our daily practise.’
‘No, no. I have been speaking with all the English-speaking chefs in the kitchen at work. And the waitstaff. And customers. And with the other Italians. Speaking practise with everyone!’
‘Justspeaking with them?’
Marcella raised her wine glass and attempted to hide behind it. ‘. . . Mostly.’
Stella tutted. ‘I should’ve guessed. And did you keep your promise aboutnothaving sex in my room while I was away?’
‘But of course, Stella!’
‘And what about the bathroom, kitchen and all communal areas?’
‘Ineveragreed to the kitchen,’ Marcella replied cheekily. ‘Or the bathroom, in fact.’
Stella winced and downed the remainder of her wine. ‘Oh God.’
Marcella tilted her plate slightly, coaxing the final dregs of sauce onto her crust of bread. Mopping up the last traces, she devoured the morsel with a hearty bite. Exhaling the relieved sigh of a truly contented woman, she flopped back in her chair, caressing her full belly with both hands. Closing her eyes, she savoured the richness which remained on her tongue; sweet yet salty, and deeply flavourful.
‘That good, was it?’ Stella asked, giggling across the table. ‘That,’ she gestured to indicate Marcella’s performance, ‘sounded almost sexual. No need for a partner. Or kitchen. Or bathroom!’
Emerging from her reverie, Marcella said, ‘Wine. Pasta. Sex. The Holy Trinity of my life. I need nothing more. If only I could eat pasta and drink wine while having sex.’
‘Good luck with that.’ Stella sniggered, a few mouthfuls behind her. ‘If anyone can manage to pull that off, I’m sure it will be you.’ She playfully raised her glass.
A comfortable silence fell between them. The wasp-like buzz of a passing Vespa reverberated between the buildings on Via di San Calisto, bouncing off the palazzi before arriving at their open window.
‘Eating is just like making love,no?’ Marcella mused. ‘If the food is good, you want the tastes to linger on your tongue, teasing you long after you have left the table. You want to sing and cheer and tell all your friends about it. If you have a bad meal – and I’ve had many – you want it over quickly. You will pretend to have enjoyed it. It might make you ill or give you a stomach-ache. It might even be so bland that you seek comfort in the thoughts of other things to distract you. It’s the same with sex.’ Marcella wiped the corners of her lips with her napkin, careful not to disturb the precise lines of her trademark red lipstick.
‘I can’t imagine that ever happening to you.’ Stella grinned.
