Through thinly veiled bravado, he called back, ‘Great! I can’t wait to meet him.’
Inside the kitchen, Giuseppe’s lips curled into a knowing smile.
nove
On her walk home, Stella stopped to grab a slice of pizza from her favouriteal taglioon Via dei Giubbonari. The day’s special was mortadella, potato and rosemary, a delicious combination she simply couldn’t resist. Despite her tendency to over-order to ensure a snack of leftovers, her hip pocket goaded her otherwise.
Stella made her way to sit by Largo di Torre Argentina, the large open archaeological site not far from the Campo de’ Fiori market. Steadying herself with her free hand, she gazed into the depths of the ancient world below her.
From the landing at street level, she watched as a pack of black cats chased a small mouse, nimble enough to escape their advances. They darted skilfully between the shards of marble and rock jutting out from the earth, and Stella smiled. Despite worrying about their dinner, the cats had not a care in the world.
Wouldn’t that be nice. Rent-free Rome, and protected by the law.
Settling down on one of the stone benches close by, Stella exhaled as she brought another mouthful to her lips. The image of her naked limbs entangled with Vincent’s flooded her mind. The way he smelled. His touch. The excitement. The electricity. Despite it all, there was a niggling worry that prodded at her conscience.
This is NOT why you came back to Rome, Stella.
Shaking her head, she swallowed the last bite of pizza and dusted the remnants of crumbs from her fingers.
Withdrawing her phone from her satchel, she refreshed her inbox. A new email awaited her attention, and the preview text –Dear Ms Chiaro, thank you for your interest in our gallery. While we read your CV with interest, we regret to inform you. . . – was enough for her to swipe left and protect her ego for another day.
Her eyes returned to the cats; strays, malnourished, likely flea-infested, but still given a home and protection in the heart of Rome. For a moment, Stella couldn’t help but identify with them.
If Rome looks after its cats, surely it will look after me too?
Opening Notes, she scrolled through some of her yet-to-try work possibilities. Though there were still leads to follow-up, she noted how it had been a while since she added to the list. Every time she opened it, it was to cross one from it.
She sighed, then checked her watch. Couldtodaybe the day?
An artist friend of hers had put in a good word for her at a very small private gallery that had just opened close to Piazza Colonna. She had called to arrange a time with the gallery’s Director for a more formal introduction, still acknowledging it was a long shot. Stella hoped the nepotism and professional courtesy to have the appointment might sway things in her favour. She had to at least try.
Bidding the catsarrivederci, she punched the address into Google Maps, and set off, freshly buoyed by hope and one constant reminder – the clock was ticking.
The pallid woman returned Stella’s smile, but hers was significantly tighter, her lips mere muscular lines featuring no detail. Her nametag readDomitia, and Stella wondered how such a vacant, seemingly soulless woman could have such a colourful Ancient Roman name. Perhaps she was trying to live up to it with the way she handled Stella’s arrival.
Domitia’s eyes glazed over Stella’s CV with little care or consideration. ‘And where was it that you completed your doctoral studies?’ She flicked the page with an air of frustration. ‘I don’t see it written here.’
Stella swallowed. ‘I, uhm, don’t have a PhD. My experience in the field is more industry-bas—’
‘I’m sorry, but we are not currently taking into account staff without the . . .necessaryqualifications.’
Stella couldn’t help but glance around the space – practically empty, spare a few white podiums featuring contorted metal objects made from waste reclaimed from Tiber river – and while she hadn’t intended it to seem sarcastic, perhaps that’s how it came across.
‘Your academic transcript is but a paper napkin here.’
‘But my background—’
‘This is not the place for you. I’m sorry, Ms Chiaro.’
No, she wasn’t. There wasn’tanythingsorry about her. Stella couldn’t fathom Domitia’s self-righteous front and ego-soaked façade. The gallery space was the kind that made one question if the exit sign served as a security function or was a piece for sale.Compared to the others of Rome, this was a lowly pebble, lost in the shadow of the crumbling ancient ruins.
Despite this, Stella pressed on. ‘Please. If there’s any work.Any. I would be truly grateful. I have impeccable references, and I am a quick learner.’
The woman’s angular, waif-thin body pivoted on one hip. She reassessed Stella’s CV, and shook her head. ‘We really have nothing foryou.’
Stella nodded her defeat with grace. ‘Thank you for what I hope is your honesty.’ She turned to leave, collecting her CV from the glass counter, noting the freshly stained creases of her cuticles from the morning’s work at the bar. Domitia noticed them too, and splayed her own strikingly red nails to assess their sheen.
‘Wait,’ Domitia said, stepping forward. ‘Weareacquiring works, if that helps your . . . situation. Are you an artist?’
