‘Pleased to meet you.’ Vincent extended a hand to Giuseppe, who immediately disregarded it, opting for a large, powerful bear hug.
‘In this place, we hug. You know,abbracciare?’ Still clinging to Vincent, Giuseppe had him in a stronghold.
Giggling to herself at the confusion on Vincent’s face, Stella felt the need to explain. ‘It’s just how they are. When in doubt, hug it out.’
Finally free from Giuseppe’s firm grip, Vincent straightened his shirt and nodded in agreement. ‘So it would seem. Nice to meet you.’
Marco, who had heard Stella’s initial arrival, was taking refuge in the kitchen. His palms were sweaty and his knees were weak. He had slept terribly, dreading this moment. That initial meeting with Stella in the market had such a profound impact on him, he had struggled to clear her from his mind ever since. It wasn’t that he had never seen such a beautiful woman before – Rome was full of them – it was that he felt a magnetic connection to her, unlike anything he had ever experienced. She was down-to-earth, friendly and loving, and he felt completely at ease in her company. In Marco’s eyes, Stella was perfection.
Never one to draw unnecessary attention to himself, or go out on a limb and risk being hurt, he was paralysed by both the fear of rejection and his desire to be in her company.
‘Thisis the famous wall?’ Marco heard the long-legged man, who was walking up and down the length of the bar with Stella by his side, say. By the nature of her animated gesticulating to the wall, and her series of points and hand measurements, Marco could deduce that she was explaining her idea for the mural’s design to her companion.
Herboyfriend.
Watching from the glass porthole of the kitchen door, Marco’s heart cracked as he saw the man run his hand down the length of Stella’s spine as she continued to talk.
Muffled by the space between them, he could hear the tantalising tingle of her laugh which caught the draught under the door. What did she see in this guy? He was tall and handsome in an American-jock kind of way. Noticing the man’s smart pleated trousers, crisp navy shirt and leather boots, Marco’s confidence sank. Glancing down at his own outfit, he felt perfectly foolish. He had worn his newest pair of jeans and a dark merino wool sweater, trying his best to look effortlessly stylish. Sploshed now with passata and flour, he was, at best, an overdressed sous-chef in a dirty apron.
Perhaps he could sneak out the back and escape for the afternoon? Or would his father stitch him up and force him to face this uncomfortable encounter? An encounter in which only he stood to be hurt.
‘Marco?’ Giuseppe was calling him. He immediately dipped from sight. The call got louder. ‘È arrivata la nostra Stella!’
He couldn’t hide forever. He had to save face. Plucking up his courage and swallowing his pride, Marco pushed through the kitchen door. He beamed a genuine smile upon setting eyes on her. She looked beautiful; her shoulder-length wavy hair bounced joyfully as she reacted to his arrival.
‘Marco!’ She practically jumped into his arms and they shared a warm cuddle. Stella’s enthusiasm upon seeing Marco did not go unnoticed by her companion.
As they pulled apart, they kissed twice on the cheeks and Marco got a whiff of her scent, a combination of jasmine and vanilla. Sweet and calming. Much like she was.
‘And who is this, Stella?’ Marco was trying his best not to seem disingenuous as he half shook the man’s hand, half hugged him, noting how stiff and rigid he was.
‘This is Vincent.’ Stella practically glowed with enthusiasm.
Vincent’s handshake increased in intensity, which Marco found immediately intimidating. Their eyes fixed on each other, not wanting to break contact.
Marco felt significantly smaller than Vincent, not just because of the difference in stature and build, but also in character. Vincent, though seemingly friendly and smiling, exuded a stern, masculine air. He was, if nothing more, an alpha male. With an icy stare and calculating expression, Marco knew that Vincent was sizing him up.
Giuseppe cleared his throat quite loudly, signalling Marco’s retreat. The two shared a look that told Marco to back down and step back. This was not the time or place.
‘Allora, you are hungry,no?’ Giuseppe broke the ice.
‘Yes, we are!’ began Stella. ‘And we can’t wait to see what you have for us today.’
‘We don’t have menus because we are just a bar. But thelistinois on the wall.’ He gestured to the almost indecipherable cursive on the blackboard behind the counter. ‘I’ll bring you both achinotto. Read and I’ll be back. Marco,vieni!’ He led Marco back to the kitchen, leaving Stella and Vincent to decide on their lunch order.
Marco watched the pair from the porthole window of the kitchen door. He caught sight of Vincent gently caressing Stella’s cheek, standing tauntingly close behind her as she read from the wall-mounted menu. Vincent’s hand slid down her shoulder, then back and finally rested on the gentle curve of Stella’s left hip.
Vincent’s mouth pinched into a smirk and he shot an arrogant look over Stella’s shoulder towards the kitchen; a well-timed move to let Marco know that Vincent knew he was watching.
‘Non fare gli occhi dolci!’ was Giuseppe’s whispered warning. It was as firm as he could deliver without his voice travelling out to the bar.
Marco knew his father was right; he had indeed been giving puppy dog eyes to Stella. His judgement was clouded and he was emotional. ‘Ok, Papà.’ He fell silent as Giuseppe headed back into the bar with a tray full ofarancinifor the display cabinet.
Head down and back to work, Marco set about finishing thepizzettethey had been working on. With every roll of the dough under his knuckles, he added more and more pressure. More force. More frustration. Suddenly aware of the noise the dough was making with every push and fold onto the floured countertop, Marco eased up. He felt the tension start to release from his shoulders.
His mind wandered over the next few minutes, trying to clear itself of the mess it had made overnight. Broken sleep and a defeated heart were a bad combination. Marco consoled himself; Stella seemed genuinely happy, even if it was with Vincent. She deserved happiness.
Despite the nagging voice in the back of his mind that was telling him otherwise, he wanted to believe that Vincent was a good guy and that he would look after Stella. Marco was lucky to call Stella a friend, though a relatively new one, and should be happy to have her in his life at all. He had no time for these kinds of distractions, anyway.
