‘Oh,sì. A few times.’ She sat up straight in her chair, adjusting her bosom as she did so. ‘But only because the men didn’t know how to . . .cookproperly.’ She smirked, finally happy with how her breasts sat in their crimson lacy home. Only Marcella, a fiery Bologna native, could make dirty chef whites sexy.
‘You’re incredible, you know that?’ Stella smiled at Marcella, continuing to twirl and spin the last straggling strands of spaghetti.
Winking, she said, ‘I know. I hear it all the time.’
Crumpling her face at the over-share, Stella said, ‘Come to think of it, must we talk about sex while we eat? I mean, really?’
‘Correction: whileyouare eating.Iam finished.’ Topping off her glass, she began, ‘Life is like a goodragù. . .’ Stella rolled her eyes. ‘It’s chunky, meaty and you need to soak it up. Some people don’t like onion, but it’s important because it gives immense flavour. Carrot and celery provide a sort of sweet stickiness. Then there’s the garlic . . .’
‘You know I don’t like too much garlic in myragù. Or onion. The fructo—’
‘Fuck the fructose.That’syour problem,’ Marcella jabbed, pointing an accusatory finger across the table.
‘What?’
‘Your lifeneedsgarlic and onion. Without them, life is bland. It has no punch. No harmonious blend of earthy undertones and sweet beginnings. Everyone needs them in their life—’ She stopped abruptly, interrupted by the turn of a key in the door.
A tall, mousy-blond-haired man stepped into their living room, causing Stella to jump from fright, spraying a mouthful of water over the table. Instinctively, she reached for a weapon, her fingers finding only the cheese grater.
Marcella calmly waved Stella back into her seat, reassuring her everything was ok. Stella’s eyes followed Marcella’s to meet the man, who was now in the kitchen, peering into the fridge. Marcella tapped the side of her nose inconspicuously. She raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow, tongue cocked behind her front teeth. Stella took this to mean,Shut up and pay attention.
The stranger had located the milk he had been searching for. After taking a long drink from the carton, he put it back in the fridge and left the kitchen. Walking back through the living room without so much as acknowledging the pair, he made his way down the corridor leading to the three bedrooms. The door to the spare room on the right of the corridor slammed shut behind him.
‘Who the bloody hell is that?’ Stella hissed under her breath, heart pounding in her chest. Her fist was still clenched around the cheese grater, knuckles as white as the tablecloth.
‘That,tesoro, was your fructose.’ Marcella picked at something caught between her front teeth. ‘Stellamia, it seems we have a new roommate.Americano. He arrived yesterday.’ Marcella leaned back in her chair with a confident air.
A new roommate? How was that even possible? And . . . a male? Stella’s mind raced with questions and worries, but it was the most simple – logistical, even – thought that left her lips first. ‘But . . . I thought Carlotta’s room would be vacant until the end of November?’
‘I know. Giulio and Elda came past the other day to let us know that they had an enquiry online for the spare room, someone who wanted to rent it long-term. You’ve been away and missed all the moving inaction.’
Stella was intrigued. ‘Action?’
‘Sì. Up and down the stairs. Sweating and grunting. T-shirt on, then off, then on again. I learned a new word: “burly”. Elda said that if she were forty years younger—’
‘Ok, ok. Enough, I get the picture. Just the thought of Elda doinganythingsexual – God love her – is simply too much for my tired little brain to compute.’ Stella narrowed in on Marcella. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about him as soon as I got home? Or message while I was away?’
‘Because it’s more fun this way!’ she said, cackling with delight.
It was then that Stella conceded to her curiosity. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. ‘So, what do you know about him? Well, you know, besides the fact that we need to show him where we keep the drinking glasses.’
‘Allora. . .’ Marcella paused, lowering her volume to match Stella’s. ‘His name is Vincent Baker.’
Stella stifled the smile that wanted to break upon hearing Marcella’s thick Italian accent handle the -ker with her curly rolled R. ‘Ok . . .’ Stella made a mental note.
‘I checked the name on his suitcase in between his grunty, sweaty trips up and down the stairs. He is American, doesn’t like to talk and is a photographer. Or, so I think. He has lots of cameras and tripods. He either uses them or sells them. Or makes porn. I don’t know.’
Stella wanted to sidestep the porn comment, but felt the need to defend their new roommate. ‘He could be a travel photographer or work for one of the local media outlets. Whymustyou go straight to porn?’
‘You know I can’t help myself.’ She smiled, revealing coffee-stained teeth. ‘And besides, it might spark things up around here. You could use some sex.’
Stella scoffed as quietly as she could. ‘Excuse me?’ She often felt self-conscious about her love life – or lack thereof – when Marcella’s was so proudly and openly on display. Her closest friend in Rome had no issue flaunting her sexual escapades, whereas Stella felt thatsomethings were best kept private.
Marcella flapped her arms frustratedly. ‘When did you last have sex, Fructose Queen? Hmm? Withthoseunderpants? Tell me.’
‘Erm . . .’
‘Allora?’
