‘È possibile, no?’
‘Well, actually, Giuseppe mentioned a few weeks ago that Marco said I’m beautiful.’
‘A gay man can still think you’re beautiful! That doesn’t mean he wants to finger you in an oiled tray like focaccia dough. Of course you can be beautiful without the sex!’ Oozing sarcasm and confidence, she added, ‘Of course, something, or someone,’ she elbowed Stella, ‘can be beautiful without sexual attraction. Everything is beautiful in Roma! The traffic. The chaos. Even the graffiti is beautiful!’ Filling a large pot on the stove with water, Marcella waited for Stella’s reply. ‘No?’
‘Oh God, you’re right. How completely self-involved am I that I thought Marco must be attracted to me? Ugh! I am theworst.’ She moaned and threw her face into her starchy hands.
‘Zitta! It’s ok. Everyone’s a little self-involved. It’s how we survive . . . well, everything. Wars. Occupation. Public transport strikes.’
Stella felt foolish to have assumed that Marco’s kind nature and compliments were anything more than polite and friendly. She wanted to clear this muck from her mind and move on. Vincent would surely see the same. With time, he would come to understand that their working relationship was merely that. Two colleagues with a lot in common – a love of good food, Rome and art – could indeed be good friends, even if they were of the opposite sex.
Whistling to catch Stella’s attention, Marcella wafted the steam from the boiling pot of water and motioned for Stella to bring her the peeled potatoes.
‘Ok, enough bullshit . . . Is that how you say it?’ Marcella asked.
Laughing, Stella agreed, ‘Yes.Bullshitis exactly what it is.’
‘Now, thegnocchi. We need to move faster or we eat raw potato for dinner.’
As the potatoes boiled, Marcella taught Stella all about the different varieties best used forgnocchi. Apparently, not just any old potato will do. After draining and passing the steaming hot lumps through the ricer, Marcella folded the cloud-like mash through the flour. Up and over, she worked, careful not to over-work the dough.
‘Too much and they are like little bricks. Not enough and they won’t hold their shape.’ Marcella kept going.
‘How do you know when enough is enough?’ Stella thought this was a fair question.
‘You just know. You know?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Don’t worry, you will learn to know.’
This wasn’t worth a logical counterargument. ‘Ok, Marcella.’ She gave her a warm side cuddle.
Marcella couldn’t reciprocate, elbow-deep in flour. She merely placed a kiss on Stella’s cheek, nuzzling into her embrace.
‘These need sage and butter,no?’
‘Perfetto!’ Stella pounced on the fridge, eager to get dinner moving.
Hearing the latch catch on Vincent’s bedroom door, Marcella woke with a start.
She heard Vincent’s muffled movements as he moved around his bedroom – the slow opening and closing of drawers, feet padding lightly on the parquetry floor, his watch being set down on his desk, then the familiar click of his lamp and the shuffling of bedcovers.
Marcella rolled over, facing her bedside table. She winced through one squinted eye, trying desperately to read the illuminated digits on her alarm clock.
04:00
sedici
‘I was thinking of heading to the Museo Nazionale Romano. Want to come?’ Stella asked the following morning, passing Marcella a secondcornetto.
‘It’s going to rain no matter what we do.’ She leaned back on her chair to catch a glimpse of the grey skies. With a mouthful of pastry, she said, ‘I’ll come.’
‘Great. Shall we ask Vincent too? I suspect he won’t want to. He had a late night. Did you hear him come in?’
Just before Marcella could respond, Vincent appeared at the entrance to the hallway. Half-asleep, hair unkempt, in his pyjamas.
‘Morning,’ was the only word he could muster. He walked over, kissed Stella on the forehead and continued into the kitchen.
