‘Maybe, like . . .’ Stella’s eyes hit the ceiling, scanning her mind back to—
‘If you can’t remember, Stella . . .’
‘Dare I even ask, huh?’ Stella said, returning serve.
‘Twice last night. A new waiter from work. Dutch. But this isn’t about me. Stella, you are so uptight, it would take at least one hundred orgasms to loosen your grip – even justun pochino– on your good girl façade.Santa Maria!’
‘You and I are completely different people, Marcella. You sleep with just about—’
‘You’re right! I do,’ Marcella interjected. ‘Andyoucould be this happy too!’
They both erupted in laughter, causing Marcella to drop her wine glass.
Vincent reappeared at the doorway. He stopped, standing tall, his right arm perched against the wooden framework. The ladies were startled into silence.
Stella cleared her throat nervously. Vincent’s piercing blue eyes were accentuated by his navy check shorts. Marcella made no attempt to hide her approval of his perfect physique from Stella, casting her a meaningful glance as she wiped the spilled wine from the parquetry floor with a napkin.
‘Ladies, I appreciate that you might like to talk and gossip, but please go elsewhere if you wish to continue this embarrassing, sex-fuelled, idle chitchat. Or at least have the courtesy to whisper more quietly. If that’s even possible.’ His last comment was directed squarely at Marcella. ‘Some of us have places to be early in the morning.’ With that, he paused for a moment before adding, ‘This apartment was advertised as non-smoking.’ He motioned to the lipstick-stained cigarette butt lying by Marcella’s plate, glaring at both of them before he turned and left.
‘Vaffanculo!’ Marcella swore back at him as she rose from the floor.
Again, the door to the spare room slammed shut, although this time louder and with greater force.
Mortified, Stella rose from her chair and began pacing back and forth. ‘Marcella! What if he tells Giulio and Elda?’ Stella suddenly felt a hollow pit form in her stomach. She cared very much for Giulio and Elda, the owners of the apartment they shared. And Stella, by her very kind-hearted nature, couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing them, or anyone, for that matter.
Marcella lit another cigarette, purely out of spite. ‘That I smoke? They know I do. Once, I accidentally—’
‘No! What if he lodges some kind of complaint about us?’
‘Calmati, Stella,dai! Marcella casually exhaled a mouthful of curly white smoke in the direction of Vincent’s room. ‘They love us too much to care about whathesays.’ With her cigarette perched between her lips and her hands now full of broken glass, Marcella headed into the kitchen. The wine-tinged shards hit the bottom of the bin with a loud shatter. ‘He’s only temporary.’ She dried her hands on her chef jacket. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll see.’ She sucked down a long drag. ‘Roma will eat him alive.’
Marcella moaned loudly before eyeing off the last of the butt between her fingers. She exhaled, and they both watched as the grey tendrils danced on the autumnal evening breeze which floated in from the open window. With it came the arrival of low-level street noise: the muffled words of passers-by; the putt-putt of a tired Piaggio Ape; and the distant rumble of traffic making its return journey across Rome. It all seemed to appear suddenly as Marcella sat, unusually quiet, mindlessly picking at crumbs she found on the tablecloth.
Still on her feet, Stella broke the tension that lingered in the living room. ‘I know I only just flew in, but I really want to head up to Florence to visit Carlotta.’ Leaning against the window frame, she peered out onto the street below, remembering the good times the three of them had shared in their cramped pre-war apartment. Stella ran her hands over the silk drapes Carlotta had made from the endless supply of luxury fabrics from her work at an interior design firm. ‘Can we visit her soon? Together?’
‘Stellina, maybe in a few weeks. I am so busy at the restaurant at the moment. I don’t think Gianni will give me a weekend off soon.’ Marcella sighed.
Gianni had proved to be a fair but tough head chef, modelling the premise that respect is earned and not bought – not even with sex, as Marcella had learned the hard way.
‘That’s a shame,’ Stella said, her focus returning to life on Via di San Calisto.
Marcella joined Stella at the window. Nuzzling in beside her, she asked, ‘Have you ever lived with a man?’
Stella’s skin began to prickle, but she tried her best to breathe through the unwelcome sensation. ‘Just once. You?’
‘The only place I want a man is in my bed, Stella,’ she affirmed, extinguishing the final fleck of red from her cigarette on the windowsill. As she often did, Marcella tossed the dead butt onto the street below, despite numerous tellings-off from Stella not to do so. On this occasion, Stella was simply too tired to put up a fight.
‘What about Federico? You were together for years. You didn’t live together?’ Stella asked.
‘Would living together have changed anything?’ Marcella looked up at the night sky, avoiding Stella’s gaze. ‘I don’t know.’
Stella wrapped her arm around Marcella’s waist and pulled her close. Sensing she had struck a nerve, she changed the subject. ‘I guess this means no more drying our bras and undies on the shower rail. No more packs of tampons left by the toilet.’
‘Why should we change the way we have always lived? We are women. We have needs.’ The fire returned to Marcella’s eyes. ‘Nothing changes.Niente!’
Stella shook her head. ‘Marcella, we need to make this guy feel comfortable. Just like you and Carlotta did for me when I arrived. Giulio and Elda would expect it.’
Marcella was suddenly wary about challenging her with a rebuttal, knowing Stella to be too stubborn to let these sorts of things go. ‘Va bene. But the tampons stay,’ she added. ‘I’ll start with the clean-up here.’
