‘I didn’t hear you get in last night. What time was it?’ Stella asked, turning to face him, downing the final bite of hercornetto. Icing sugar coated her lip, which she joyfully licked off.
‘Just after midnight,’ he responded, pouring himself an espresso from the moka.
Marcella’s head swung around with eagle-like speed, and her nostrils flared defensively. Was he kidding? Marcella drew in a deep breath and tried her best to neutralise her adrenaline. ‘Really?’ Her neck craned severely to corner him behind her incredulous stare. ‘I thought I heard you come in at four. At least that’s what my alarm clock said when you woke me.’
Vincent’s eyes narrowed. ‘Four? Not possible. I came in sometime between midnight and quarter-past. If I got home at four do you think I’d be up yet?’
Marcella’s left brow hooked. ‘No.No, I remember seeing the four.’
Vincent joined them at the table, stirring sugar into his coffee. He downed it in one shot. ‘I did get up at some point for a pee. I have no idea what time that was though. Maybe around four. Anyone for another?’ He gestured to his empty cup.
The girls both shook their heads, continuing to eat their breakfast, but Marcella’s mood had darkened. ‘That must have been the reason,’ she said, smiling tightly. Her mind was racing. What she had heardhad notsounded like a bathroom pit-stop, but she had been working herself into the ground lately. Perhaps shehadmisheard? ‘Did you get your work done? The editing?’
‘Ah, yeah. Sort of. It’s a messy job. The brief we received was a little unclear. We were told two different things about the photo specs they needed for the spread. Anyway, we’ve submitted the account. Let’s see what the feedback is today. I won’t be surprised if it’s not perfect enough. We rushed it in the end.’ Vincent helped himself to acornetto. Taking a big bite, he added, ‘The hours are killing me.’
Stella gently stroked the back of his hand. ‘I know.’
Marcella, still sensing something was amiss, continued, ‘So, who are you working with on this account?’
‘Last night’s job?’
‘Yes, which other? You said “we”,no?’
‘Ah yeah, sorry. My colleague, Pietro.’
‘Well, why don’t you invite Pietro here for dinner tonight? Stella and I can cook when we return from our afternoon out. You can work here in peace. Maybe that might free you up for an earlier night?’
Stella clapped her hands in agreement. ‘Great idea. Please say yes,’ she practically begged. ‘We haven’t had dinner together for a week now.’
‘Uh, I’m not so sure about that.’ To Marcella, Vincent seemed a little thrown. ‘Pietro lives a while out of Rome and coming back in at short notice might be a problem. Thanks for the offer, though.’ He went to stand up, but Marcella grabbed his hand, coaxing him back to the table.
‘It’s no problem at all. I’m sure traffic won’t be too bad. It’s Saturday.’
‘Ok, I’ll message him. Not sure what he’ll say.’ Vincent was freed from Marcella’s grip, and reached across and took Stella by the hand. ‘C’mon. Time to catch up.’ Stella smiled as he led her down the corridor to his bedroom, closing the door behind them.
Alone at the table with nothing but thecornettocrumbs, Marcella slumped back in her chair and lit a cigarette. Inhaling a long drag, she then exhaled with a deep sigh.
Itwasfour o’clock that she had seen. Wasn’t it?
Having gushed at the contorted marble figures, the mosaic collection and early calendars, Stella was ready to show Marcella her favourite space in the museum – the Villa di Livia.
‘It’s just through here. Close your eyes!’ Walking carefully behind Marcella, making sure not to catch her heels, Stella covered Marcella’s eyes tightly with both hands.
Marcella put her faith in Stella. If she said it was worth it, then it surely must be. ‘I’m ready when you are.’
‘Tre.Due.Uno. Open!’
Stella removed her hands, stepping back so that Marcella could take in her surroundings. Hit by the engulfing tones of green, blue and turquoise, Marcella gasped, her hands immediately covering her mouth.
It was overwhelming, and the only entrance to the room was behind Marcella, heightening her sense of entrapment.
Stella took a step forward and spread her arms wide. ‘These frescoes were painstakingly removed from their original residence in the name of preservation, and reconstructed at the museum to ensure a long, fruitful life. They depict a beautifully tended, flourishing garden, as you can see.’ She pointed to one particular wall. ‘Fruits, flowers, birds.’ She turned and gestured to the other side. ‘All kinds of flora. When I come here, I feel like I’m being transported two thousand years back in time. As if I’m experiencing Livia’s garden as itmayhave been, or perhaps, how someonewishedit existed in their imagination.’ She moved to the far end and said, ‘It’s so well-preserved that the colours remain bold and distinct. In some areas,’ she pointed to one in particular, ‘they blend and wash together, and create a certain depth of field. In other areas, the sharp lines and intricate details invite the onlooker to reach out and touch the make-believe world, as if it were living and breathing within their own.’ Stella inhaled, smiling contentedly. ‘What do you think?’
‘Magnifico,’ Marcella said. Tempted to see if her eyes were playing tricks on her, she yearned to stroke the walls, convinced that she would be met with the sensation of silky foliage and butter-soft petals. ‘How many times have you come here, Stella?’
Trying to add up the numbers, she realised she had lost count. ‘God, maybe, twenty? Thirty? I can’t remember. I used to come here to think and sketch. Sometimes paint.’ Stella had made herself comfortable on one of the upholstered benches. ‘When people ask me what my favourite painting is – which people ask a lot, being a painter and all – I tell them this. Well, it’s notreallya painting in the traditional sense, is it?’
Marcella nodded.
