‘You should try this!’ Marcella said to Vincent. ‘Before it flies away!’
Scowling, he cautiously inspected the fork Marcella held out for him, ‘What ispiccione?’
‘Pigeon.’
‘That’s it!’ He rose from the table, slapping down his napkin. ‘I’m done!’ He called one of the waiters over to the table. ‘This pizza, I need it to go.’
Stella’s eyes widened and the blood drained from her face. ‘What are you doing? What’s wrong?’
‘I’m leaving.’ He dropped some money on the table. ‘I can’t believe that you, of all people, Stella, would rather eat thatverminthan share a meal with me. Especially since you know how I feel about it.’ He shook his head then disappeared in a huff with his sad little boxed pizza.
Marcella and Stella were gobsmacked. Had that just happened?
Vincent’s abrupt departure from the table had earned the attention of a few diners eating at nearby tables, all lowering their voices to discuss the scene.
Never one to be made a fool of, Marcella interrupted the tension looming over their nook of the restaurant. ‘Torna a casa. Non si sente bene.’
A few patrons looked concerned for Vincent, nodding with goodwill. Should he have actually returned home due to feeling unwell it would have been fine, but that wasn’t the case at all.
‘Allora,’ Marcella started, wanting to be the first to comment, ‘I wasnotexpecting that.’
Stella didn’t know what to say.
There’s the adrenaline again. Bubbling up. Familiar, isn’t it?
Stella placed her fork down and tried to clear the saliva which had gathered in her throat. It took two deep swallows. Was Vincent so close-minded that he couldn’t even share a table with people who were eating a meal he considered objectionable?
Butwhatwas objectionable?
And how dare he take that swipe at Stella’s motivations.
They were enjoying a delicious plate ofpiccione, cooked low and slow, as has been done for centuries in Rome. They weren’t wild pigeons, riddled with diseases; they were sustainably farmed pigeons, bred and reared by a game farmer Marcella knew personally.
‘That was . . . out of character,’ Stella said, stunned, trying to colour the moment with some sense of reason.
Marcella cautiously whispered, ‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘What?’
‘Vincent’s choice to leave the restaurant like that was not out of character,’ Marcella said plainly. ‘ThatwasVincent. That was the Vincent we met the first time he came to the apartment. Remember?’
With her feet restlessly tapping the floor, Stella asked, ‘Can we just eat in peace and deal with this when we get home?’ She continued to pick at the food on her plate, though the hungry pit in her stomach had been replaced by a knot of tension.
‘No.’ Marcella wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. ‘Withhimgone, this is a good time to talk.’
Stella’s tone sharpened, and her eyes rolled across the restaurant. ‘Right here, right now?’
Marcella, looking around at the same previously concerned sets of eyes, retreated a little. ‘No. Outside.Vai!’
‘Are you serious?’ Stella’s shoulders suddenly drew together.
‘Go,’ she pressed, dropping money on the table.
Following with a grunt, Stella said, ‘Ok, Marcella. Get whatever it is that’s bothering you off your chest.’ The dimly lit street around the corner did well to hide her reddening cheeks.
‘You,’ Marcella opened with a commanding finger point, ‘are lost!’
Stella’s hands waved with an incredulous air. ‘Excuse me?’
