Late that Sunday evening, Marcella’s back ached and her feet throbbed as she finally escaped the steam-heavy kitchen and stepped onto the cobblestones of Monti. Filling in at late notice for her friend Claudio, she’d spent thirteen hours covering both the lunch and dinner services short-staffed, and was now exhausted and emotional.
In a fashion only she knew how, Marcella simultaneously mounted hermotorinoand lit a cigarette. She took a moment to catch her breath and enjoy the first drag; so well-earned, so rich and warming.
Clicking on her helmet, cigarette positioned cautiously between her knees, she was comforted by the fact that at almost 2 am, at the speed she knew she could travel, she would be home in fifteen minutes. Her bike buzzed into life. She flicked down the plastic visor on her helmet, tossed the cigarette over her left shoulder to keepil diavoloat bay, and kicked the stand back into place.
No sooner had she turned it on than she had to kill the engine. Pathetic and droopy, the front tyre sagged like a half-filled sack of potatoes.
‘Santa Maria!’she moaned.
Gathering her things, she locked up her bike and made for the path that would take her out of Monti and back down towardsPiazza Venezia. From there, she decided she would take anotturnobus across the river and back to Trastevere.
Lighting another cigarette for company on the walk, she buttoned up her leather jacket and tightened her scarf. Winter was certainly knocking at Rome’s gates. Marcella consoled herself with the private thought that this would be the last favour she did for Claudio for a while. If ever.
As the door to a wine bar a few paces ahead opened, Marcella’s attention snapped back. Music and laughter spilled onto the quiet street for a second, only to disappear again as the door slammed shut, securing the pleasure within. Right now, in the state she was in, she couldn’t think of anything worse than alcohol and the thump of hormone-tinted bass.
Through the front window, she was able to make out some silhouettes and faces of the patrons inside.
‘Ma, no. . .’ she muttered under her breath. She shook her head and looked again.
Marcella’s gaze was fixed on two entangled figures sharing a velour-covered armchair in the front section of the bar. A petite redhead had looped her arms and legs around a muscular-armed man. His face had disappeared, buried in the nape of her neck, kissing and caressing her décolletage. They were completely consumed by each other.
Hoping to conceal her identity, Marcella pulled the scarf over her hair to get a closer look at the man. She just had to get a second look at his face. Surely, she was seeing things.
As if on cue, the man looked up from the bosom of his seductive partner, took a swig of wine, then returned to his prior position. Marcella’s stomach suddenly flipped.
‘Vincent?’ The name escaped her mouth without conscious thought.
She turned away in disbelief. There was no possible chance. No. None at all. Her eyes must have been playing tricks on her. It couldn’t have been Vincent. He and Stella had plans this evening. Stella had told her earlier that morning – dinner then a movie.
Hands fumbling in her bag, she withdrew her phone, opened the camera, turned off the flash and shot as best as she could through the window.
Throwing herself against the rendered wall to the side of the building, she grabbed her breasts with both hands, still clutching the phone. She could feel her heartbeat smash against the inside of her ribcage, almost in time with the noxious music.
Righting her phone, she pinched the screen to zoom and take a closer look.
‘Cazzo,’ she whispered.
The image was grainy, and some of the glare reflecting from the bar’s window did distort the photo. But itwasa photo nonetheless, and itdidlook like Vincent.
Despite the poor quality, it was enough for Marcella’s previous seeds of doubt to suddenly bloom.
Fumbling with shaking hands, Marcella entered the apartment, leaving her possessions in a heap on the table. The kitchen light had been left on, providing enough light for Marcella to notice that both the doors to Stella and Vincent’s rooms were closed. Tiptoeing to Vincent’s door, she pressed her ear to the wood panel, praying to hear the dull tones of his peaceful breathing.
At this point, she toyed with the idea of giving up and going to bed. The reality of what she suspected of Vincent – her roommate, and above all, her best friend’s partner – suddenly hit her.
Marcella had been an idiot to even think Vincent was capable of such hurtful actions. She was sobered by this thought and resigned herself to the status of Rome’s biggest fool. Just as she was about to pull away from the door, she was interrupted.
‘Marcella?’ Stella popped her head around her bedroom door. By the look of her sleep-filled eyes and tousled hair it was clear that Marcella’s arrival had woken her. ‘What’s going on?’
Thinking fast Marcella whispered, ‘Ciao cara. I just got home from work and thought I heard a strange noise coming from Vincent’s room. Maybe a bad dream?’
‘What?’ Meeting her in the corridor, Stella emerged squinty-eyed. Without hesitation, she opened the door to Vincent’s bedroom and switched on the light. No hesitation, no restraint. She knew he wasn’t there. ‘He’s out.’
Marcella suddenly went cold. She felt the blood drain from her head and stockpile in the pit of her stomach. Pushing the saliva that had gathered at the back of her throat down into her belly with a deep swallow, she asked, ‘Where is he?’
Through a yawn, Stella said, ‘He messaged me late this afternoon. Something about having to meet in thecentro. A work thing. Some player caught up in a social media viral post situation. I don’t know. A last-minute damage control press conference.’
‘When did he leave?’
