‘No idea. I never actually saw him.’ She gave Marcella a limp ragdoll hug. ‘I’m going back to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.’ Just before closing her door, she added, ‘How was your shift?’
‘Tough. The bus ride home was tougher.’
‘Bus ride? Where’s yourmotorino?’
‘I’ll tell you in the morning. Go back to sleep. Sorry for waking you, Stellina.Buonanotte.’
‘Notte.’
As her head hit the pillow and she closed her eyes, Marcella was unable to erase the image of the kissing man from her memory.
Marcella was no one’s fool. She would get to the bottom of this.
Ride bene chi ride ultimo, she thought, before allowing the melatonin to take over.
ventidue
Twenty minutes late, Vincent checked his watch as he entered the bar that Friday morning. Taking a cursory look around, he noted that Marcella was nowhere to be seen. He sighed as his hastened breath begged to escape.
Signalled to take any table inside, Vincent opted for one of the vacant stools at the end of the bar. The smell of freshly brewed coffee caught his attention. It was almost two-thirty and he hadn’t yet eaten anything for the day. His stomach growled at him, begging for anything to fill its cavernous void.
Ordering himself a coffee andtramezzino al salmone, he made himself comfortable.
He checked his phone – no message from Marcella. No communication, no excuse, noI’m sorry, running latetext.
Time eventually got away. Having lost himself in a copy ofLa Repubblica,he was about to make a move, calling the afternoon and Marcella’s no-show a frustrating write-off. Suddenly, the door’s brass bell signalled the arrival of a customer.
Vincent turned, half expecting to see Marcella’s mop of dark curls bounce through the door. He was caught off-guard by the arrival of an attractive blonde, her feminine frame perched perfectly upon her slender legs. With grace and poise, she stepped through the crowd, waiting by the cashier to order coffee. She moved as if in slow motion. A carefully manicured fingernail traced its way down the menu she had taken from the counter. Not finding what she was hoping to, she took a look at the ready-madepaniniandtramezzinion display.
Suddenly aware of the fact that she was being watched, she turned and looked at Vincent. He attempted to avert his gaze, though failed miserably.
‘Sì?’ she asked directly.
‘Ah,scusami,’ Vincent started. ‘Sei molto bella.’
The young woman was no stranger to unsolicited attention from men. She smiled at his comment, returning her focus to her lunch order.
‘Non parlo italiano,’ he added for good measure. He waited, hoping she would return a comment.
In perfect English, she laughed. ‘But you find yourself readingLa Repubblicain a suburb of Rome only frequented by locals. I think you know exactly what you are doing,signorino.’
Her confidence and quick wit threw Vincent. ‘Ok, you got me. And I would recommend thetramezzino al salmone. Unless, of course, you’re allergic to fish, in which case I would suggest thecotto e formaggio.’ He was pleased with how he was able to return serve with a healthy dose of cheeky banter. ‘Are you eating alone? Come and join me.’
He shifted along the counter, freeing up space. She somewhat reluctantly sat alongside Vincent, noting how busy the bar was. Unsure of how she should feel dining with a complete stranger, she smiled uncomfortably.
‘Vincent,’ he said.
‘Elisabetta,’ she replied. ‘Is this how you pick up unsuspecting women in Roman bars on a Friday afternoon?’
‘Me? No, never!’ He grinned. ‘But it works.’ Raising an eyebrow, he sent Elisabetta a very clear message that he was impressed by her straight-talking ways. In such close confines, he was able to take in the scent of her rose-laced perfume and notice the almond brown flecks in her hazel eyes. ‘For the record, I wasn’t lying when I said you were beautiful.’
‘Well, thank you. And while we are swapping truths . . .’ She paused for dramatic effect, lowering her voice. ‘I prefer to readIl Messaggero.’
They spent the better part of an hour chatting casually, laughing and swapping stories. Vincent learned that Elisabetta, a Roman native, was only in town for a week, visiting family before heading back to Torino, where she worked in advertising for a major international coffee brand.
As Vincent was about to order another round of coffee, his phone buzzed and Stella’s name flashed across the screen.
‘It’s my boss. He needs me back at the office. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to cut this short. Perhaps we can continue this over dinner before you head back to Torino?’
