‘Sure. I guess that would be nice.’ Elisabetta scribbled her number on a paper napkin and handed it to Vincent.
‘Grazie, signorina!’ he teased, putting on his best Italian accent.
‘Prego, signorino!’ She played along, ‘In Italian we say,non vedo l’ora. It means, “I can’t wait”.’
Vincent threw on his jacket and slung his satchel over his shoulder, kissed her on both cheeks and left the bar.
From a vantage point by the window, she watched him disappear down the road on foot. For good measure, she waited a moment to ensure he wouldn’t suddenly reappear. Phone in hand, she dialled and, to avoid the wrong ears being privy to the conversation, she decided to speak in the best-hushed English an Italian could muster.
‘Pronto?’ said the voice on the other end of the line.
‘It’s done. You were right, Marcella.’
‘Bastardo! I knew it.Brava,Carlotta. Meet me in an hour.’
Carlotta ended the call and sighed, shaking her head in disbelief.
Marcella figured that the Virgin Mary and all the saints would provide shelter to plot and scheme unseen, so they met at a bar near the Vatican, commandeering one of the outdoor tables.
‘That bastard!’ Marcella snarled, gripping her coffee with white knuckles.
‘Calm down.’ Carlotta handed her a glass of water. ‘The caffeine won’t help your stress levels. And the last thing you need is an assault charge.’
Marcella took a deep breath and tried to reset her nerves. ‘Tell me everything before I kill him. I need to get the story straight.’ Beads of sweat had formed around her neck and décolletage, and her hair clung to her face in streaked strands.
Carlotta recounted the afternoon’s events, imitating Vincent to the best of her ability, avoiding the overwhelming desire to portray him as some kind of sick and twisted caricature from a black-and-white melodrama.
‘Did he take your number?’
‘Yes, and we can only hope he calls. Without contact, we can’t accuse him of anything. We are completely at the mercy of his ego.’
‘His penis, you mean?’
Carlotta scowled through a grimace. ‘I’m not sure he will call. He left the bar quite abruptly. He said he got a message from his boss who wanted him back at the office. If he really wanted to pursue me – I mean, “Elisabetta” – would he have left?’
‘That’s normal. It happens all the time. His work is very erratic like that. Late night calls. Deadlines . . .’ Marcella stopped dead and sighed. ‘I’m so stupid.’
‘No. You’re a good friend.’ She tugged at the strands of long, blonde hair, which had caught in her earrings.
Suddenly, Carlotta’s phone vibrated on the table top, and Marcella sucked in a deep, steeling breath. ‘God . . .’
A message had appeared from an unknown contact. Without context, without reason, it sat there obnoxiously on the screen:Dinner tonight? Can’t stop thinking about you. V.
Marcella closed her eyes in disbelief.
‘Do you have any restaurant or bar connections on the other side of Rome? You know, away from Trastevere and anywhere close to where Stella is tonight?’ Carlotta asked.
Marcella shot her an aggrieved look. ‘Don’t insult me.’
‘Oh, sorry. Of course.’
‘There’s Giacomino. From Bologna. We trained together. I haven’t spoken to him or seen him in a year, or so. Do you remember him?’ She winked at Carlotta, indicating that their last encounter was of the sexual kind. ‘Good kisser. Huge—’
‘Yes, I remember!’ she jumped in, cutting her off. ‘I used to hear you and Giant Giacomino through the walls.’
Marcella smirked. ‘Last I heard, he had opened anenotecain Nomentano. Good food. He was a better barista and barman than chef.’ With her tongue pressed against the back of her front teeth, she paused to think. ‘Let me call him and see if he’s working tonight. If he is, I am sure he will help. Maybe we could book a table for the two of you, go along, have anice timetogether . . .’
‘I refuse to kiss him!’ Carlotta announced.
