‘No, no! But we can ask Giacomino to take a few photos of you two together as evidence of Vincent’s lying and cheating. Because he will of course have told Stella he is working late.’
Carlotta nodded, taking in the last of her water. ‘Call him.’
They were in luck. Giacomino did still have hisenotecain Nomentano and was working that night. Marcella explained the situation, and he arranged a booking for Elisabetta, for two at eight-thirty – a cosy table not far from the service bar.
‘Now, set it all up. Message Vincent back with an invitation and details.’ She passed her own phone across the table.
‘And what if he doesn’t want to go there?’ Carlotta asked, copying the name and address of theenotecainto her reply text.
‘You are dangling a vagina. He will come.’
Carlotta made a V with her fingers and pranced it through the air. ‘Let’s hope.’
ventitré
Stella, who had long-commandeered one of the bar’s embroidered aprons, stood on shaky legs after a day of painting. Despite her fatigue, she decided to stay a few extra hours at the bar to get ahead while Vincent was working late. With flecks of white and grey across her face, and one long black drip down her right forearm, she was a sight to behold.
‘I could watch you do this all day.’
‘All day? Or all night?’ Stella giggled, gesturing to the thickening darkness through the bar’s front window.
‘Both.’ Marco sat perched atop one of the tables closest to where Stella was painting, studying her every stroke. ‘How do you know how to do that? How to move and twist it. You make it look so easy.’
She held up the thick, wooden-handled brush in her hand. ‘This is a monster compared to what I usually use.’ Dabbing the end of the bristles in some fresh white, she mixed it to a shale grey on her palette. ‘My hands just know what to do now.’ She paused for a moment, thinking of Alejandro Ortega, and smiled. ‘It’s like riding a bike. You never forget. Want to give it a go?’
‘Ok,dai.’ He set down his espresso cup and dusted off his hands, building a façade of thinly veiled bravado for comic effect.
Stella turned with bright eyes. ‘Si chiama Pietro e torna indietro,’ she joked, indicating that she would eventually need the brush back. Marco laughed away her concerns, accepting it in his hand. ‘Prego,signore.’ She ushered him to where she was standing and adjusted how his fingers held the brush. ‘Relax your hand,’ she said, gently stroking the meaty pad of his thumb.
Marco steadied himself and brought the bristles to within millimetres of the wall. ‘Se faccio un casino. . .’
‘Yes, yes. I can fix it up.’ She patted him on the shoulder. ‘C’mon.’ Taking his hand into hers, she guided the brush into place.
‘Dio. . .’ Marco breathed as it made contact.
Stella, who was now stood closely behind him, felt him tense. ‘Now, short delicate strokes. You want to add colour, not move it around. Just dab it.Un tocco. Un pizzico.’
‘Like this?’
‘Good pressure. Excellent.’ Stella drew the brush downwards, and continued to guide his hand. ‘Bravo, Marco.’
They continued in this manner for a minute or so, until Stella sensed Marco’s hold on the brush loosen and his shoulders relax. ‘I’m going to let go now, and you’re going to try it alone.’
‘Da solo?’ He turned, and the brush smacked into Stella’s torso. ‘Oh no!Scusami!’
‘Doesn’t matter. That’s why there’s an apron.’ She pivoted him back to his previous position, lined up his hand and slowly backed away. ‘Now, off you go.’
Marco steeled himself with a deep breath, which he instinctively held to steady himself. The brush hit the wall with a little too much force, causing the bristles to buckle. ‘No, Stella . . .’
‘Shh. Just gentle.’
Marco tried a second time, landing it with greater confidence. Mimicking the controlled movements of Stella’s support, he managed a few independent brushstrokes. ‘My heart is going to explode,’ he said, continuing to add more paint to the scene.
‘You learn to enjoy it.’
‘How did Michelangelo paint theCappella Sistina?’ He continued to dab.
‘With deft hands, a lifetime of experience and natural talent.’
