Slipping a paint-stained cardigan over her shoulders, she headed for the kitchen.
Stuck to the fridge was a note scribbled in Marcella’s curly handwriting:
I’ll come see you at the mercato at 13.00. Gianni messaged. Going now to get the meat order for tonight’s sitting. Let’s have lunch. Don’t start until 18.00, a dopo.
Smiling to herself, Stella folded the note in half and was just about to put it in the bin when she was startled.
It was Vincent.
‘Oh. Good morning!’ Stella said, caught off-guard. She instinctively pulled the edges of her cardigan closed across her chest, but the feeling of her unsupported breasts beneath the thin cotton made her cheeks flush.
We have company now. Out of bed? Bra goes on!
Vincent, trying to carry two tripods and several camera bags, knocked a dining chair over on his way to the kitchen. ‘Goodmorning? Is it, really? What’s good about it? I’m jet lagged. I slept through my alarm and missed an important meeting. This means I won’t make my editor’s deadline. So, actually, it’s not good. At all!’ He was loud, abrupt and rude.
Stella was about to lend a hand, but he shut her down before she had the chance to open her mouth.
‘Oh, and so you know, there are bags of fabric off-cuts in my room. I need them gone by the end of the day, as well as the collection of underwear strewn all over the bathroom.’
Determined not to let him get the better of her, she smiled and offered her free hand as a sign of goodwill. ‘I’m Stella, by the way.’
‘And I’m late.’
After grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl, he left, slamming the entrance door behind him. Twice in as many days, Stella stood in her apartment, stunned and lost for words. With her hand still outstretched – a gesture he purposely ignored – she felt the perfect fool.
A braless, well-meaning fool.
All that remained, besides the thickening silence, was the lingering trail of Vincent’s cologne. Despite herself, Stella caught herself enjoying the scent: Fresh. Clean. Masculine.
Bringing herself back to the moment, Stella made her way to the bathroom. Opening the door, she couldn’t help but laugh at the sight which greeted her.
Hanging from every fixture, and suspended wherever conceivably possible, were items from Marcella’s lingerie collection. Bras, underwear, stockings and all manner of hosiery decorated every inch of the bathroom. Rolling her eyes, she knew that Marcella simply couldn’t help herself. True to form, the shelf hanging over the toilet had been restocked with pads and tampons. And, for good measure, Marcella’s silicone menstrual cup now sat front and centre.
Returning to her bedroom, Stella tied back the curtains and opened the window.
A glorious October morning waited for her outside. The sun cast its glow across the terracotta buildings of Trastevere, and Stella breathed in the sweet perfume of the lilac wisteria cascading from the terrace of their palazzo.Feeling the almost tangible rays beaming down upon her from the heavens above, Stella inhaled deeply, filled with an inextinguishable love for the city she called home.
Rome sweet home.
Quickly selecting a nude bra, white t-shirt, a navy cotton midi skirt and her weathered ‘but they still have lots of life left in them’ brown sandals, she was almost ready to face the day.
Stella finger brushed her hair in the kitchen, checking her reflection in the stainless steel of the moka pot while it prepared her morning coffee. Stella never fussed with make-up, epitomising the simple Italianragazza acqua e saponelook. This morning, it took both the soap and water, plus a double shot from the moka, to get her out the door.
Bra on, of course.
due
Life in Rome exists at two paces; frenetic and glacial. And concurrently.
The former is enacted by well-pressed locals in designer footwear who strut with a confident pace, leaving in their wake a trail of intoxicating perfume which catches on thevia-tangling breeze. The latter is achieved by leisurely tourists consuming the city in its entirety, inch by glorious inch, impervious to the mania and mayhem of the former.
Stella, well versed in both approaches, spent her time on the streets of Rome absorbing the world around her. Watercolour artist by day and art education specialist by trade, she had a keen eye for observing, commenting on, then recreating her surroundings. Her ability to note the most nuanced details – the lines in people’s faces weathered by life, the gentle curve of a woman’s leg perfectly swathed in the finest Italian silk, the symmetry of milk foam adorning a morning cappuccino–transformed her world into a living canvas. Her daily walk to the Campo de’ Fiori market was something Stella relished; she could people-watch and find inspiration to her heart’s content, ready for the day of painting ahead.
But something new caught Stella’s eye that Wednesday morning.
Two awkward-looking tradesmen were attempting to install a signage banner above the entrance of a shopfront. The aluminium awning was still securely fastened, so Stella was unable to make out what the new business was. The slimmer of the two men was perched on the top rung of a ladder. The second man, being significantly rounder than the first, balanced the new sign over his shoulder with one hand. Stella giggled, realising that he was holding a cigarette in the same hand, swearing under his breath, unable to retrieve a ringing phone from his pocket. He violently swung the sign around in an attempt to balance his distractions, almost knocking his colleague from the ladder. In turn, he revealed the name of the business: Bar Luna e Lupa.
Just what Rome needs, another bar,she thought, continuing along Via dei Giubbonari.
