‘Show me the video.’
Carlotta passed Stella the phone. ‘There are some pics there too, and screenshots of the messages.’
Taking the phone in her trembling hands, Stella was oddly quiet. Marcella had half expected Stella to burst into tears and break down. Instead, one by one, she examined each piece of evidence laid before her.
Passing the phone back to Carlotta, she announced, ‘I’m going out for a while. Please don’t follow me.’
‘Where will you go,cara?’ Carlotta asked.
‘I just need some time alone.’ Throwing on her coat, she gathered her bag and phone and walked out the door.
Left among the ruins of Vincent’s infidelity, Marcella and Carlotta both sighed aloud.
‘That was . . .’ Marcella started.
‘Not what you were expecting?’
‘No. Do you think I should follow her? Keep an eye on her?’ Marcella was ready to grab her stuff and go.
‘Sit down. She needs some time for this to soak in.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.
Marcella took one of thebiscottiand brought it to her lips, unable to make a marriage between its sweet, crunchy exterior and her mouth, the mere thought turning her stomach. She put it down and pushed the entire plate aside.
Carlotta put her hand comfortingly on Marcella’s and exhaled loudly. ‘It had to be done.’
ventisei
Blood cascaded from the gash across his severed neck, gathering in crimson pools before slowly absorbing into the white linen of the bed. He tried with all his might to fend her off, but she had been too cunning, too quick. His hands attempted to catch her accomplice, to ward her off too, but the damage was done. He was to die for his stupidity and pigheadedness. He dared make a fool of her. Now, he had to pay the ultimate price.
Death.
Stella was unable to move, taking in each minute detail of the scene. The colours, the sense of movement and power. It was as if the painting were alive then had been paused to enable the onlooker a chance to capture its sheer magnitude, if only for a fleeting moment.
The little white-haired lady seated next to Stella, who had also been admiring the painting, said, ‘Must’ve been a fucking bastard if you ask me.’ She gestured to the figure of Holofernes. Her thick New Jersey accent cut the silence of the room, and reverberated into adjoining rooms of the Uffizi Gallery. ‘Good for her. Fuck him! Don’t you think?’
She was wearing a matching set of sweatpants and a hooded jacket in electric blue. The layers of synthetic fibres rubbed over each other as she moved, making a swoosh sound. Clotted mascara gathered in the corners of her eyes, and shimmering silver eyeshadow had escaped her eyelids and streaked down her cheeks, across to her ears.
‘Sorry, doll, I’m so crass. Name’s Rhonda.’ She offered her hand to Stella, who shook it politely.
‘I’m Stella.’
‘Nice to meet such a pretty little thing in these parts!’ Rhonda’s voice rattled, seemingly getting louder. Stella, a stickler for proper gallery decorum, felt uncomfortable. ‘Visiting from Florida. Originally from New Jersey.’
‘I live in Rome, but originally from Melbourne.’
‘Melbourne, Florida? Well, hey!’
‘No, no. Melbourne,Australia.’
‘I’ve never met an Australian before. So—’
Rhonda was interrupted by a man, presumably her husband, who poked his head into the room. ‘This place closes in fifteen minutes. We haven’t even seen half of it.’
Rhonda stood up when the man was out of sight. ‘I wouldn’t mind taking some inspiration from . . .’ She gestured to the painting. ‘If you know what I mean!’ She cackled a husky smoker’s laugh, then called out, ‘Don’t lose your head over it!’ He didn’t hear the comment. ‘Take it easy, doll,’ she said, taking Stella’s chin in her hand, giving it a playful caress.
Alone, Stella’s attention returned to the painting. Reaching into her satchel, she located the closed zippered compartment and from within, she plucked the same folded wodge of paper she had found the night of her return to Rome.
