‘Well, I was just, erm . . .’
‘You are very good with children.’ Gabrielle’s eyes dipped to the plastic-wrapped plates brandishing the junior colour mixing attempts. ‘Do you have children?’
‘Me? No. I have worked with them a lot in the past. Back home.’
‘In Australia, I take it. Tell me about that work. Were you a teacher?’
‘Not exactly. I led the education team in a gallery in Melbourne. I curated special child-friendly exhibits, managed excursion workshops, developed didactic resources, that kind of thing.’ She couldn’t read the stern expression that had crossed Gabrielle’s face, and her mouth began to dry.
Gabrielle sized her up, staring at her top to toe. ‘And you are also an artist.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Unsure if this was a criticism, Stella nodded. ‘I was made redundant when the funding was cut to my program. So I moved here.’
‘Do you have apermesso di soggiorno?’
Stella felt the question about her visa situation was a little personal, but when Gabrielle Belmont asked you a question, you answered it. ‘No. I’m an Italian citizen. Well, dual citizen. I can come, go and work as I please.’
Gabrielle seemed satisfied with this response. ‘Are you free this afternoon?’
‘I . . . could be?’
‘No. Youwillbe.’ Gabrielle delved into her Fendi purse, withdrawing a gold pen and matching notepad. ‘I’m holding a panel interview today at two o’clock for the position of Director of Education at AAI. It’s a new role. I want you there. Bring your CV.’ She scribbled an address on the notepad. ‘Here.’ Handing it to Stella, she asked, ‘and your name?’
‘Stella Chiaro.’
‘Doctor?’
Christ, again? Do you need a PhD to do anything in this city?
‘Uhm. No.JustStella.’
Gabrielle’s left eyebrow curled with examining scrutiny. ‘Well, Ms Chiaro, this might just be your lucky day.’ Wrapping her black cashmere coat tightly around her shoulders, she turned and left.
Breathe . . . in and out . . .
Marco approached Stella inquisitively, drying his hands on his apron. ‘Who was that?’
‘That, Marco,’ she was bursting at the seams with glee, ‘was my big break! I’ve gotta run.’ She threw herself into packing up her equipment as quickly as she could. Gathering palettes, pots and brushes, she hastily stuffed them into her satchel. ‘Can you hold this for me?’ She passed him the satchel and continued to push and prod things into place.
Obedient like a Labrador, Marco stood there, basking in her flurry. ‘Ok, but you need to call me later and explain what is going on!’
Looking inside the satchel, Marco noticed that the lining was torn and frayed. The zipper on the inside compartment was broken, and the external clasp which secured the whole bag was on its last legs. He didn’t say anything – he knew that Stella made only enough to pay her rent and small expenses. Running his hands over the worn leather, it was rough and splintery to his touch. She deserved better.
Finally ready, Stella pried the satchel from his hands, gave him a full-bodied enthusiastic embrace, squealed at the top of her lungs, then bolted from the bar.
He followed her to the door and watched Stella dart her way between tourists on Via dei Giubbonari. When she was eventually out of sight, his eyes met the sky and he begged, ‘Please, let this be the chance . . .’
Stella rushed home from the bar, practically dripping with hope.
She googled all that was humanly possible about Gabrielle and the AAI, and made herself a rudimentary set of notes featuring key talking points, dates, names, awards and collaborations held between Gabrielle and other groups. As the organisation had no existing education department, all she could draw upon for preparation was her own set of skills and work experience, and tried to link them to the values of the AAI.
Perhaps the nerves had drawn some of the colour from her face, because as she rehearsed a few lines about her work ethic in the mirror, she saw how pallid she had become. Stella’s trembling hands fumbled through Marcella’s make-up kit, withdrawing some concealer, lip tint and bronzer.
How the hell do I put this on?
It took a few attempts, but she was eventually happy with the result. She looked brighter and more fresh-faced. Feeling comfortable in the outfit she had chosen – a sensible pair of pleated slacks and a black turtleneck – she knew that all she could do was throw caution to the wind. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain and, somehow, this helped calm her thumping heart. She would give it her all. Rome depended on it.
As high as the stakes were, and as rare an opportunity as this was, something flickered inside her.
