by T A Williams
Second Chances in Chianti
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1 Five years later
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Escape to Tuscany
About the Author
Also by T.A. Williams
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
To Mariangela and Christina with love as always
Prologue
‘And this year’s Emmy for Outstanding Comedy Series goes to…’
Up on the stage, the presenter in the white tuxedo took his time opening the envelope, deliberately heightening the tension. Alice glanced around her companions on the Pals Across the Pond table and read some anticipation, some excitement even, but the air of gloom that had been hanging over most of them all evening was still clear to see on their faces. It was the end of an era, after all.
‘…Pals Across the Pond.’
The presenter looked up and beamed, as the room erupted into an outburst of applause. The cameras, which had been trained on their table throughout the announcement, relayed their reactions onto the big screen. Alice and her fellow actors bolted on broad smiles at their success – with just an appropriate hint of modesty, as convention demanded. But the smiles belied their inner upset. Richie, her love interest in the series, who was sitting to her right, even caught her by the arm and kissed her cheek ostentatiously for the sake of the watching fans back home. She did her best not to grimace.
Their on-off real-life relationship had stuttered to an unhappy conclusion three months ago and his touch made her feel uncomfortable. She hadn’t had any contact with him since then and she had been dreading what she would see tonight. To her surprise, he was looking unexpectedly smart and had even had a haircut. Somebody had smeared make-up over the dark rings under his eyes, but that same haunted look was still all too visible, at least to her. After he had kissed her, she heard him whisper in her ear.
‘I really miss you, Al.’
Still beaming for the cameras, she caught his eye for a second. ‘You’re a nice guy, Richie, but let it go. We both know it wasn’t working out.’ She deliberately kept her lips towards him and away from the cameras. Slo-mo replays and skilled lip-readers could make a lot of capital out of a momentary indiscretion. Then she turned her face back to the table and the cameras, and did her best to keep looking happy.
Zoë, the director, gave a grunt of satisfaction, rose to her feet and went up to collect the award. She was squeezed into a dress that was far too small for her and Alice found herself making a mental note to be sure to avoid sparkly gold outfits, especially when being filmed from the rear. She felt Millie catch her arm and giggle mischievously in her other ear, as the director climbed the stairs to the stage.
‘Looks like a golden sunrise, does she not?’ Her soft Irish accent was as charming as ever.
Alice gave her an answering wink out of sight of the cameras, but maintained the elated expression on her face. That was what good actors did, after all. She cast another quick glance at the man Millie had brought with her and nodded to herself. With his gleaming teeth, stylish hair, perfect tan and discreet diamond stud in one ear, he was straight out of the same mould as most of Millie’s conquests, and Alice felt sure this fledgling relationship would end the same way as all her friend’s other attempts to find love – in tears. Mind you, she reminded herself, she was in no position to talk. After all, she was here on her own tonight.
When Zoë reached the stage, she proceeded to smother the presenter in a bear hug that almost lifted the poor man off his feet, before graciously accepting the golden award from him. She clutched it to her abundant bosom as she turned towards the audience.
‘Thank you so much. Thank you all.’
The noise in the room dropped a few notches in anticipation of her speech. Alice felt pretty sure that the content was going to come as a big surprise to most of those listening.
‘This is the third time Pals Across the Pond has been chosen for this award, and we are so very grateful to the Academy and to all the viewers out there for supporting us.’
Zoë went on to thank the actors, including Alice, as well as a string of producers, editors and, most importantly, her boss, but pointedly not the writers. Alice exchanged the briefest of glances with Benny, and received a wink and a shrug of the shoulders from him in return. Meanwhile, Zoë was still in full flow.
‘Alas, ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid this is going to be the last time you ever see me up here accepting an award for Pals Across the Pond.’ A distinct hush spread throughout the hall, stilling the background babble. ‘As some of you may have already heard on the grapevine, this has been the final series of Pals. It’s been a wonderful five years and I’ve been privileged to have worked with such talented actors.’ Still no mention of the writers. ‘Over the years we’ve become one happy family and I cherish the fact that we are all such great pals in real life. It’s sad to think I won’t be seeing them every week from now on, but I know we’ll all keep in regular contact.’
As Zoë continued to gush, Alice maintained the same upbeat facial expression, but she couldn’t stop her mind from churning at the hypocrisy of it all. The bitter infighting of the past months had been brutal. Agents, studio execs and lawyers, along with all the actors and writers, had found themselves immersed in daily battles over contracts, money, character development, the future direction of the plot lines and, above all, their irascible director, Zoë, who was universally disliked. The studio wanted more sex and more smut, while Benny and his team of writers – and most of the actors, including Alice – had voted to stick with humour and romance. To make matters worse, Harry and Layla, the married couple both in the show and in real life, had been fighting off-set. Alice’s own ill-fated attempts at romance with Richie had also been disintegrating and even the normally bubbly Millie had started to see a therapist. As a result, the atmosphere on set had been getting more and more toxic – not what you want when you’re supposed to be producing laugh-a-minute comedy.
Zoë was still going. ‘But I very much hope to be up on this prestigious stage again this time next year with our brand-new sitcom. It’s a big secret so I can’t give you any details at present, but I know it’s going to be great and I’m sure you’ll love it.’
Alice wasn’t so sure. The word on the street was that the replacement series was going to be a shameless rip-off of Pals, but with different writers and none of the existing actors among the cast. Pals had been set in an apartment block in the unglamorous suburbs of LA, where three penniless wannabe actresses – one English, one Irish and one Australian – shared a small apartment. The action revolved around the often strained relations between them and the occupants of the other apartments, in particular the penthouse flat on the top floor inhabited by a pair of tall, handsome law s
tudents – played by Harry and Richie – from mega-wealthy East Coast families. From what Alice had heard, the new series was going to be set in Dallas, Texas, and would involve the unlikely juxtaposition of moonshine-drinking rednecks and half-starved fashion models.
What was for sure, of course, was that she and the others from Pals were now out of a job, as the negotiations had broken down a couple of months back. The actors and writers had finally called the studio’s bluff, refusing to work without a change of director, but Conrad Chesterfield, the big boss, had dug his heels in. He had offered them a substantial increase in pay but had refused to sack Zoë, although he must have realised she was terribly unpopular. In the light of the cast’s refusal to work with her any longer, he had pulled the rug out from underneath them. As a result, Pals, in spite of being one of the studio’s biggest earners, was now history and Alice, probably like the others, was left with mixed feelings. On the one hand there was relief at no longer having to put up with Zoë’s never-ending harassment, but on the other was the fact that Pals had been a major part of her life, and now it was over. She knew she would miss it, but she also knew this gave her a chance to make a fundamental career change.
Alice’s musings were interrupted by more applause, as Zoë made her way slowly and carefully down the stairs towards them again, brandishing the unmistakable golden Emmy award as she did so. When she got back to their table, she set it down with a flourish and then went round embracing each of them – except for Benny. The bad blood between him and the production team was of the indelible variety.
As she reached Alice and air-kissed her theatrically, she lowered her voice and murmured sotto voce, but with her usual acidity, ‘Goodbye, Alice. You know you’ve just made the worst decision of your life, don’t you? I bet it won’t be long before you come crawling back.’
She accompanied this with a charming and remarkably sincere-looking smile for the cameras. Alice had to admit that, for a director, she wasn’t a bad actress. If she had spent more of her working life at least pretending to be a nice human being, instead of a domineering ogre, they probably wouldn’t be in this position now.
Alice beamed broadly back at her, conscious of the cameras still on them. ‘You say the nicest things, Zoë. But there’s no way that’s ever going to happen. That’s not the plan.’ She pointed to the other Emmy on the table in front of her, awarded to her a little earlier in the evening for being the Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Comedy Series. ‘I’m taking my little trophy and I’m heading home to the UK.’ She saw Zoë hesitate and glance back towards her. Alice blew her a totally insincere kiss. ‘I’m out of here. I’m going back to university.’
Zoë’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘You – a student? Never! You’ve got acting in your blood now. You’ll never quit.’
Alice shook her head. ‘I already have. I’m going back to uni in two weeks’ time. It’s all arranged. You’ll laugh, but I’m really looking forward to getting back into the real world once again.’
Her amazing big break five years earlier had come via a talent contest she had entered as a dare at the end of her second year at Bristol University and the subsequent move to California had stopped her degree course in its tracks. Although the years of success and fame had been fun – up to a point – the more she thought about it, the more the prospect of returning to a ‘normal’ life now really appealed.
Just for a second, Zoë’s amiable smile slipped into her trademark sneer. ‘You go back to being a student after living as a star? You’ll never stick it out.’
Chapter 1
Five years later
But Alice did. It wasn’t always easy, but she did.
Not only did she manage to get herself a first-class honours degree in art history, but she also followed it up with a doctorate specialising in the art of the Renaissance. The transition from famous, fêted actress to academic hadn’t been without its difficulties and, in spite of her resolve, she had missed more of her previous life than she had expected, but it had all worked out pretty well in the end.
It was barely a day or two after receiving the news that her thesis had been accepted and that she could now officially call herself Doctor Alice Butler that she got a call from the US. She was jogging back to her flat in the rather smart Clifton area of Bristol, when the call came through and she stopped in the shade of an ancient oak tree to answer it. The June temperature was remarkably high for England and she was regretting taking her regular run, up past the observatory overlooking the gorge, in the full heat of the late afternoon sun instead of the early morning. Wiping her sweaty hands on her shorts, she pulled out her phone and saw that the call was from Millie, just about the only one of the Pals Across the Pond cast with whom she had stayed in touch over the past five years. In spite of the passing of the years and the thousands of miles between them, they had remained very close friends and Alice had followed the vicissitudes of Millie’s subsequent career with interest – and no small amount of sympathy. Things hadn’t always worked out too well for her.
‘Top of the morning to you, Millie.’ She had learnt to do a pretty good impression of Millie’s Irish accent over the years they had known each other. In return, she had been on the receiving end of countless attempts by her friend to poke fun at her own ‘posh’ English accent.
‘Good day, your highness. I trust one is in tip-top condition?’ Millie giggled. ‘You all right to talk, Al? I’m not calling you in the middle of a lecture or anything, am I?’
‘No more lectures for me. That’s all finished. I’m just out for a run.’
‘Great. So, does that mean you’ve had your results? Are you a doc now?’
Alice assured her that she now had her PhD and, with a certain amount of foreboding, asked for news of her friend’s career and love life. But Millie had more pressing matters on her mind.
‘Have you seen the email, Al? You must have got it.’
‘Email? Who from? I haven’t checked my emails since first thing this morning.’
‘Then take a look and call me back. I’ll be waiting.’
As the line went dead, Alice logged into her mail account, discovering that there were three unread messages in her inbox. She sat down on a wooden bench and took a closer look. One was from Benny, the lead writer responsible for the scintillating scripts of Pals. Another was from Layla of all people – just about the first communication from the Australian glamour queen in five years – and the final one, amazingly, was from none other than God himself.
Alice had met Conrad Chesterfield – the owner, CEO and caller of all shots at AAATV Productions – numerous times over her working life but hadn’t heard a word from him since the end of Pals. He and his company had been the creators of the show and had reputedly made hundreds of millions of dollars out of it but, after the acrimonious end to the series, she had never expected to hear from him again. Intrigued – and, if she were honest, a bit apprehensive as well – she opened the message and found it couched in his usual staccato style. It was almost like hearing his voice.
Alice, how are you? Good, I hope.
We have a proposition for you. Take a good, hard look at it. Give it some serious consideration. Please.
Any queries, just shout.
Conrad Chesterfield
Attached to the email was a document that made fascinating reading. Although no doubt drafted by his legal team and filled to capacity with disclaimers, provisos and let-outs, it emerged that the studio wanted to revive Pals Across the Pond, changing the name of the new series to Pals Forever. She and the other cast members were being offered the opportunity of getting back on board. There was no mention of money, but she knew that would all be hammered out by the agents and the money men before anybody signed on the dotted line. The offer ended with a tantalising: We are confident this new venture will prove to be mutually beneficial and rewarding for all parties, both professionally and financially.
She took a few deep breaths and sat back. The email had brought
a host of memories flooding into her head, some of the later ones bitter and unpleasant, but many of the earlier ones genuinely good. She thought back to the fun they had all had on set, at least in the first two or three years. She remembered moments like the time Millie had got locked in the toilet or when the pair of them had walked in on Layla and Harry in flagrante in the props closet. And, of course, the unforgettable moment when Zoë, the all-powerful director, had fallen off her chair and ripped her dress right down the back as she scrambled back to her feet, revealing some most unexpected leopard-skin pattern underwear.
She remembered evenings in the bar with the writers, led by Benny, with everybody around the table crying with laughter as they were bombarded with one-liners. She remembered the time a pigeon got onto the set and crapped all over Layla’s ballgown, and she still shivered as she recalled her chronic embarrassment the day she had had to reveal her bare back to the camera for the first time. In so doing, Alice had exposed the rest of her naked body to no fewer than sixteen – she had counted them – mostly male spectators, including the camera crew, lighting and sound engineers, scenery shifters and, worst of all, Richie. Above all, she remembered the hours of anticipation she had endured leading up to her very first on-screen kiss with Richie. The fact that the reality of the kiss, and the man himself, had not lived up to expectations was even now a source of regret. She had really been drawn to him for a while way back then.
There was no doubt the proposal was an interesting one, so she sat there and gave it serious consideration for a good long while. Her incredible good fortune ten years ago in being catapulted from humble student to internationally recognised actress still continued to amaze her to this day, and she looked back on her time in Hollywood with mixed emotions. Although since returning to her studies she had been focusing on a career in art history, the idea of going back in front of the cameras still had its fascination.
Of course, she didn’t need to do it. Her savings, coupled with the syndication royalties her agent had fought tooth and nail to obtain for her – and which she was still receiving – for repeats of the series in no fewer than forty-five countries around the world were more than enough to live on. Now that she was away from Hollywood, she no longer needed expensive designer clothes, a PA, security or a housekeeper. She could live much more modestly and had been able to buy her own rather nice apartment on the top floor of an old Georgian townhouse, where she had been living while studying here in Bristol. And she still had money left over in the bank.
