Rome in Love

by Anita Hughes

  They walked into the street and crossed the Piazza del Popolo. They sat at an outdoor table at Canova and ordered two iced coffees. Philip ran his hands through his hair and squinted into the sun.

  “You were so obvious last night, I was terrified Amelia would see you.”

  “You’re the one who picked a restaurant where everything is made of glass.” Max sprinkled nutmeg onto whipped cream. He wore a yellow collared shirt and jeans and sneakers. His blond hair touched his collar and he had a shaving nick on his chin. “I couldn’t even hide behind a potted plant.”

  “I thought the night was going well.” Philip rubbed his forehead. “The moon was bright and the sky was full of stars and we strolled through Trastevere. But then Amelia passed out on my shoulder.”

  “What happened after that?” Max raised his eyebrow.

  “I took her to my apartment and put her to sleep in my bed.” Philip stretched his legs in front of him. “This morning, I made fruit salad and we talked about this and that. I asked her to dinner tomorrow night but she said she’s leaving Rome.”

  Max sipped his iced coffee and tapped his fingers against the glass. “Don’t they teach you anything about women at Yale? If she didn’t want to see you, she would say so.”

  “What do you mean?” Philip asked.

  “See this box of chocolates.” Max pointed to the silver box with the gold bow. “Some people can’t resist the temptation, they have to hide the box or throw it away. She didn’t have to make an excuse, unless she couldn’t trust herself to say no.”

  Philip felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He gazed at the piazza and saw couples eating cones of pink gelato. He watched a boy and a girl jump rope and a waiter carry a silver tray of tartufo.

  “Look at her photo.” Max picked up his camera. “When she looks at you her eyes sparkle.”

  Philip grabbed the camera and studied the picture of Amelia. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open in a smile. Her head was cocked to one side as if she was listening to something.

  Philip wanted to race across the piazza to the Hassler. He wanted to run through the revolving glass doors to the elevator. He wanted to knock on the door of the Villa Medici Suite and tell Amelia to stop the charade.

  “Her friend is like a character in a Disney movie.” Max clicked through the photos. “I’ve never seen eyes that blue or hair the color of flax. She could make a man swear off brunettes.”

  Philip glanced at Sophie’s large blue eyes and thick dark lashes. He studied her pale cheeks and slender shoulders. He thought about the picture of the girl wearing the diamond tiara and his heart raced.

  If Amelia was telling the truth, this could be a bigger story than Amelia Tate pretending to be a maid. He pictured Adam’s face when he told him the princess of a small European country was hiding in Rome. He saw his byline on the front page of Inside Rome.

  But what if Sophie wasn’t a princess? Amelia would know he betrayed her and wouldn’t speak to him again. He clicked through the photos and handed the camera to Max. He sipped his iced coffee and leaned back in his chair.

  “What did you do!” Max exclaimed. “You erased the photos.”

  “I’m such a klutz.” Philip shrugged, shielding his eyes from the sun. “You’ll just have to take some more.”

  * * *

  Philip closed the door and tossed his keys on the dining room table. He sat at his desk and flipped through the mail. He opened the bill from the butcher and the gas company and the electricity. He sighed and walked to the kitchen counter.

  His phone rang and he picked it up.

  “I haven’t heard from you or Max,” Adam’s voice came over the line. “I’m afraid I’m throwing my euros into the Tiber River.”

  “It’s going wonderfully.” Philip held the phone against his ear. “Last night we had a romantic dinner in Trastevere, followed by a moonlight stroll to the Piazza de Santa Cecilia. We touched shoulders and talked about poetry and art and literature. Max got some wonderful photos.”

  “I was beginning to think I should have taken my money to the racetrack,” Adam replied. “So what happens next?”

  “I have tickets to Cinderella at Opera Roma. I planned a day trip to Orvieto and wine tasting in Montepulciano.”

  “I knew when I hired you I did the right thing,” Adam beamed. “I’m going out tonight to celebrate.”

  Philip hung up the phone and sat at his desk. How was he going to get Amelia to go out with him again when she was leaving Rome? And if she did, could he really keep lying to her? He flashed on Max who was counting on him and Adam who was trying to save the newspaper. He pictured Amelia’s sparkling brown eyes and knew no matter what he had to see her. He opened the computer and stared at the blank screen. He was a writer, he would think of something.

  * * *

  Amelia entered the Villa Medici Suite and placed her purse on the marble end table. She walked to the balcony and gazed at the Spanish Steps and the Via Condotti. Suddenly the sun was too bright and the cars were too noisy and the smells made her nauseous. She closed the curtains and sunk onto the ivory silk sofa.

  She remembered waking up in Philip’s bed and never felt so humiliated. She was like a child who kept failing a spelling test. She leaned against the silk pillows and resolved to never drink champagne again.

  She gazed at the pile of letters on the glass coffee table and wondered if Audrey Hepburn had ever gotten drunk or done something foolish. She picked up the top page and began to read.

  July 2, 1952

  Dear Kitty,

  James arrived this morning, he has meetings in Rome and came a day early. The Hassler prepared a picnic of baguettes and salami and Edam cheese and we took it to the Pantheon. The sky was so blue, I felt like I was on a Greek island.

  The sun was shining and there was a soft breeze and he wrapped his arms around me. I realized how lonely I’ve been eating room service insalata mista and cream of tomato soup. We strolled back to the Hassler and he said he had a present.

  Oh, Kitty, you can’t guess what the surprise was; it was the most beautiful wedding dress I’ve ever seen! I was terrified his mother would insist I wear a satin gown with a huge bow and a twelve-foot train. But I unwrapped the tissue paper and discovered a white crepe dress that stopped just below my knees.

  “Is this for me?” I gasped.

  “My mother knew you were too busy for fittings.” James smiled.

  He wore a dark suit and white shirt and narrow tie. His blond hair flopped over his forehead and he smelled of Clive Christian cologne.

  “How did she know my style?” I asked, holding it against my chest.

  “She invited Baroness Ella to stay at Huddersfield,” James replied. “They designed it together.”

  “It’s perfect.” I admired the cinched waist and flared skirt. “I couldn’t imagine anything better.”

  “And perhaps you can look over this.” He drew a piece of paper from his suit pocket. “Mother suggested we have a noon ceremony followed by a luncheon. Very small, just one long table in the dining room.”

  I took the paper and glanced at the names of my dearest friends. I looked up at his sparkling eyes and my heart hammered in my chest.

  “I thought you wanted a reception for five hundred people,” I stammered.

  “That will be in the evening.” James nodded. “But it’s impossible to talk when the orchestra is playing and half the night is spent in a receiving line.”

  “We’ll serve Cornish hens and summer vegetables.” I clapped my hands. “Maybe we can pick blueberries and have a blueberry pie for dessert.”

  “And there’s one more thing.” James handed me a cream envelope.

  I opened the envelope and read an invitation to a private viewing at Coco Chanel’s atelier on September 27.

  “But we’re not going to be in Paris.” I frowned.

  “If we honeymoon in Cannes we’ll spend most of our time driving to the South of France,” James mused. “I booked four night
s in the presidential suite at the Crillon. We can fly to New York directly so you’ll have plenty of time to shop and…”

  I flung myself into his arms before he could finish. Four days in Paris with nothing to do but sit at the outdoor cafés on the Champs-Élysées and visit the boutiques on the Rue Saint-Honoré. Gil will be furious if I arrive in New York five pounds heavier but I don’t care. I’m going to eat pain au chocolat and escargots and soufflé.

  I looked at James’s green eyes and narrow cheeks and knew that marrying him is the best decision I ever made. We are going to be so happy!

  Audrey

  July 3, 1952

  Dear Kitty,

  I woke up this morning with a craving for English sausages. I know sausages are fattening but Mr. Wyler works us so hard, sometimes we don’t stop until dinner. I called room service and ordered sausages and toast and scrambled eggs.

  I opened the Observer and saw a picture of James in the Style section. He was wearing white tie and tails and dancing with a slim brunette. She wore a white satin gown and long silk gloves. His arm was around her waist and he was kissing her on the side of her mouth.

  I was about to call James’s room when the doorbell rang.

  “I thought I’d join you for a cup of tea before my meetings.” He entered the suite.

  “What’s this?” I handed him the newspaper.

  He studied it closely and smiled. “That was at Henrietta Fleming’s debutante ball. Don’t you remember Gordon Fleming’s little sister? Henrietta used to invite us to her dolls’ tea parties when we came home from Eton.”

  “You are kissing her,” I said stubbornly.

  “Hardly a kiss.” James shrugged.

  He turned the page and pointed to a photo of him with an older woman in a blue silk gown.

  “Here’s one of me kissing Lady Fleming, do you think we’re having a tryst?”

  I sat at the dining room table and sprinkled pepper on scrambled eggs. But suddenly the eggs were stiff and the toast was dry and the sausages were cold.

  “Surely you’re not going to worry about some silly photos in the Observer,” James insisted. “I wish you had been at the debutante ball, I spent most of the night dancing with women over seventy.”

  I imagined James gliding across the ballroom with dowagers in silk ball gowns and giggled.

  “That’s better.” He put his hand under my chin. “You know there’s no one in the world except you.”

  The morning seemed to drag on forever. We were filming at the outdoor market in the Campo de Fiori and the sun was so hot I felt like I was in the jungle.

  I was refreshing my makeup when I saw James approach the piazza. He wore a red blazer and navy slacks and clutched a bouquet of tulips.

  “What are you doing here?” I ran over to him.

  “I brought you these.” James handed me the flowers. “I thought I’d take you to lunch at Alfredo’s.”

  “They’re lovely,” I replied. “But we might not break for lunch for hours.”

  James gazed at the huge cameras and the bright lights and the row of canvas chairs.

  “I’ll wait,” he said, hopping onto a chair.

  We were shooting the scene where I drop a basket of apples and they roll on the pavement. Joe helps me collect them and we end up kissing. It’s a tiny kiss but suddenly I was nervous. I saw James consult his watch and stride over to Mr. Wyler.

  “You should have stopped for lunch hours ago,” he fumed. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “This is a major motion picture.” Mr. Wyler glared at him. “I don’t stop until it’s perfect.”

  “I run an international transportation business.” James knotted his brow. “There’s nothing more important than delivering on time.”

  “Let’s behave, gentlemen.” Mr. Peck approached them. He had a light sheen on his cheeks. “I’m sure Mr. Hanson is only concerned for Miss Hepburn’s well-being.”

  “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” James held out his hand. “I’m James Hanson, Audrey’s fiancé.”

  “Gregory Peck.” He shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “You’re in an odd line of business,” James said slowly. “Kissing other women for a living.”

  Mr. Peck dropped his hand. “At least when I kiss another woman, I’m only acting.”

  I glanced at Mr. Peck’s chair and saw a copy of the Observer. I ran to my dressing room and shut the door. I laid my head on the desk and burst into tears.

  Oh, Kitty, I kept picturing James whirling around the dance floor with a debutante in a white satin gown. I heard a knock on the door and got up to answer it.

  “You’re going to give Willy a heart attack if you don’t finish the scene.” Mr. Peck entered the dressing room.

  “I’m sorry for the way James behaved,” I mumbled.

  “If I was your fiancé and saw you kissing another man, I’d punch him in the jaw.”

  “You would?” I raised my eyebrow.

  “Of course.” He shrugged. “What man wouldn’t?”

  “But we were acting, it’s my job,” I protested.

  He drew a newspaper from under his arm and opened it on the desk. “I’m guessing Mr. Hanson’s job includes attending debutante balls and rubbing elbows with dukes and duchesses.”

  “It is important that he maintains the right connections,” I conceded.

  “Then neither of you have anything to worry about.” He walked to the door. “Let’s finish the scene, I’m dying for a plate of spaghetti and a cold beer.”

  “How can I thank you?” I asked. “I feel like such a nuisance.”

  He turned to me and stood very close.

  “There’s one thing you can do,” he said.

  “There is?” I replied.

  “You can call me Greg.”

  Oh, Kitty, sometimes I feel like I’m not a good actress or a good fiancée. But every now and then, when Mr. Wyler smiles or Gregory Peck says a kind word, I think I have the best job in the world.

  Audrey

  July 4, 1952

  Dear Kitty,

  This evening I was changing out of Princess Ann’s pink satin ball gown when there was a knock on the dressing room door.

  Gregory Peck poked his head in. “We’re going to Harry’s Bar for a drink. You should join us.”

  “No, thank you.” I shook my head. “I’m going home to study my lines.”

  “An old friend of mine wants to meet you,” he insisted. “He’s directing a movie and thinks you’d be perfect for the lead.”

  “You said I should retire to Yorkshire and wear wide hats and learn to play croquet.” I raised my eyebrow.

  “I’ve changed my mind.” He shrugged. “My friend saw you on Broadway and thinks you are the finest actress of your generation.”

  “I’ve nothing to wear.” I flushed.

  “What you have on will do,” he replied. “It’s just a small group of friends.”

  “This is a four-hundred-dollar Dior couture gown,” I protested. “Mr. Wyler would kill me.”

  “If anything happens I’ll tell him it was my fault.” He took my arm and propelled me toward the door. “Come on, I’m dying of thirst.”

  We entered Harry’s Bar and I could barely breathe from the cigarette smoke. The walls were covered with gold velvet and the floors were dark wood. I saw waiters in white jackets carry silver trays of chilled prawns and caviar and melba toast.

  “There you are.” Veronique Passani crossed the room. “We’ve ordered a round of Negronis and a platter of oysters. I just got off the plane and I’m starving.”

  I hadn’t seen Veronique in a week and I’d hoped she finished her interviews. She makes me nervous, as if she’s going to write down everything I say.

  “I didn’t know you were away,” I said, following them to a table in the back.

  She wore a red crepe Dior dress and ivory pumps. Her auburn hair fell to her shoulders and she carried a Chanel clutch. I glanced d
own at my pink satin ball gown and felt hopelessly overdressed.

  “I was in London doing a story on Queen Elizabeth.” Veronique dipped oysters in cocktail sauce. “I ruined three pairs of shoes in the rain and drank endless cups of tea. I couldn’t live in a city where you can’t get a decent cup of coffee.”

  “You’ve brought Audrey Hepburn.” A man approached the table. He had thick brown hair and gray eyes. He wore a white dinner jacket and tan slacks. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “This is Mel Ferrer,” Greg introduced us. “We acted in some plays in New York, now he’s an up-and-coming director in Hollywood.”

  “That’s a nice way of saying ‘struggling.’” Mel laughed. “I do have my eye on a project, and you would be perfect for the lead.”

  “What is it called?” I asked.

  “War and Peace,” he replied, popping an olive in his mouth.

  “War and Peace,” I spluttered.

  “Do you think I haven’t read it?” Mel asked, looking amused.

  “Mel went to Princeton,” Greg explained. He wore a black dinner jacket and gray slacks. “He’s trying to elevate the movie business.”

  “Princeton?” I raised my eyebrow.

  “You don’t believe me?” Mel asked.

  “I can’t say, I’ve never met anyone who went to Princeton.”

  He squeezed into the table beside me. His cheeks were smooth and he smelled of peppermint aftershave. “Well, Miss Hepburn, now you have.”

  Greg and Mel walked to the bar to order another round of drinks and Veronique tapped her long red fingernails on the marble counter.

  “Mel Ferrer is very handsome,” she mused.

  “I wouldn’t know, I’m engaged,” I bristled.

  “I admire you, you’re such a progressive fiancée.”

  “Progressive?” I repeated, feeling a prickle on the back of my neck.

  “Allowing your fiancé to dance with fashionable young women,” she replied, scooping up a handful of cashews.

  “If you’re talking about Henrietta Fleming’s debutante ball, Henrietta is the little sister of one of James’s oldest friends.”

  “I was talking about them dancing at the Flamingo Club in Soho the other night,” Veronique continued.