Rome in Love

by Anita Hughes

  “I can’t be late for the set.” She hesitated. “Can we talk this evening?”

  “It will just take a minute.” He entered the living room and glanced at the gold silk curtains and glass dining room table and vases of yellow and white roses. He saw the maple sideboard set with a silver coffeepot and Limoges cups and saucers. He saw a tray of fresh scones and strawberry jam and whipped butter. “I see they are treating you well.”

  “Sheldon is a stickler for punctuality.” Amelia glanced at her watch.

  “I didn’t want to come to Rome, but Evan insisted I take the meeting with Alex.” Whit slipped his hands in his pockets. “On the plane I watched Hannah’s Secret, I hadn’t seen it in years. You were very good. I realized I might have been hasty.”

  “Hasty?” Amelia repeated.

  “Insisting that you quit acting,” Whit replied. “A lot of actors move away from Los Angeles and make a movie every couple of years. You could still be an actress and we could be together.”

  “But they already have established careers.” Amelia frowned. “And what about the paparazzi?”

  “If you only made a movie every two or three years they wouldn’t hound you when you stood in line at Peet’s,” Whit continued. “We could lead a normal life but you could still do what you loved.”

  Amelia glanced at Whit’s blue eyes and tan cheeks. She smoothed her hair and slipped on white leather sandals.

  “I have to go; can we talk after I finish shooting?”

  Whit caught her hand and held it tightly. He tucked a loose hair behind her ear and kissed her on the lips.

  “I’ll be waiting in the lobby.”

  * * *

  Amelia glanced at the platters of turkey and Swiss cheese sandwiches. She saw wooden bowls of red apples and purple grapes and overripe peaches. She saw hard-boiled eggs and cinnamon Danishes and soft chocolate chip cookies.

  She nibbled a grape and realized she wasn’t hungry. The crew had filmed outside all day and she felt like she had a layer of gasoline and sweat stuck to her blue crepe dress. She tucked her hair behind her ears and thought about Whit’s arrival at the Villa Medici Suite.

  She remembered his proposition and wondered if she could really have an acting career if she left Hollywood. She wasn’t Nicole Kidman who could live in Tennessee and get any role or Katie Holmes who performed in an occasional Broadway play while raising Suri. She was starring in her first major role, and there were plenty of young actresses who would take her parts if she moved to San Francisco.

  Suddenly she pictured Philip standing in his tiny kitchen making a bacon and lettuce sandwich and shivered. He had been very kind but their relationship was nothing more than an on-set romance. He was a struggling writer living in Rome who thought she was a maid at the Hassler. She couldn’t consider him when she was making a decision.

  “There you are.” A man approached her. “I was afraid we left you sweltering on the Via dei Cerchi.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a limoncello,” Amelia admitted. “But I think the scene went well.”

  “The scene was good.” Sheldon nodded. He wore a checkered shirt and khakis. His thick white hair was brushed over his forehead and he wore round glasses. “If I can only get craft services to provide chilled soft drinks, my crew wouldn’t keep threatening to quit.”

  “The grapes are delicious.” Amelia popped one in her mouth.

  “I need to talk to you.” Sheldon frowned. “Can I see you in my trailer?”

  Amelia put her plate on the table and took a deep breath. She wondered if Sheldon noticed she was preoccupied and had to repeat her lines. She followed him across the piazza and climbed the steps to his trailer.

  “Have a seat.” He gestured to a blue plastic chair. There was a white metal desk and a wooden bookshelf and a potted plant. “Every movie I ask for an air-conditioned trailer with a refrigerator and a leather desk chair. I have a bad back; if I sit in this crap chair I look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

  “I want to show you something.” He rummaged through the drawer and brought out a manila envelope. He slit it open and dropped the contents on the desk.

  Amelia looked at the papers on the desk and saw glossy color photos. She picked up a picture of herself wearing the pink Balenciaga gown and diamond tiara. There were close-ups of her wearing thick mascara and bright red lipstick, and a picture of her in a polka dot dress and wide straw hat.

  “These are publicity shots for Roman Holiday,” Sheldon explained. “I want you to choose your favorites.”

  “What are they for?” Amelia asked.

  “People, Vanity Fair, Us, E!” Sheldon adjusted his glasses. “The publicity department gets a dozen requests a day and it’s only going to increase. You’re the talk of Hollywood.”

  “I am?” Amelia raised her eyebrow.

  “I may have sent some of the dailies to Warner Brothers and they may have leaked one or two to the press.” He grinned. “When Roman Holiday comes out, you’re going to be the biggest star since Julia Roberts.”

  Amelia glanced at the photos again and felt her shoulders relax. She looked at Sheldon and her eyes were bright.

  “How can I possibly choose? I love all of them.”

  * * *

  Amelia hurried across the Piazza di Spagna and ran up the Spanish Steps. By the time she removed her makeup it was almost seven o’clock. She had brushed her hair and reapplied her pink lip gloss. She changed into a red linen dress and gold sandals.

  She ran up the last step and heard footsteps behind her. She turned and saw two men carrying silver cameras. They wore black jeans and white T-shirts and leather jackets.

  “Bella Amelia,” one called. “Uno foto per favore.”

  “I can’t.” Amelia kept walking. “I’m late.”

  “It will take no time at all,” the other man insisted. “Such a beautiful smile.”

  Amelia felt the bulb flash and tripped on the pavement. She stood up and strode toward the Hassler. She entered the revolving glass doors and looked around the lobby.

  She saw bellboys in gold uniforms carrying Louis Vuitton trunks and Dior garment bags. She glanced at the Hassler Bar and saw Whit sitting in a high-backed leather chair. He wore a navy blazer and tan slacks and held a shot glass in one hand.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” She approached the mahogany table.

  “Are you all right?” Whit asked. “You look like you’ve been running.”

  “I’m fine.” Amelia smoothed her hair. “I’d love a gin and tonic over ice.”

  Whit walked to the bar and Amelia perched on the leather chair. She suddenly saw a familiar figure standing across the room. He wore a white collared shirt and beige slacks. He had dark wavy hair and wore a leather watch.

  The man turned around and Amelia realized it wasn’t Philip. She felt her cheeks flush and something inside her shifted.

  “I’m starving.” Whit placed the shot glass on the table. “Maybe we can go upstairs and order veal Parmigiana and scalloped potatoes and strawberry gelato.”

  Amelia sipped her drink and thought about the glossy photos on Sheldon’s desk. She pictured long days on the set and the feeling of having done something wonderful. She remembered sitting at ReCafé with Philip and sipping tall iced coffees.

  “I don’t think so,” she said slowly, setting her glass on the table. “I don’t want to make a movie every couple of years and I don’t want to avoid photographers. I want to wake up every morning grateful that I do what I love, and I want to thank every person who buys a magazine or movie ticket. I might grow to hate the paparazzi or get tired of craft service sandwiches but I love acting and I don’t want to give it up.”

  “I didn’t say you should give it up.…” Whit interrupted.

  “Doing something you love every two years is worse, I’ll watch other actresses get the best roles while I learn hatha yoga.” Amelia bit her lip. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going upstairs to take a cool bath.”

  “Amelia, wait.” Whit
jumped up.

  “You left because you knew it wouldn’t work.” Amelia blinked away sudden tears. “Nothing has changed, I think it’s best if we say good-bye.”

  She strode across the gold and black lobby and pressed the button on the elevator. She entered the Villa Medici Suite and went into the marble bathroom. She unzipped her dress and turned on the gold faucet. She stepped into the deep bathtub and realized Whit never said he loved her. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of lavender bubbles.

  chapter nineteen

  Amelia put down her script and sipped a cup of English breakfast tea. She tore apart a scone and covered it with honey. She glanced out the window and saw the morning light reflected on the red rooftops. She breathed the scent of roses and felt light and happy.

  Sheldon had left a message saying she wasn’t needed on the set until the afternoon. She sent Philip a note and asked him to join her for lunch. Afterward they would walk to the Castel Sant’Angelo or up to the Capitoline Hill. Amelia imagined leaning against the stone wall with Philip’s arm around her waist.

  Since the night Whit left they had been almost inseparable. Every evening Philip met her at the Piazza di Trevi or in a café on the Via Condotti. She always had some excuse why he couldn’t pick her up. He stopped asking where she lived and she didn’t tell him.

  No matter how many times she told herself she couldn’t see him again, something inside her protested. She knew she had to tell him the truth but the words got stuck in her throat. She couldn’t bear to lose him when they were having so much fun.

  There was a knock at the door and she ran to the entry to answer it.

  “I hope it’s not too early.” Sophie entered the marble foyer.

  She wore white slacks and a white silk blouse knotted at the waist. Her blond hair was pulled into in a low ponytail and tied with a red ribbon.

  “I went to the market and bought plums and berries and melon.” She handed Amelia a basket of fruit. “I bought too much, but it all looked delicious.”

  “You’ve already been to the market?” Amelia asked.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I walked around the Roman Forum and ran up and down the steps of the Colosseum.” Sophie perched on a blue velvet armchair. “Then I had a croissant in the Piazza del Popolo and bought a silk scarf on the Via Condotti.”

  “But it’s only nine in the morning.” Amelia frowned.

  “I saw the scarf in Gucci and had to have it.” Sophie blushed. “The salesgirl opened early.”

  “Why are you up so early?” Amelia asked, eating a juicy strawberry.

  “I hadn’t seen Theo since we had dinner in Trastevere,” Sophie began, tucking her feet under her. “Last night I was buying olive oil at the Campo de Fiori and I ran into him at the flower stall. He asked if I would join him for dinner and I agreed. I knew it was a mistake, but he wore jeans and a light blue shirt and he looked so handsome.

  “After dinner we strolled to the Piazza Santa Maria and sat on the steps of the fountain. It’s the oldest fountain in Rome, built in the eighth century.” Sophie twisted her hands. “I don’t know what got into me, suddenly I turned to Theo and kissed him.”

  “What did he do?” Amelia gasped.

  “He pulled away and strode across the piazza,” Sophie replied. “I was mortified, I searched for a taxi to go home. Then I heard footsteps and I saw him walking toward me. He took my head in his hands and kissed me on the mouth.”

  “What are you going to do?” Amelia asked.

  “In two weeks I’m going back to the Royal yacht.” Sophie’s cheeks turned red. “Nothing has changed but I’ve ruined everything.”

  “You haven’t done anything any normal twenty-five-year-old girl wouldn’t do,” Amelia soothed.

  “In six months I’m getting married in a sixteenth-century cathedral. There’ll be a reception for a thousand people and we’ll eat raspberry fondant cake and drink Moët & Chandon and it will be the best night of my life.”

  Sophie sunk against the ivory silk cushions and buried her face in her hands. She gazed at Amelia and her cheeks were streaked with tears. “But how will I survive until then?”

  * * *

  Amelia stood at the mirror and tied a yellow scarf around her head. She thought about Sophie in her white silk blouse and slacks. She pictured her big eyes and pale cheeks.

  Amelia gazed at the shopping bag filled with melons and peaches. Suddenly she didn’t feel like eating Parmesan ravioli at an outdoor café. She didn’t want to sit across from Philip and lie about being a maid.

  She selected a shiny apple and entered the bedroom. She climbed on the four-poster bed and sat against the pillows. She picked up a letter and began to read.

  August 2, 1952

  Dear Kitty,

  Today is James’s last day in Rome; we won’t see each other again until the wedding. I was supposed to meet him for dinner at the Grand Hotel but shooting lasted forever. Some people think Mr. Wyler doesn’t care about his actors but it’s the reverse. I watch the dailies and can’t believe it’s me riding on the back of a Vespa or dancing by the river. He has made me into an actress!

  By the time I reached the dining room, it was almost nine o’clock. I searched the restaurant but the maître d’ said James left earlier. I didn’t know how to contact him and knew he would be furious. James’s most valued possession is his Patek Philippe watch and he hates that Italians use the sun as a clock.

  I entered the gold revolving doors and saw James sitting at the Hassler bar. He wore a navy suit and white shirt and thin black tie. His hair flopped neatly over his forehead and he wore black leather shoes. I tried to slink to the elevator and run up to my suite. I wanted to change into something sexy and douse myself with perfume.

  “There’s my charming fiancée,” he called out. “How kind of you to make an appearance. Have you been at a club with your actor friends?”

  I approached the bar and saw James’s eyes were glazed and his cheeks had a thin sheen. He held a martini and there was a martini shaker on the table.

  “I’m terribly sorry, shooting ran late,” I mumbled.

  “Did you tell your director you were having dinner with your fiancé on his last night in Rome?” James put down his drink.

  I sat opposite him and tried to smile. “I’m here now and there’s still time for dinner. Let’s go to Ristorante Rinaldi and have spaghetti and mussels.”

  “I’m tired of spaghetti and I’m tired of the humidity and I’m tired of a country where no one knows how to dress after six P.M.,” James protested. “I’ll be glad if we don’t come back to Rome.”

  “Well, I’m starving,” I replied, suddenly exhausted. “I’m going to order room service veal Parmigiana and a glass of Burgundy.”

  James softened and put his hand on mine.

  “I’ve had two martinis and a handful of pretzels. Why don’t we order a couple of steaks?”

  We ordered rib eye steak and smoked potatoes and I felt my shoulders relax. We talked about his upcoming trip to Toronto and the newest shows in London and he draped his arm around my chair.

  “We’re meeting Father Percy on September nineteenth and the rehearsal dinner is on the twentieth. Mother rented out the dining room at the Excelsior. We can move it to the garden if the weather is nice but September in Yorkshire is iffy.”

  I cut my steak slowly and dabbed my mouth with a napkin. I put my fork on the plate and looked at James.

  “We’ve gotten behind schedule, I don’t think shooting will wrap until September twenty-fifth.”

  “Our wedding is on September twenty-first.”

  “We may have to postpone it, I’m under contract.” I gulped.

  “You tell Mr. Wyler that on September twenty-first you’re going to be standing at the altar.” He stood up and clutched the table. “If I have to come to Rome and carry you off the set.”

  I took the elevator to the Villa Medici Suite and threw myself on the bed. I couldn’t possibly leave the set of Roman Holiday
early. How am I going to appear at a stone church in Huddersfield when I’m shooting a scene in the catacombs? I shouldn’t have become an actress; I need to be a magician!

  August 12, 1952

  Dear Kitty,

  On Thursday night I was drinking a cup of warm milk and honey in bed. I’ve been going to bed early since James left. After spending all day in the sun, I want nothing more than to step into a cool bath and soak in the bubbles. Then I sit on the balcony and practice my lines and eat cold tomato soup and crusty baguettes.

  I just turned off the light when the phone rang. I reached over the bedside table and picked it up.

  “Is this Audrey Hepburn? This is Marjorie, Harry Henigson’s secretary.”

  “My goodness.” I sat against the silk pillows. “Aren’t you working late?”

  “It’s nine A.M. in Los Angeles,” Marjorie replied. “Mr. Henigson wanted to tell you Paramount would like to give your entire wardrobe as a wedding present.”

  “My wardrobe?” I frowned, glancing at the antique armoire in the bedroom.

  “All the clothes and accessories you wore on Roman Holiday,” Marjorie explained. “Four Givenchy evening dresses, two Dior ball gowns, three Chanel suits, a selection of Ferragamo shoes and Manbocher hats, and one evening gown designed by Edith Head herself.”

  “That’s very kind,” I replied. “But how did Harry know I was getting married?”

  “Mr. Hanson called yesterday and said the ceremony was on September twenty-first in Yorkshire.” Marjorie paused as if consulting her notes. “He requested you be let out of your contract if shooting continues past September eighteenth.”

  “He did what?” I jumped out of bed. My heart was pounding and I could barely breathe. “Let me speak to Harry.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Henigson is at his house in Santa Barbara,” Marjorie replied. “He won’t be in the office until Monday.”

  I tried calling James but he was on his way to Toronto. I was so angry; I tossed and turned all night. Finally I saw the sun rise behind the Pantheon and slipped on a dress and sandals and ran to the set.