by Anita Hughes
She slipped out a side door of the Hassler and hurried down the alley. She entered the clinic and sat on a red vinyl chair. She heard the bell tinkle and saw the nurse with her metal clipboard.
“Can I help you?” the nurse asked.
“I need to see the doctor.” She twisted her hands.
The nurse ushered her into a small room and Amelia sat uncomfortably on the wooden table. She heard the door open and saw Theo’s blond hair and green eyes. He wore a white coat over blue jeans and had faint stubble on his chin.
“It’s you.” He folded his arms. “What do you want?”
“Sophie had a bad asthma attack,” Amelia explained. “I gave her her inhaler but it’s not helping, I’m very worried.”
“Where is she?” Theo clutched his clipboard.
“At her suite at the Hassler.” Amelia bit her lip. “Her breathing was ragged and her cheeks were white as paper.”
Theo put down his clipboard and ran out the door. He raced down the alley and entered the gold revolving doors. Amelia followed him into the lobby and watched him disappear into the elevator. She waited until the doors closed and then she pressed the button to the seventh floor.
* * *
Amelia stepped out of the marble bathtub and walked to the closet. She had an hour until she met Philip and wanted to wear something glamorous and sexy. She flicked through cotton dresses and linen capris and found a lime green chiffon dress with a scooped neck. She paired it with gold Gucci sandals and a gold necklace. She snapped on her Cartier watch and added a few gold bangles.
She gazed at the vanity with its double marble sinks and white fluffy towels and jars of lotions and creams. Soon shooting would wrap and she’d go back to Los Angeles. She pictured Philip’s dark eyes and white smile and shivered.
She was going to tell him she didn’t mean to lie about who she was. It all started because she was exhausted from jet lag and had had too little to eat and too much champagne and wanted to explore Rome. She never meant it to go this far and she’d never lie to him again.
There was a knock on the door and she crossed the living room to answer it.
“I don’t know what you did but I could kiss you.” Sophie burst into the room. She wore a white linen dress with a silver belt. Her hair was knotted in a low bun and her mouth was coated with shimmering lip gloss.
“You look like you belong on the cover of Vogue.” Amelia smiled, admiring her large blue eyes and thick dark lashes.
“I was curled up on the sofa reading Tess of the D’Urbervilles when Theo rushed into the suite.” Sophie sat on a royal blue sofa and tucked her feet under her. “He took my pulse and stroked my forehead. He thought I had a terrible asthma attack.”
“Is that so?” Amelia grinned.
“I tried to correct him but I burst into tears,” Sophie replied. “By the time I stopped crying he was holding me in his arms and kissing me.”
“Tears and diamonds are a girl’s best friend,” Amelia murmured.
“He said he should have known I was a princess because the first time he saw me he knew I was special.”
“Go on.” Amelia nodded.
“We talked about his dreams of building an orphanage and the responsibilities of being a princess,” Sophie continued. “We’re having dinner tonight at La Pergola.”
“I’m glad,” Amelia replied. “You are perfect for each other.”
“I’ve never been on a real date; what if he wants to do more than kiss me goodnight?” Sophie asked.
“You’ll get the hang of it.” Amelia smiled. “You’re doing great so far.”
“I hope so.” Sophie sighed, gazing at the silver tray of fresh scones and strawberry jam. “Since I fell in love I’ve barely had an appetite.”
Amelia slipped on her sunglasses and gathered her purse. She imagined Philip waiting at Rosati and thought Sophie was right. Suddenly her stomach clenched and she wasn’t hungry.
chapter twenty-five
Philip crumpled a piece of paper and tossed it in the metal garbage can. He walked around his desk and poured a cup of black coffee. He sniffed it and placed it next to his laptop.
He had come to the office, determined to write the next article about Amelia. He kept picturing her in the Hotel Splendido. He saw her yellow dress and bare legs and white sandals. He remembered her slipping the key in the lock and inviting him into her room. He pictured her firm breasts and milky skin and wondered how could he possibly expose her in Inside Rome. He gulped the bitter coffee and felt his head throb.
“You look like you’re dreaming about a college cheerleader you had a crush on.” Adam entered the room. “I thought Yale cheerleaders were flat chested and wore glasses.”
“I never went to football games.” Philip closed his laptop. “I spent my time in the library.”
“I got invited to the soccer World Cup by Sergio Levente.” Adam poured a cup of coffee.
“Sergio Levente, the media magnate?” Philip asked.
“He read the piece about Princess Sophia and is interested in backing Inside Rome.” Adam sipped his coffee. “But he won’t invest unless we keep our circulation up.”
“I’m working on the articles.” Philip grimaced.
“You need to step up the schedule,” Adam replied. “Get Amelia Tate to marry you by next week and I’ll pay you twenty thousand dollars.”
“Twenty thousand dollars,” Philip spluttered.
“If Sergio invests I’ll be able to hire a staff and cover Florence and Venice and Naples,” Adam mused. “We’ll change the name to Inside Italy, one day it might be Inside Europe.”
“I’m meeting Amelia at Rosati’s in an hour.” Philip glanced at his watch.
“Buy her a dozen roses and a bottle of perfume.” Adam reached into his pocket and took out a wad of euros. “And get better coffee. This shit will stunt your growth and put hair on your chest.”
* * *
Philip crossed the Piazza del Popolo and approached Rosati’s. He glanced inside and saw Amelia sitting at the window. She wore a green dress and her hair was pinned back with a gold clip. Her eyes sparkled and her mouth was coated with shimmering lip gloss.
“These are for you.” He smiled, giving her a bouquet of yellow roses.
“They smell wonderful,” Amelia beamed. “I was starving, I ordered a plate of pancetta and a bottle of Chianti.”
“I wanted to change but I got stuck at the office.” Philip glanced at his creased shirt. He gazed at Amelia’s gold necklace and leather sandals and wished he’d put on a sport coat.
“You love the newspaper, don’t you,” Amelia mused, tearing a baguette.
“My office is the size of a sardine can and Adam can be abrasive.” Philip grinned. “But he’s passionate about what he does.”
“You never told me why you left the New York Times,” Amelia said.
“They kept hiring young kids and giving them big titles and little money.” Philip frowned. “They folded my entire department into two guys straight out of journalism school.”
“I’m sorry, that must have been terrible,” Amelia murmured.
“I would have stayed even with a pay cut, it’s all I ever wanted to do.” Philip shrugged. “All the papers were being choked, why would anyone pay to read the news when it’s free online?”
“I hardly ever read the paper.” Amelia sipped a glass of Chianti. “But I promise to buy Inside Rome every morning.”
“What did you do before you came to Rome?” Philip asked, eating ham and mozzarella wrapped in a fig leaf.
“I was premed at USC,” Amelia replied. “My father is a surgeon and my mother is an anesthesiologist. I thought everyone’s parents wore beepers and worked holidays and weekends.”
“What happened?” Philip asked.
“I loved math but hated biology.” Amelia shrugged. “I’m lucky, I could have spent eight years in medical school and then discovered I wasn’t meant to wear a white coat. My parents love what they do but I didn’t
want to work in a hospital and sleep on an iron cot.”
“What did you do instead?”
Amelia ate a bite of pancetta and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. Suddenly her cheeks were pale and she took a deep breath. “There’s something I…”
“There you are.” Max burst through the door. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Adam told me you were here, you have to help me.”
“We’re having dinner,” Philip exclaimed, spilling his wine on the tablecloth.
“It looks delicious.” Max glanced at the platter of soft cheeses and basket of olive bread. “But if you don’t come with me I might be dead, and it’s hard to enjoy a decent Burgundy when you’ve got tire treads on your forehead.”
“What’s going on?” Philip frowned.
“Let’s go out the back and I’ll tell you.” He ducked behind the table. He bowed to Amelia and smiled. “My apologies for borrowing your boyfriend, I promise to return him. In the meantime try the swordfish in a lemon sauce, it’s the chef’s specialty.”
* * *
“What the fuck are you doing?” Philip stormed when they entered his apartment. They had raced through the Piazza del Popolo to the Via del Corso. Max kept running until they climbed Philip’s stairs and closed the door.
“I went to Lara’s seventeenth-century palazzo, I wanted to tell her in person that I’m back with the countess.” Max poured himself a glass of scotch. “The maid asked me to wait in the entry and I was surrounded by naked statues and frescoes of Roman feasts. Lara walked down the stairs in a red silk dress that was so tight I could barely swallow.
“I told her she was stunning and deserved someone who adored her. As I was leaving I saw a guy with gray hair drive up in a Maserati. He followed me out the gate and chased me through Rome.” Max downed the scotch. “I finally pulled into the alley and hid the car in Signora Griselda’s carport.”
“The countess’s Alfa Romeo is in Signora Griselda’s carport?” Philip exclaimed.
“I didn’t know what to do with it, I couldn’t make it disappear.” Max poured another shot. “If Lara’s husband caught me he’d wrap the fender around my neck.”
“When will you stop chasing married women?” Philip paced around the room.
“I’m done with that,” Max insisted. “I’m faithful to the countess.”
“What about the count?” Philip asked.
“Mirabella says he’s sixty and spends all his time at his silk factory in Umbria.” Max shrugged. “He’s glad the countess and I are together, it keeps away the gigolos.”
“We’re both in trouble.” Philip sighed, pouring a glass of scotch and swallowing it in one gulp. “I think Amelia was about to reveal her identity.”
“How do you know?” Max asked.
“We were talking about our pasts,” Philip mused. “Suddenly her cheeks turned pale and she started to say something.”
“You can’t let her do that,” Max insisted. “You have to ask her to marry you first.”
“Adam upped the offer to twenty thousand dollars,” Philip murmured.
“Twenty thousand dollars for her to say yes?” Max spluttered.
“An investor is interested in the newspaper.” Philip nodded. “But how am I going to propose before she tells me the truth?”
“Tell her you have a deadline and don’t have time to see her.” Max paced around the room. “In the meantime you have to think of the perfect way to propose. You could make reservations at Imago and hire a violinist and a cellist. Or take a picnic to the Villa Borghese and have an airplane spell out ‘Will you marry me?’”
“After tonight’s dinner I can barely afford two slices of chocolate torte at Giolitti and a ring from a Cracker Jack box,” Philip groaned.
“I forgot about the ring!” Max put his shot glass on the counter. “You need at least two carats, preferably surrounded by sapphires.”
“How can I afford a ring like that?” Philip laughed.
“Convince Signora Griselda to hide my car.” Max opened the door. “And I’ll get a ring that would make the Duchess of Cambridge marry you.”
“She’s married to Prince William.” Philip frowned.
“The right diamond can make a woman do anything.”
* * *
Philip stood on the balcony, sipping his glass of scotch. He pictured Amelia’s green chiffon dress and gold sandals. He saw the way she shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows. He remembered the warmth of his mouth on her lips.
He walked inside and put the glass in the sink. He opened the fridge and took out a tomato and a head of lettuce. He spread mustard on whole wheat bread and added bacon and red onions. He placed the sandwich on a plate and realized he wasn’t hungry.
chapter twenty-six
Amelia slipped on a white cotton robe and pink slippers. She sat on the four-poster bed and glanced at the yellow silk curtains. It was lovely to lie against the floral pillows and gaze at the Roman Forum and the Colosseum. It was lovely to sip a cup of English breakfast tea with milk and honey.
She remembered sitting across from Philip at Rosati’s, eating pancetta and fresh bread. She remembered opening her mouth to tell him the truth and shivered. Tomorrow she’d go to the Campo de Fiori and buy prosciutto and ricotta cheese and baguettes. They’d take a picnic to Pinico Hill and she’d tell him everything.
She put her porcelain cup on the bedside table and glanced at Audrey Hepburn’s letters. She picked up the top page and began to read.
September 20, 1952
Dear Kitty,
We are almost finished shooting and it reminds me of the last days of school. You can’t wait for summer but at the same time you know you’ll miss the friendships and the gossip and the boys passing notes.
Everyone has been in a good mood; even Mr. Wyler has been making jokes. He said if I could act like this in the beginning, we would have wrapped weeks ago. I’m not afraid of the lights or the cameras; I’m like a rose that finally bloomed.
This evening I approached the Hassler and saw a crowd of journalists on the stone steps. I thought they were waiting for someone famous like Humphrey Bogart or Katharine Hepburn. I entered the glass revolving doors and suddenly the camera bulbs flashed.
“Miss Hepburn, how do you feel about the rumor that you and Gregory Peck are having a romance?” a man in a gray suit asked.
“Is it true you plan on running away together after Roman Holiday wraps?” a woman in a black fitted dress demanded. “Where is your secret hideaway?”
Oh, Kitty, I was so shocked I thought I would faint! I remembered Gil telling me how important it is to be nice to journalists. I smoothed my skirt and gave them my widest smile.
“It seems you know more about our plans than I do,” I replied. “Perhaps you can tell me where we’re going.”
“The odds are on Las Vegas.” The woman glanced at her notes.
“Las Vegas!” I exclaimed. “Why would anyone go there? It’s over a hundred degrees in the summer.”
“So Gregory Peck can get a quick divorce and you can get married,” piped in a reporter with dark hair and glasses.
“I’m afraid someone has given you the wrong information.” I waved my hand. “I met Gregory Peck’s wife and she is stunning. Mr. Peck plans to spend the rest of his summer camping with his family in Yosemite.”
“It’s right here.” The female reporter unfolded a copy of La Repubblica.
“Let me see that,” I said, glancing at a photo of Greg and me sharing a gelato in the Piazza di Spagna.
“You don’t need my copy.” She shrugged. “It’s on every newsstand in Rome.”
I took the elevator to the Villa Medici Suite and closed the door. I picked up the phone to call the concierge but put it down. If I asked to speak to Greg every reporter in Rome would know I dialed his number.
I started reading the article but my stomach turned. How could the paper print such lies! Greg and I never talked about anything more than having a drink at Harry’s Bar
, and that’s always with Veronique and Mel Ferrer.
I thought of Veronique and my shoulders relaxed. She would get to the bottom of this. I picked up the phone and asked to be connected to the operator.
“I need to speak to Veronique Passani,” I said.
“We don’t have a guest by that name,” the operator replied.
“She must be staying at some hotel in Rome,” I insisted. “She’s a reporter for Paris Soir.”
“There are dozens of hotels in Rome.” The operator hesitated.
“Please, it’s terribly important,” I urged. “Tell her Audrey Hepburn must talk to her.”
I paced around the living room waiting for the phone to ring.
“What’s wrong?” Veronique’s French accent came down the line. “I’m at the salon getting my nails done.”
“Are you in Rome?” I clutched the phone.
“I just arrived, I’ve been in Paris,” Veronique replied.
“I need to see you right away,” I declared.
“I can hardly walk out with wet nails, Franco would be furious,” Veronique snapped. “Have a glass of amaretto and relax, I’ll be there as soon as the lacquer dries.”
I remembered what Veronique said about journalists writing the truth and wondered if there was anything behind the story. Greg has been so kind since I ended my engagement but I would never dream of breaking up his marriage. And even if I did, he never tried to kiss me. Oh, Kitty, my thoughts keep turning like the carousel in the Bois de Boulogne. I can’t wait for Veronique to get here!
Audrey
September 21, 1952
Dear Kitty,
Veronique arrived wearing a dark green Dior dress and beige pumps. Her auburn hair fell to her shoulders and she carried a lizard clutch.
“I can’t believe they wrote we’re running away together.” I showed her the newspaper. “I’m too embarrassed to show my face.”
“Of course you’re not running away.” She folded the newspaper and placed it on the glass coffee table. She tapped a cigarette from her gold cigarette case and lit it with a pearl lighter. “We are.”
