by Anita Hughes
“It was the private apartments of Princess Isabelle. She entertained Queen Elizabeth in this room. She died at the age of ninety-six and toward the end of her life she filled the apartments with her greatest treasures.”
“Are you a member of the Colonna family?” Amelia asked.
“I read the guidebook.” Philip grinned. “The Colonna family have lived here for twenty generations, they still occupy rooms on the second and third floor.”
“I’m not very good at parties,” Amelia explained. “The music was too loud and there were so many people and it was so hot I couldn’t breathe.”
“If you don’t like parties why did you come?” Philip asked, sitting on the bench beside her.
“I was supposed to meet someone but he didn’t show up.” Amelia shrugged. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going home.”
Amelia stood up and her heel caught on the Oriental rug. She put her hand out to steady herself and Philip grabbed her arm.
“Please don’t go.” Philip took off his mask and dropped to his knee. “From the moment I saw you at the taxi stand, I knew you were special. When I told you love wasn’t worth the effort I was wrong. I had never experienced love because now I know love is worth enduring anything. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met and I want to spend my life with you.” He drew the velvet box out of his pocket and snapped it open. “Ann, will you marry me.”
“What are you doing?” Amelia gasped, tearing off her mask.
“Something I’ve wanted to do for three weeks.” Philip grinned. “I’m asking you to be my wife.”
“But it’s so sudden,” Amelia stammered. Her cheeks were pale and her lips trembled. “We hardly know each other.”
“I know you like classic movies and Renaissance art and traveling in foreign countries,” Philip began. “You’re terrible at drinking champagne and have a knack for landing in difficult situations. But you have the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen and when I’m with you I feel like I can accomplish anything. I want to spend the rest of my life learning your favorite colors and foods and books.”
Amelia’s eyes glistened and her hands shook. She looked into Philip’s eyes and opened her mouth. “There’s something I haven’t told you…”
“Excuse me,” a guard interrupted. “These are private apartments, they are off-limits to the guests.”
“Can we have a minute?” Philip turned, his forehead creased in a frown.
Philip turned back to Amelia. She put her mask over her eyes and smoothed her hair.
“I need time to think.” She walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Philip grabbed her hand.
“I have to be up early for work.” She hesitated. “Can I see you tomorrow?”
“Of course.” Philip nodded, letting go of her hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Amelia opened the door and turned around. She removed her mask and her face broke into a smile.
“My favorite color is yellow.”
* * *
Philip tossed his keys on the glass dining room table and loosened his tie. He pictured Amelia in her satin evening gown and white gloves and sucked in his breath.
He poured a shot of scotch and took the velvet box out of his pocket. He snapped it open and gazed at the glittering diamond. He fished out the yellow piece of paper and tossed it on the table. She had to say yes, or he would lose everything.
chapter twenty-nine
Amelia hung up her pink satin evening gown and slipped on a cotton robe. She pictured the Princess Isabelle apartments with the gold ceilings and Oriental rugs and shivered. It had all been too much: Philip’s proposal and the guard interrupting them and her heart hammering in her chest.
She poured a shot of amaretto and climbed onto the four-poster bed. She glanced at the stack of Audrey Hepburn’s letters and lay back against the floral pillows. She picked up the last letter and began to read.
September 28, 1952
Dear Kitty,
Tomorrow morning I leave for New York. My trunk is packed and I bought Vogue and Town & Country and Variety. I will have fifteen hours on an airplane to catch up on the new collections and the fall theater season and Hollywood gossip.
I wish I had time to stop in London but rehearsals for Gigi start in three days. I shall have to toss my suitcase in my new apartment and race to the theater. I hope Gil hasn’t rented something dismal; I’m spoiled from the suite at the Pierre. I read in the Observer that James is getting married and I’m happy for him. He needs a tall blonde who he can parade at Ascot and Wimbledon.
Greg left this morning and I didn’t say good-bye. You might think I’m a coward but I knew if we met it would be as two actors instead of Princess Ann and Joe. I hope we will stay friends but it will never be the same. It’s like the end of the performance of Swan Lake when the corps de ballets step off their stage. The minute they enter the dressing rooms they aren’t swans, just ordinary girls in white tutus.
I saw Veronique in the lobby of the Hassler. She wore an emerald green Chanel suit and lizard pumps. I will always be jealous of her glossy auburn hair and wide mouth and long red nails. But I couldn’t be French if I spent a year in Paris; I am a Dutch and English mutt!
I came up to the Villa Medici Suite and stood on the balcony. I heard cars honking and people laughing and suddenly my heart raced. I couldn’t possibly spend my last night in Rome curled up in a hotel robe and slippers.
I walked inside and put on a turquoise Givenchy dress and satin pumps. I fastened diamond earrings in my ears and grabbed my purse. Then I took the elevator to the lobby and asked for a taxi.
I entered the dining room of the Grand Hotel and gazed at the crystal chandeliers and red velvet carpet and gold columns.
“Good evening, Paulo.” I approached the maître d’. “Table for one please.”
“Are you dining alone, Miss Hepburn?” the maître d’ asked.
“Don’t worry, I have a good book for company.” I smiled.
He escorted me to a table set with white china and gleaming silverware. I looked up from the menu and saw a familiar figure across the room. He was very tall with large brown eyes and smooth brown hair.
“I wasn’t sure that was you.” Mel approached my table. “I’m by myself, do you mind if I join you?”
“Please do, it will make the maître d’ happy.” I nodded. “He thinks a woman dining alone is as scandalous as eating in your underwear.”
“I thought you had left for New York,” Mel said. He wore a gray suit with a white shirt and black tie. He wore a gold watch on his wrist and black leather shoes.
“I leave tomorrow morning, rehearsals for Gigi start on Wednesday.” I sipped a glass of Burgundy. “I wanted one more night to enjoy myself.”
“I’m happy you are still here,” Mel replied. “I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye.”
“Tell me about yourself.” I blushed. “How did you end up at Princeton?”
“I grew up in New Jersey,” Mel began. “My father is Cuban and he is a successful surgeon and my mother is a socialite. No gala or benefit is complete until Mary O’Donohue Ferrer arrives in her fox stole and Tiffany diamonds.”
“Why did you become an actor?” I asked, eating a bite of duck and baby peas.
“There are a few theories,” Mel mused. “My father believes I wasted my Princeton education and my friends think it was to get women. Truthfully I didn’t choose acting, it chose me. When I’m in front of the camera I don’t feel like a Cuban-Irish mix who isn’t smart enough to be a doctor or fast enough to be a basketball player.”
“A basketball player!” I laughed.
“I was six feet by the time I was twelve.” He sighed. “I always dreamed of a career on the court but I tripped over my own feet.”
“I wanted to be a dancer.” I nodded. “But I was too tall and I didn’t have the perfect turn out.”
“I’m glad you weren’t a dancer,” he said slowly. “The world wo
uld be dull without your smile lighting up the screen.”
“Goodness, your friends were right.” I flushed. “You are good with women, I shall have to be careful.”
“On the contrary.” He shook his head. “I’m usually quiet, you’re easy to talk to.”
We shared vanilla mascarpone for dessert and Mel suggested we go to Harry’s Bar for an aperitif.
I sipped a Cognac and then Mel asked me to dance. Kitty, he is such a good dancer, it was like being in Madame Rambert’s practice room with all those young men in leotards and tights. We danced to Frank Sinatra and Glenn Miller and Ella Fitzgerald.
This time when he asked if he could see me home, I agreed. He dropped me off on the steps of the Hassler and took my hand.
“Would you I mind if I looked you up in New York?” he asked. “I’m still determined to produce War and Peace.”
“You might wait until Roman Holiday comes out,” I mused. “I might be a terrible flop.”
“Greg said you are going to be a huge star,” Mel replied. “He’s never wrong.”
“All right.” I hesitated. “I’d like that.”
I walked inside and he called after me.
“Greg also said you were beautiful and smart and too good for me.” He smiled. “But I’ve never been good at following advice.”
I took the elevator to the Villa Medici Suite and opened the door. I sat at my dressing table and pulled off my earrings.
I gazed at the twinkling lights of the Colosseum and pictured Greg and Veronique running off together. I love being an actress but I want more than that. I want a love affair that makes me want to give up everything. I want a passion that makes it impossible to eat and sleep and think.
I slipped on a silk robe and climbed onto the four-poster bed. I remembered Mel guiding me around the dance floor and shivered. I hope I see him in New York, you know I’ve always loved a man who can dance.
Audrey
Amelia put the letter on the bedside table and tied her cotton robe around her waist. In a week shooting of Roman Holiday would be over and she would return to Los Angeles. Even if she told Philip the truth and he forgave her, how could they have a future together?
She pictured Philip in his white dinner jacket snapping open the velvet box. She saw the oval diamond and the small sapphires and the platinum band. How could he want to marry her when they just met? Then she remembered Whit striding out of Il Gabriello and disappearing up the Spanish Steps. They had been together for years but they still broke up.
Love was a crazy combination of chemistry and attraction and luck. Did it matter how long they knew each other or was the important thing that they didn’t want to be apart?
She flashed on Philip sitting at Rosati, sipping a tall iced coffee. She saw quiet dinners in Trastevere and long walks on the Palatine Hill. She pictured kissing in the Piazza di Trevi and having a picnic in the Borghese Gardens.
She glanced at Audrey’s letter and remembered telling Sophie she couldn’t live without love. She adored being an actress but she didn’t want to be alone. She needed the same things as Sophie and Veronique and Audrey: a husband, children, a home.
She jumped up and walked to the closet. She pulled on a cotton sweater and a pair of capris. She slipped on leather loafers and grabbed her purse. She had to tell Philip the truth, and she had to tell him she loved him.
She walked to the elevator and pressed the button. She waited for the doors to open and hoped that would be enough.
chapter thirty
Amelia ran up the staircase and knocked on Philip’s door. She waited and knocked again. She hesitated and finally walked inside.
The bed was neatly made and an umbrella stood in the umbrella stand. Papers were strewn on the desk with a cup of pens and pencils. Amelia saw a towel hanging on the bathroom door and clean dishes next to the sink.
She gazed at the gleaming toaster and coffeemaker and pictured waking up together on Sunday mornings. She imagined sitting at the round glass table eating scrambled eggs and bacon and whole wheat toast. She pictured drinking cups of fresh ground coffee with nutmeg and cinnamon.
She walked to the desk and pulled out a piece of paper. She would write Philip a note asking him to join her at Rosati’s. Then she’d browse in the boutiques on the Via Condotti and buy a silk dress or some lace underwear.
She glanced at the dining room table and saw a stack of photos. She picked up a photo of Philip and her sitting at a café in the Piazza di Trevi. She was wearing a floral dress and Philip’s arm was draped around her shoulder.
She flipped through the stack and saw a photo of them having a picnic at the Villa d’Este. There were pictures of them putting their hands in the Mouth of Truth and standing in front of the Castel Sant’Angelo.
Amelia heard the door open and turned around. She saw a man with wavy blond hair and blue eyes. He wore a yellow collared shirt and blue jeans and had a camera slung over his shoulder.
“You must be Ann.” Max held out his hand. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Max, Philip’s friend.”
“Philip wasn’t here so I was going to leave him a note,” Amelia explained. “I don’t understand, who took all these photos?”
“I did,” Max replied, taking a peach from the wooden bowl. “Would you like a piece of fruit? The peaches are delicious.”
“Why would you take pictures of us?” Amelia asked.
“I take pictures of everything; cats, flowers, children.” Max bit into the peach. “I just took some great photos of nuns riding Vespas in Saint Peter’s Square.”
“But there are so many,” Amelia insisted. “It’s as if you were following us.”
“I’m thinking of starting a wedding photography business,” Max continued. “So many couples get engaged or elope in Rome. You are the perfect couple, the camera loves you.”
Amelia flushed and turned to the desk. She picked up a piece of paper and read the first paragraph.
Hollywood Royalty or Hotel Maid?
When I played Good Samaritan to a Hassler hotel maid a few weeks ago, I didn’t know she was really the actress Amelia Tate. I rescued Miss Tate in the pouring rain when she hadn’t money for a taxi. I shared my cab and when she fell asleep on my shoulder I carried her to my apartment.
Over the last three weeks, Miss Tate and I have developed a friendship but she still hasn’t revealed her identity. During long walks and intimate dinners, she maintains the fiction she is an American learning Italian and working at the Hassler. Why would the actress predicted to be the next Audrey Hepburn pretend to be a maid? And what does her deception say about the moral climate of Hollywood?
Amelia dropped the paper and felt her heart pound in her chest. She glanced around the room and suddenly didn’t know where she was. Everything looked different: the narrow bed, the plain brown sofa, the fire escape hung with Philip’s dress shirts.
“Why did Philip write this?” Amelia asked.
Max scanned the paper and put it down. He paced around the room and ran his hands through his hair. “I can’t tell you, I’ll lose my best friend.”
Amelia walked to the door and turned the key in the lock. She slipped the key in her pocket and sat at the dining room table.
“We’re not leaving until I hear the whole story.”
Max poured two glasses of scotch and handed one to Amelia.
“I was a photographer at your press conference,” he began. “You looked stunning in that pink satin gown and white gloves. The next morning I showed the photos to Philip and he recognized you as the maid who fell asleep in the taxi.” Max sipped his scotch. “It was my idea that he write a series of articles about a movie star pretending to be a hotel maid. Adam bought the articles for twenty thousand dollars.”
“Twenty thousand dollars!” Amelia gasped. “This is my first starring role, no one is that interested in me.”
“Adam upped the stakes a little,” Max conceded. “He said he’d pay Philip twenty thousand if he could con
vince you to marry him without revealing who you are.”
Amelia felt the room spin. She remembered Philip ripping off his mask and dropping to his knee. She saw him open the black velvet box and take out the diamond and sapphire ring.
“He bought a ring,” she stammered.
“Borrowed it,” Max corrected. “He has to return it tomorrow.”
“Why would he do such a thing?” Amelia asked, her eyes filling with tears.
“Philip is the most upstanding guy I’ve ever met,” Max replied. “He doesn’t cheat at poker and he never takes a piece of fruit at the market without paying for it. He didn’t see any other way out.”
“Out of what?” Amelia frowned.
“After Philip graduated from Yale his father expected him to join Hamilton and Sons. Philip said he wanted to be a journalist and the old man demanded he repay his college tuition. If he couldn’t start paying the loan in ten years, he had to join the company.” Max paused and looked at Amelia. “He could never be a stockbroker, he has to be a writer.”
“He told me he loved me,” Amelia whispered. “He asked me to marry him.”
“He thinks you’re the nicest girl he’s ever met,” Max insisted. “He never wanted to hurt you.”
Amelia pictured the room in Portofino with the white lace bedspread and silk pillows. She remembered Philip drawing her onto the bed and shuddered. She stood up and took a deep breath. She took the key out of her pocket and opened the door.
“Don’t leave.” Max jumped up. “Let Philip explain.”
“You’ve explained everything perfectly. Please give Philip a message for me. Tell him thank you for rescuing me from the Trevi Fountain and showing me the Vatican and helping me find Sophie.” Amelia smoothed her hair. “Tell him I had a lovely time and I never want to see him again.”
Amelia ran down the stairs and through the Piazza di Trevi. She raced up the Spanish Steps and entered the gold revolving doors of the Hassler. She walked quickly to the elevator and pressed the button. She leaned against the mahogany paneling and burst into tears.
