by Hannah Doyle
‘There’s not a cloud in the sky,’ the photography director calls over. ‘Shall we switch up and get that pool scene shot now?’ And just like that the indoor set-up is abandoned and one of the runners is dispatched to get Violet on set. It’s time for her debut. Suddenly the hairs on the back of my neck are standing to attention and I feel a shiver despite the heat. I don’t know why, but I am so nervous right now.
Boo, how’s Italy? Tell me stories! Life here is the exact same. . . Mike and I argued about what film to see on Saturday and no one’s committing any decent crimes so work is boring. I miss you.
I frown at Mila’s message.
MISS YOU TOO! Sorry to hear about the argument, are you guys okay?
Oh fine yeah, how’s Italy?
Bloody hot! And Violet may be an even bigger diva than the stars of the show, but it’s all good.
Good, don’t forget to get your tush out there!
My tush is getting very well acquainted with Nutella for breakfast, is that what you mean?
Obviously not. She fires back. Stop stalling and start doing.
Remember that time I said I didn’t know why I was feeling nervous about Violet’s TV debut? Ha ha ha. Now I know why. BECAUSE IT IS HORRIFIC. Every fibre of my being is willing me to dive head-first into the lake and swim to safety and yet my feet are rooted to the spot as I watch the horror show unfurl.
It began with mild levels of cringe as Violet attempted to muscle her way into every single shot. Things got a bit more awkward when she started doing a piece to camera, despite the crew telling her not to. Then Chip turned up and now they’re practically humping on a sun lounger while the cameras roll. It is positively the worst thing I have ever had to see with my eyes and I’ve watched a lot of One Born Every Minute. The rest of the cast have slunk off, embarrassed, and I’m starting to wonder whether I should step in. Surely this isn’t going to help her image? I take a peek at one of the camera’s zoning in on my boss’s smooch fest. Puke-inducing scenes aside, she does look incredible on camera. She’s wearing one of the new bikinis from that swimwear range she’s ambassador for, because Violet is never not working.
‘She’s not shy, is she?’ Scriptwriter Steve is rubbing his hands in glee at the filth unfolding before our very eyes.
While everybody else wrapped up for the day, Violet and I squeezed in some photos for a fashion post, which gave Violet a chance to wang on about how great her TV debut had been (cough) and how much she is totally in love with Chip. The pap shots are live and she and Chip have both Tweeted statements about how the pictures were a gross intrusion of their privacy (!) but they are indeed a couple and are very happy together. I checked analytics and she’s seen a huge spike in views, not to mention bagged a tonne of extra followers. Violet could not be more pleased right now.
I, on the other hand, am starting to wonder WTF I’m doing with my life. Wait, no, that sounds over-dramatic. I just can’t stop thinking back to Violet’s flower-filled home and the fact that she assumed I’d be obviously free to come with her to Italy. She was right. I didn’t have plans. The one thing I had been looking forward to was going to a wedding with James and we all know what happened there. The thing is, it’s absolutely glorious here in Italy and I know that I’m so, so lucky to have this opportunity. So why can’t I shift that niggling doubt that I’m here for the wrong reasons? I’m here for Violet, I’m here to capture her amazing life. And what about my own life? The minute I’m not taking photos of my boss, I’m back to pulling my bra off through my jumper and falling asleep on the sofa with my hand in a packet of crisps.
Mila’s last message is ringing in my ears. Perhaps it is time to be more proactive, after all. What’s the worst that can happen if I have a little go at achieving something for myself, hey?
‘Fix up, look sharp,’ I say to my reflection, popping in some earrings. ‘Tonight you’re on a mission.’
The entire cast and crew are here for the weekly Thirsty Thursday get-together and it’s really nice to spend time with everyone away from the set. We’re on the balcony of a swish hotel in Como which is full of sexy Italians. Seriously, Italy is a country filled with stone cold stunners. All of the Totally Toffs have gathered around Chip and Violet, keen to learn more about their new romance while I’m sat with Sally, Steve and co.
‘What’s everyone drinking?’ I ask, standing up. ‘It’s my round.’
‘Jasmine, you are sweet,’ grins Steve. ‘There’s a tab! These are most definitely on expenses.’
‘Oooh,’ I reply, eyes lighting up. I’d been wondering why everyone was throwing back champagne like it’s the end of days. ‘In that case I might just bring over a bottle?’
‘That’s the spirit!’ Cheers Sally.
‘Righto,’ I nod, pottering off while wondering where the heck righto came from.
Propping up the bar with two glasses of champagne already bubbling through my system has definitely given me a confidence boost. I’ve ordered the most inexpensive bottle on the menu, because I didn’t want to take the piss, and now I’m doing some people watching. This place is dripping with glamour. Imagine being the type of person who just comes here for a drink? So fancy!
‘Buonosera.’
Expensive aftershave fills my nose and I turn round to see Prince Alessandro The Great, or whatever his actual royal title is, standing next to me.
‘Oh hello,’ I say with a little bow of the head.
‘I spotted you were alone so I came to see how you were getting along.’
‘I’m getting along just fine thank you sir.’
Sir?
‘Call me Alessandro or Al,’ he says with an easy smile.
A laugh escapes from my lips. ‘God, sorry,’ I say, scratching my forehead. ‘I’m just, well, I have never spoken to a real live prince before.’
‘Please, there’s no need to be concerned, you are quite charming. And I’m not really a proper prince, we haven’t had a sovereign for many years now. My family is noble, that’s all.’
Noble still sounds pretty bloody posh to me.
‘Righto.’ Can somebody just please stop me from speaking?
‘This is your first time in Italy?’ he asks, undoing the top button of his white shirt while I try very hard not to tear the rest of the buttons off with my teeth.
‘I, um. . . Yes! First time in Italy. You are so unbelievably beautiful.’ NOOOOOO. Just style it out. ‘Your country is so beautiful, I mean. I’m dying to get out and take some photos.’
‘So what is stopping you?’
Right, okay, this is better. We’re back on safe ground. Stop telling Alessandro you think he is fit and just calm the eff down.
I clear my throat. ‘The filming schedule’s already tight and Violet and I work on blog content whenever she has time off. Also I’m not great at map-reading and I don’t think I should be unleashed for any solo photography exploits.’
Alessandro laughs. ‘But you must find time to take some photos of my country!’
‘I’d like that. I’m trying to get together some personal photographs when I can.’
‘For your own website?’
‘Well, I don’t have my own website right now. It’s something I need to work on, if only I had the. . .’
‘Time?’
‘Exactly,’ I say, feeling like I’m stuck on repeat. I’d love to get some time for myself while I’m here. Those pictures from Cannes gave me such a buzz and I just know that getting out of my comfort zone could produce something really exciting here, too. Not to mention all the other things getting out of my comfort zone is meant to be helping me with right now. Stop stalling, start doing.
I’d like some lovely snaps of Italy for my own portfolio.
I’d like a hot Italian guide to show me the ropes.
It’s time to bag myself date number three.
A sudden surge of confidence (delirium?) has me sliding off my bar stool and saying, ‘Alessandro? If I did find some time off, I don’t suppose you’d want
to spend it with me? I could bring my camera and you could maybe show me around? Like. . . a date?’
WOOSH. There goes the confidence. Now I’m like, WHAT ARE YOU SAYING JASMINE? I am unable to believe that those words just came out of my mouth. I can’t even look at the Italian prince I just asked out. Of course he isn’t going to say yes!!! And what the bloody hell just came over me?
A smile plays at his lips as he watches me. ‘Well, the last thing I want is for your poor map-reading skills to get you lost in my country. Just tell me the time and place.’
NUH UH MOTHER FUCKER, NO YOU DIDN’T?
I’m not sure we need ALL the expletives right now, I message back primly.
Mate, you’re telling me you just bagged yourself a date with Italian royalty?? I’m so proud of YOOOUUUUUUU!
Mila is tapping away like the clappers and I’m struggling to keep up with her quickfire questions, but it feels very good to know that she’s pleased with me. I’m pretty pleased with myself, tbh. I’m being such an obedient best friend at the moment. Get out of your comfort zone! Ask out a guy who isn’t normally your type! I’m checking off things on Mila’s anti-list like there’s no tomorrow. There’s just the tiniest glitch to deal with. I’m about to go on date number three with a member of the Italian aristocracy who just happens to look like a Dolce and Gabbana model. My hair hasn’t seen a hairdryer in years because it’s just easier to let it air dry, I do not own one solitary set of matching underwear and don’t even get me started on the aftermath of that recent bikini wax. Also, I’m kind of socially awkward at the best of times, let alone when gadding around Italy with a king, or whatever. What was I thinking?! And what impelled Alessandro to say yes?!
Violet wasn’t too thrilled when I asked to take the morning off. I pointed out that she’s filming so I’m not needed in a professional capacity, even though she does like to dispatch me to fetch a fresh iced water every ten minutes while she’s on set. Thankfully the role of Dogsbody isn’t actually written in to my contract so here I am, feeling all kinds of uncomfortable because I’m wearing A Dress. I bumped into Karen at breakfast this morning and told her, on the quiet, that I was spending the morning with Alessandro. She looked me up and down and asked me if I was honestly and truly about to go on a date wearing jeans with a smear of Nutella on the butt (forgot about my breakfast stash when I sat down, didn’t I?) Horrified, she dragged me up to her room, heaved a suitcase out from under her bed and unzipped it to reveal loads of amazing clothes.
‘Fashion brands send me stuff,’ Karen explained. ‘If one of my celebrity clients wears something of theirs onscreen, it will be a guaranteed bestseller.’ Then she pulled out a green tea dress and flung it at me. Oh how I laughed. But apparently Karen was being serious and now look at me, fidgeting awkwardly with the mid-length sleeves and trying not to shout in fright every time I spot my pasty knees.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Date three: Alessandro Al Fresco
Al is expertly negotiating his speedboat into a. . . berth? Car park for boats? Bit of space on the lake?
‘Please, let me help you on board,’ he stretches out his hand, a delicious shock of energy fizzing up through my hand as I take his.
‘We’re going out in your boat?’ I squeak. I genuinely did not expect to be voyaging on the seas today.
‘Yes,’ my dates smiles, the sun bouncing off his olive skin. ‘There are some incredible views from up across the lake, ones I don’t think you’ll have seen before. I thought you might like to photograph them.’
So I’m off on a speedboat date with an Italian aristo, guys. Just another bang average day for me. It’s a good job I’m so confident on boats. B A R F.
Safety first! I insisted on wearing my life jacket for the entirety of the twenty-minute trip across Lake Como, even though it didn’t compliment my green dress. Meanwhile Al captained us effortlessly to shore while remaining one hundred per cent stylish in a cotton t-shirt and navy shorts.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask as I hitch my camera bag over my shoulder and follow him up a steep, dusty road.
‘To my olive grove.’
‘I’m sorry, did you say my olive grove?’
‘It’s been in the family for years,’ he explains, resting his hand on the small of my back. ‘It’s just at the top of this hill.’
Use of the word hill isn’t entirely accurate here. It’s so steep it could be mistaken for a climbing wall. I’m trying really hard not to huff and puff as we scale Mount Everest and Al is now carrying my kit bag for me like a true gent. When we finally make it up to the summit, he takes my hand again and leads me along a path until we’re looking out over acres of trees.
I stop and gasp at the incredible view. The lake is a deep blue from up here, lakeside towns clustering at its shores like barnacles on a ship. The mid-morning sun dazzles on the water and the salmon pink villas, which are so big close up, look more like little toy houses.
My fingers itch to get at my camera and also run my hands along Al’s back. I’d been so transfixed watching his broad shoulders move as we walked that I almost tripped over a whole heap of vines on the way here. I think my date might be the hottest man on the planet.
‘Go,’ he stands back.
I blink a bit.
‘You want some time to take photographs, right? You have a passion and I admire that very much. I’ll still be here when you’re finished and perhaps we can taste some of my olive oil if there’s time.’
Right. Photos first, perving on Al next.
‘Okay, thank you. I’ll hold you to the olive oil tasting.’
‘I should hope so,’ he says, raising an eyebrow and making me nervous laugh.
It’s possible that I *may* have got a bit overexcited this morning. I ended up scrambling through the little olive trees to practise depth of field and then, when I saw an ancient tractor puttering along, I broke out in a run to grab some rustic shots of the farmer toiling in his fields. Then I ended up dangling precariously from a ledge of soil with a sheer drop just below, to get some hopefully amazing photos of the lake in the distance. From up here, the mountains are reflected completely in the water below which is simply stunning to shoot.
It’s almost midday when I pack my camera away. There’s a hot Italian waiting and I can’t keep him any longer. Emerging from the vines, I cast a quick look down at myself to see that my dress is torn and my skin is covered in grazes from muscling through bushes. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’m a bit sweaty. Why didn’t I date first, photo later?! Argh.
Al is cool, crisp and incredibly chic under an awning where a table has been laid out with little pots of olive oil and a vast bread basket.
‘It looks like you had a productive morning,’ he smiles.
‘I got a bit carried away,’ I motion to the cuts on my knees like a schoolgirl in pigtails.
‘You love your work,’ he laughs, handing me an ice-cold glass of water. ‘That’s a very attractive quality in a woman.’
‘It is?’ I ask, taking a grateful slurp and instantly wishing I was more ladylike. How many times has Alessandro, King of Europe, been on date with a woman who has literally been scrambling through hedges and slurps her drinks? I’m going to plump for zero times.
‘A lot of the people I date are not in it for the right reasons. They see my background before they see me, you know?’ I get it. He’s practically royal, for the love of god. ‘Often I feel like I attract the wrong type of person.’
‘You mean, like, gold diggers?’
‘I can’t really think of a gentlemanly way to put it, but yes, I suppose so. Often it’s the fame, or the title, that people are after, not me.’
Normally I spend a first date sharing the absolute basics with a guy before we move on to what boxsets we’re both watching / funniest examples of drunken behaviour / a round-up of our worst Tinder experiences. Al has cut straight to the chase and I really like how it has instantly built a connection between us.
‘It’s funny, you talking
about types,’ I say. ‘My best friend recently told me, in no uncertain terms, that my type of guy sucks. She thinks it’s a better idea to get out there and meet different people, rather than stick to one type.’
‘She sounds like a sensible woman. Am I your usual type?’
‘Oh sure. I only ever date exceptionally handsome, olive-grove owning royalty,’ I grin. ‘I bet you only date dusty, slightly shambolic photographers too, right?’
He fixes me with the longest look and even my fingertips start to tingle.
‘You know, I can’t think of any of my ex-girlfriends would have been satisfied with a date like this. . .’
‘Are you kidding me? This place is so romantic.’ I motion to the piece of bread I’m currently dipping in some deliciously tangy olive oil. ‘It’s so good, by the way,’ I add with my mouth full. Mouth full indeed. Just call me an Italian princess in the making
‘I’m thrilled you like it,’ his eyes are looking at me, not the bread, when he talks. I keep his gaze for as long as I can, looking into those beautiful green eyes and thinking back to my old type on paper. Green eyes a bonus! Al ticks a lot of my original boxes. Dark. Handsome. Green eyes. Sharp dresser. The difference is that he’s a) quite a bit shorter than my old criteria and b) a complete and utter gent. I’m beginning to realise how ridiculously shallow my type was, after all. I’d have missed out on all of this because of one tiny thing? That’s starting to sound pretty stupid. Alessandro is so sweet and SO hot. I try not to lick my lips as he tucks a non-existent stray hair behind his left ear.
‘I think you look like a beautiful English rose,’ he adds.
Full disclosure, I am blushing. Al has leaned across the table and is swirling a strand of my former topknot around his index finger. It is sexy as hell. I’m not too sure what to do with myself in this situation, so I just continue chewing the regrettably huge chunk of bread I popped in my mouth a couple of seconds ago. It had been so yummy but now I just feel like I’ve been chewing for hours while Al fixes me with the hottest stare you ever did see.