by Anita Hughes
Amelia’s face broke into a small smile. “Please, I won’t tell a soul.”
The concierge fiddled with the envelope, breathing in Amelia’s perfume. “He said it was for a maid, but we don’t have a maid named Ann Prentiss.”
“Could I borrow it for a little while? I promise I’ll bring it back.”
“Signor Black would not be happy with me.” Ernesto hesitated.
“It will be our secret.” Amelia leaned forward. “I’m good at keeping secrets, aren’t you?”
“Very good,” the concierge relented. He pressed the envelope into Amelia’s hand and turned back to his computer.
“You are so kind,” Amelia beamed, slipping the envelope in her purse.
She entered the elevator and pressed the button. What if Philip knew she was really Amelia Tate and was going to expose her? What if he wrote an article saying she got drunk and went to his apartment? Amelia imagined the newspaper headline and her cheeks turned pale. She fumbled with her room key and opened the door.
Amelia entered the living room and glanced at the oval dining room table. She saw the crystal vase of yellow roses and the silver tray of tea and scones and pots of strawberry jam. She glanced at the neat pile of newspapers and shuddered.
She perched on a blue satin love seat and opened the envelope. She unfolded the white paper and read out loud.
Dear Miss Prentiss,
I hope you are well and have not run into any rain showers or fallen into any national monuments. I thought of you this morning while I was making breakfast. I haven’t met anyone in Rome who enjoys bacon as much as you do.
I have two tickets to an outdoor concert at Hadrian’s Villa and wondered if you might like to take a friend. I received them as payment for an article I wrote and I will be out of town on the date.
I’m sure the Hassler pays you handsomely and I know the guests like to tip you with vintage champagne, but honestly, I can’t think of anyone else to give them to.
There are no strings attached and you don’t need to reply. I just don’t like to picture you working so hard, without enjoying yourself. After all you are in Rome, and the Italians believe strongly in la dolce vita.
Yours Truly,
Philip Hamilton
Amelia gazed at his scrawled signature and thought it would be lovely to sit on a cashmere blanket under the stars. It would be lovely to listen to classical music and eat baguettes and salami and Camembert. But she couldn’t risk having any contact with Philip. If he discovered she was Amelia Tate he’d plaster her name across the front page of Le Repubblica.
She walked into the bedroom and placed the letter on the Regency desk. She would write him a polite note thanking him but saying she couldn’t take time off work. She opened the drawer and took out a piece of ivory writing paper. She put her hand in farther, searching for a pen.
She heard a click and the back of the desk seemed to fall away. She reached in and suddenly felt a stack of papers. She carefully removed them and walked over to the Tiffany lamp.
She peered closely and saw yellowed writing paper covered with flowery cursive. They were tied with a white ribbon and covered with dust. She gently untied the ribbon and glanced at the date. Her eyes grew wide and she sucked in her breath. She sat on the velvet chair and read out loud.
June 1, 1952
Dear Kitty,
We finished our first day on the set and it was a disaster! How could I possibly think I could be a movie star? The cameras are huge and the set is so crowded I couldn’t breathe. Everywhere you turn there is someone wanting to smooth your dress or fix your hair or reapply your makeup. I felt like one of poor Madame Rambert’s dogs when it returned from the beauty parlor.
I wish we were still together in Madame Rambert’s ballet school. It was so easy to concentrate on my pas de deux and arabesques and jettes. I know Mr. Wyler thinks my accent is terrible, I can tell when he crosses his arms and yells: “Cut, let’s try that again.”
Oh, Kitty! I must be mad. It was all right doing Gigi on Broadway, that was like performing in Baroness Ella’s living room. In the theater you can hear your audience breathe, it’s like being part of a club. But to picture my face on a screen in front of thousands of people makes me feel faint.
You’ll never believe what I did, it was so embarrassing. After lunch (The food is awful. One would think in Rome they would serve gnocchi and veal cutlets and chestnut puree but I got a plate of dry chicken and canned peas and white bread), I sat on a chair waiting for my cue. I shielded my face with a newspaper; the Italian sun is so hot it’s like being in Africa.
A tall man in a gray suit approached me. He had smooth black hair and dark eyes and an angular nose.
“Pardon my late arrival. My plane was delayed in London and I just got in.” He held out his hand. “You must be Miss Hepburn.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr.…” I hesitated.
“You don’t know who I am?” he asked, his eyes sparkling.
“Please forgive me.” I blushed. “I’m terrible with faces.”
“Well you might recognize my name,” the man smiled. “It’s written on your chair.”
I turned around and saw Gregory Peck written in gold letters. I was talking to one of the most famous movie stars in the world and I hadn’t recognized him!
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Peck.” I shook his hand so vigorously I thought it might break. “I’m honored to be working together. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”
“The first thing you could do”—he grinned—“is give me back my chair.”
“Of course, how silly of me.” I jumped up. “I didn’t know chairs had names.”
“We’ll have to get you one of your own.” He turned to a production assistant. “Jimmy, can you write Miss Hepburn’s name on a chair?”
“I don’t want my name on a chair.” I shook my head.
“Why not?” He raised his eyebrow.
“I’m quite shy, I’d rather everyone didn’t know who I am,” I mumbled.
He looked at me carefully and his face broke into a smile.
“Miss Hepburn, after this movie comes out everyone from Athens to Beijing will know your name.”
Oh, Kitty, what if I’m the biggest failure since Charlie Chaplin tried to do a talkie? I must go. Mr. Wyler knocks on the door at ten P.M. to make sure I’m asleep. He gave a long lecture on the importance of rest and exercise. As if I’m going to get time to exercise when he works us around the clock!
Hugs to Mimi and Ondine. I’ll write more soon.
Amelia held the letter up to the light. The paper was so old she was afraid it would crumble in her hand. She glanced at the signature and her heart hammered in her chest. It was signed with one word.
Audrey
chapter eight
Philip hung his shirt on the clothesline on the balcony and gazed down at the alley. It was mid-morning and the sun streamed onto the cobblestones. He saw the butcher’s door hung with sausages and garlic. He saw the greengrocer’s window full of ripe strawberries and peaches. He watched a man climb the stairs to his apartment. He wore a yellow T-shirt and blue jeans and sneakers.
“What are you doing up so early?” Philip asked when Max opened the door. “You don’t usually rise from your beauty sleep until lunchtime.”
“I need a cup of coffee and a raw piece of meat,” Max groaned, sitting on a wooden chair.
“What happened to your face?” Philip peered at the purple welt on Max’s cheek. “You look like you got into a street fight.”
“I was fastening Alessandria’s earrings in her ears and my hair got stuck in her collar. It was perfectly innocent but the countess walked in and saw us.” Max rubbed his cheek. “She threw her Prada clutch at me, luckily she wasn’t carrying her Hermès bag. That thing has more hardware than a Brink’s truck.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t tear you apart limb from limb.” Philip raised his eyebrow. “She invested more money in you than a col
lege education.”
“It was time I left anyway, the dolce pears in brandy sauce were making me fat.” Max sighed. “I will miss the private art gallery and indoor swimming pool. The countess looked exceptionally good in a bathing suit.”
“I’m going to the outdoor market in the Campo de Fiori.” Philip stuffed his wallet in his pocket. “You can help me choose a picnic.”
“Do you have a date with Amelia?” Max asked.
“Something like that.” Philip rubbed his brow. “I got tickets to a concert at Hadrian’s Villa.”
“Romantic music, a soft breeze, dinner under the stars.” Max nodded, eating a banana. “We’ll stop at Café Eustachio. Their espresso is so strong it could turn Clark Kent into Superman.”
* * *
Philip stood in the Campo de Fiori and gazed at the baskets of white truffles and porcini mushrooms and radicchios. There were stands filled with thick sausages and prosciutto and artichokes. He walked through the aisles and saw a dozen kinds of cheese and bottles of olive oil and dried pasta.
“Do you think you’re in junior high, preparing an after-school snack for the cute girl in algebra?” Max glanced at the head of lettuce and slices of bacon and red onions in Philip’s shopping basket. “You need to buy sexy food—plump red cherries, a jar of caviar, miniature vanilla custards.”
“How is food sexy?” Philip frowned, studying the rows of purple asparagus and romanesco broccoli and Japanese eggplant.
“Vegetables aren’t sexy unless they’re sautéed in butter. Fruit is sexy.” Max took a bite of a plum. “If she gets any on her fingers, you can put them in your mouth.”
“I’m not sucking the fingers of a woman I just met,” Philip protested.
“You have three weeks to ask her to marry you.” Max shrugged. “You at least want food you can feed each other—a crusty baguette, some soft cheese, a bunch of green grapes.”
Philip picked out ricotta cheese and a rind of Gouda. He bought baskets of raspberries and apricots. He selected a warm baguette and thinly sliced salami and a jar of black olives.
“Salami is okay as long as you both eat it.” Max trailed behind him, popping olives in his mouth. “Haven’t you ever been on a picnic?”
“Daphne was more interested in dining at Per Se or Tribecca Grill, she didn’t like getting grass stains on her skirt,” Philip replied.
“You’ve been in Rome for three years,” Max persisted. “Haven’t you ever taken a girl to the Borghese Gardens and spent the afternoon making daisy chains in the grass?”
Philip added a bunch of white tulips to his basket. “There haven’t been any girls, except the KLM flight attendant. She was always in too much of a hurry to eat.”
“No women?” Max gaped.
“I’ve been trying to earn a living.” Philip frowned. “We can’t all trade on our blue eyes and blond hair.”
“You need a vintage Bordeaux to start the conversation, a chocolate torte to whet her appetite, and a jar of whipped cream.”
“Whipped cream?” Philip repeated.
Max tossed the jar in the basket. “If you’re with a woman, you can always use whipped cream.”
* * *
Philip stood in his kitchen, gazing at the bottle of French wine and pancetta and soft cheeses. He took out his wallet and counted out notes. He had spent almost forty euros and didn’t know if Amelia would show up.
He poured a glass of orange juice and pictured Amelia wearing his white shirt. He saw her eating muesli and sliced bananas and washing it down with milk. It was bad enough he was lying about his intentions; he didn’t want to pack a fancy picnic of foods he’d never tasted.
He opened the fridge and took out a loaf of wheat bread. He sliced red tomatoes and thick strips of bacon. He rinsed a head of lettuce and opened a jar of mustard. He rolled up his sleeves and started to make a sandwich.
chapter nine
Amelia poured a cup of English breakfast tea and added milk and honey. She had never been a tea drinker but she loved the way the Hassler served it: on a sterling silver tray with a fresh lemon rind and a selection of scones and biscuits. She put the cup on the white Limoges plate and walked to the window.
It had been raining for two days and Sheldon had to cancel production. Sophie asked Amelia to accompany her to the Vatican but she didn’t want to spend the day wrapped in a scarf and sunglasses, hiding behind a program. She decided to stay in the Villa Medici Suite, drinking milky tea and reading Audrey Hepburn’s letters.
She sat on the ivory silk sofa and gazed at the stack of yellowed paper. She knew she should tell someone about the letters, a museum or Audrey’s family. But she couldn’t stop turning the pages. She picked up the top letter and read out loud.
June 10, 1952
Dear Kitty,
Oh, Kitty! Today I was sure I would be fired; I was ready to call Gil and tell him I’d arrive in New York early. I could start rehearsing Gigi in August instead of waiting for the end of September. I pictured New York City in the summer, the heat rising from the sidewalk, the rehearsal room without air-conditioning, and I burst out crying.
The last few days had been going so well. I was terrified of Gregory Peck at first, he is so tall and when his brow knots together I think I’ve done something wrong. But he is a gentleman, going over my lines and bringing me cheese Danishes.
Even Mr. Wyler has been kind, complimenting me on my European accent. He said he didn’t know how Princess Ann should talk until I opened my mouth, and then he couldn’t imagine her sounding like anything else. I took his praise and wrapped myself in it like a blanket.
But today something terrible happened. We were rehearsing the final scene where I say good-bye to Joe at the Roman Forum. I imagined the most terrible things, but I couldn’t shed a tear.
After nine takes, Mr. Wyler paced around the set like an injured lion. “Paramount wanted Elizabeth Taylor to play Princess Ann. Did you see her in National Velvet? She was fourteen years old and wept over a horse! I can’t get you to cry when you’re about to lose the man you love.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wyler,” I replied, biting my lip. “I don’t know what’s wrong, I’ve tried everything.”
“There’s one thing you might try.” His black eyes flashed. “It’s called acting.”
I was so humiliated, I ran to my dressing room. Suddenly there was a knock on the door and Gregory Peck entered. He wore a white dress shirt and gray slacks and black loafers. He is so tall his head touched the ceiling.
“Drink this.” He handed me a flask.
I took a sip and handed it back to him. “That tastes terrible!”
“It’s vodka.” He screwed the top on the flask. “One sip works wonders on the nerves, it’s a necessity on a movie set.”
“The last thing I need is to get drunk, it will give Mr. Wyler an excuse to fire me.” I sighed.
“My first director was a French fellow named Jacques Tourneur. After a week of filming, Jacques said he could as easily believe I was a Russian spy as his grandmother was Marie Antoinette. He gave me three days to get rid of my American accent and grow a beard.”
“I saw Days of Glory, you were wonderful,” I murmured.
“How old are you?” he asked, passing me the flask.
I shook my head and handed it back. “Twenty-four.”
“And you’re engaged to some British lord,” he mused, leaning back in his chair.
“James isn’t an aristocrat, his family is in shipping.” I blushed. “How did you know?”
“I read the newspapers.” He waved his hand. “Have you ever…”
“How dare you!” I jumped up. “That’s none of your business.”
“I was going to ask if you ever waited for a phone call that didn’t come or wrote a love letter that didn’t receive a reply.” His eyes sparkled.
“There was a boy in Amsterdam, Hans.” I nodded. “His parents fled to Switzerland in 1944, I thought my heart would break.”
“When you look i
nto the camera I want you to be that sixteen-year-old girl in love for the first time.” He stood up and grabbed my shoulders. “Full of hope and fear and misery.”
He stood so close I could hear his heart beating. I held my breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
“That’s the trick, Miss Hepburn.” He released me. “Your audience doesn’t care what you say or how you wear your hair, they just want to see you make love to the camera.”
“I don’t think Roman Holiday is that kind of movie,” I said stiffly, adjusting my skirt.
He smiled and ran his hands through his hair. “Every movie is that kind of movie.”
I’d like to say I walked onto the set and performed my scene but by the time I reapplied my makeup, everyone had gone home. But I know I can do it and I’m glad I have a friend on the set. I’m afraid I’m going to need one.
Audrey
Amelia glanced at the rain falling in sheets outside the window. She poured another cup of English breakfast tea and picked up the next letter.
June 17, 1952
Dear Kitty,
Oh, Kitty! The weekend has been such a whirlwind. James arrived from London on Friday evening. It’s only been a month since I’d seen him, but my stomach was full of butterflies. I couldn’t remember what music he liked or what books he read or what we talked about.
The minute he arrived at the door, I remembered why I’m in love with him. He has floppy blond hair and green eyes and a dimple on his chin. I know you think he’s too eager to be a member of the Commonwealth Club, but he treats me like a princess.
He insisted we go to dinner at the Grand Hotel. I was so exhausted; I wanted to curl up with a glass of warm milk and a copy of Vogue. But it would have been childish to say no when he flew over to see me.
I wore my black Chanel cocktail dress and diamond earrings and the mink stole James gave me for Christmas. I glanced in the mirror and wanted to giggle. How can I be a movie star who dines in furs and diamonds when I feel like a struggling dancer without enough money to buy a hair ribbon?
The dining room of the Grand Hotel has crystal chandeliers and red velvet carpet and a wide marble staircase. It was like being in the first-class salon of a cruise ship, but with a view of the Roman Forum and the Colosseum. James ordered fettuccine Alfredo and rack of lamb and some terribly expensive French wine.