Carissima

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  “You said she is an intern at the magazine, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gregory, how can I let an inexperienced journalist interview me? What would that say to the world? That would seal my career.”

  “Career?”

  I shoot Gregory a dirty look, knowing what he is thinking.

  “I’m sorry, Francesca. No disrespect, but I thought you retired from acting over a decade ago.”

  “I did, but I have my reputation to uphold.”

  “So, you still care what the public thinks about you even after all these years?”

  Remaining silent, I take a long sip of my Scotch.

  “Is that the only reason? Her inexperience?”

  “Well, of course. What other reason would there be?”

  “You tell me.” Gregory stares at me. His unease from earlier is gone. He is challenging me. I am touched at what he will do to impress this girl. He must really like her.

  “You’ve never been in Profile magazine.” He breaks the stony silence.

  “That is because they came out shortly before I retired. All the other major magazines have done interviews with me.”

  “This would be your chance to be in Profile. You said you still care what the public thinks about you.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Francesca, you’ve been very candid with me today. Why stop now? Anyway, if you agreed to this interview, this would show the media you’re still significant.”

  “I am still significant!” My voice rises.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have asked you. As I said before, I will respect your wishes since you obviously do not want to do the interview.”

  Gregory gets up and begins packing his art supplies. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to end our session now. I need to get some fresh air and run a few errands.”

  “You are upset, Gregory.”

  “No, no.”

  “Who is not being candid, now?” I smirk as I say this.

  “You got me. But I’m not upset with you, Signorina Donata. You have every right to deny an interview. I just feel bad for Pia. She’s had to delay by a few years getting her career started, and this would’ve really gotten her on the right track.”

  “What happened to her? You said earlier she has been through a lot.”

  “I wouldn’t feel right breaking her confidence.”

  “I see.” For some reason, this angers me. Or is it that I am jealous of his fierce protection of and admiration for this special woman? When was the last time someone felt that way toward me?

  “It’s okay, Francesca. Let’s just forget I ever brought this up.” He finishes packing his art supplies and begins to walk away.

  “Wait, Gregory. I will grant her the interview.”

  He freezes and turns around.

  “You will?” His voice comes out in a hushed whisper.

  “Under certain conditions.”

  “Sure. Sure. That won’t be a problem.”

  “Wait until you explain the conditions to Pia and she agrees to them before you say they won’t be a problem for her.”

  “Fair enough. What are the conditions?”

  “You had better write them all down or else you will forget.”

  Gregory looks at me a little uncertainly, but just nods his head as he fishes a pen out of his messenger bag.

  We will see what this girl is made of after her first interview with me, I think to myself as I begin reciting to Gregory my long list of rules.

  13

  Pia

  1. I must approve and vet ALL interview questions.

  2. I must see the first draft of the interview before it is published.

  3. No questions about my previous engagements or fiancés may be asked.

  4. No questions about my movies that did not do well may be asked.

  5. No questions about my family may be asked.

  6. In the article, I must not be referred to in any way that implies I am old or that my career is over.

  7. I must approve all photos that are to be used in the article.

  8. Miss Santore MUST show the utmost respect toward me at all times.

  9. Miss Santore MUST address me ONLY as “Signorina Donata.” She is NEVER to use my Christian name.

  10. Miss Santore MUST arrive ten minutes before the actual start time of our interview.

  11. Miss Santore should not make any attempt to become my friend. This is a business transaction and nothing more.

  12. Miss Santore MUST refrain from asking me for autographs or photographs. Every photo taken will be of me alone.

  13. I reserve the right to end the interview when I believe it should be over.

  14. The interview will be at seven a.m. sharp on Saturday here at my sister’s home. That is the only day and time I can meet for this interview so no requests to reschedule may be made.

  15. If any of these conditions are not met, the interview is off.

  “She’s a witch!” I fling Francesca’s list of conditions in the air, letting the paper fall on the floor of Zia’s bakery. Gregory is sitting across from me staring into his huge mug of cappuccino. He bends over and retrieves the paper, but dares not place it in front of me.

  “Pia—”

  “Don’t defend her to me again! Don’t!” I hold up my hand. A few of the bakery’s patrons at the other tables look over toward me.

  Gregory places his hand on my knee.

  “I wasn’t going to defend her. I agree the list is a bit much, but she’s testing you.”

  “A bit much? It’s so over the top! She’s going to make this interview totally unbearable for me. I just know it.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I heave out a long sigh.

  “Pia, you can do this. Show her you’re as tough as she is. That’s what she wants to see. She values strength in character. Earn her respect, and you’ll win her over.”

  “Why should I be bending over backwards to kiss her ass? Oh, wait, don’t answer that. It’s because she’s silver-screen royalty. That allows her to treat the rest of us peons like dirt.”

  “I bet if you were to interview any other huge celebrity, his or her conditions wouldn’t be that much different. Francesca isn’t the only star guilty of acting like a diva.”

  I glance at the list of conditions. The one rule that irks me the most is her choosing when to end the interview. I’m the journalist, not her. And her assuming that I’d want to befriend her is ludicrous. You’d have to be certifiable to want to be friends with the likes of her.

  “She isn’t even giving me much time to prep for the interview. Saturday is only two days away. I only have one day to go over the questions with Colin and fax them to Francesca before we meet.”

  “You can do it. I have faith in you.”

  The tender expression in Gregory’s eyes comforts me, making me regret my outburst. What’s the matter with me? He’s gone out of his way to get me this interview, and after seeing Francesca’s list, I’m sure now she didn’t make it easy for him either.

  “I’m sorry. I’m acting as badly as Francesca with my temper tantrum.” I place my hand on Gregory’s arm, squeezing it lightly.

  “No need to apologize. I knew you would lose it a little after seeing her conditions.” Gregory laughs.

  “I’m sure this meeting will be interesting. Maybe I can use it someday to write a fictionalized tell-all novel à la The Devil Wears Prada!” Now I’m also laughing.

  “That’s the spirit! Exploit every possible angle with this interview.” Gregory holds up his thumb in approval.

  “She’d probably get into a catfight with me just like in that hysterical scene of hers from Dolci Labbra in which she beats up the woman she’s caught kissing her lover. They actually had her throwing fists at the woman. It looked so fake!”

  “I’ve never seen that movie of hers, but I can imagine how outrageously funny that must’ve been!” Gregory wipes tears from his eyes. He
can’t stop laughing.

  “I guess I can’t ask her about that Oscar-winning scene since Dolci Labbra did horribly at the box office, and according to rule number four, I’m not allowed to ask about her flops.”

  “Let’s treat ourselves to Antoniella’s almond hazelnut biscotti. I can’t believe we’re just having cappuccino.”

  Gregory begins to wave to one of the waiters, but I quickly get up.

  “I’ll get them. We shouldn’t be treated any differently because I’m Antoniella’s niece. Unlike Francesca, I don’t treat others like my slaves.”

  “No, you don’t.” Gregory raises his mug to me in salute. He thinks I’ve already looked away, but I see his gaze shift to my butt.

  Since our first date, we’ve talked every night on the phone. He’s taking me out on Saturday night and Sunday afternoon. Again, he’s planning a surprise. Gregory wanted to take me out on Friday night, but once I found out that Francesca would be granting the interview, I needed that evening to prepare. My blood starts to boil again when I think about her requirements. But Gregory’s right. I have to do whatever it takes.

  I place four of Zia’s almond hazelnut biscotti on my plate. Two are dipped in chocolate. They’re the perfect accompaniment to coffee, espresso, or cappuccino, especially when you dunk the biscotti! My mom used to also make these. But I have to secretly admit, Zia’s are better, which I guess is no surprise since she owns a bakery and has had more practice at baking than my mom has. My mouth waters as I anticipate biting into the sweet, crunchy biscotti.

  “Only four? I can eat four all by myself!” Gregory pouts.

  “You’ll ruin your six-pack if you do.”

  “You’ve noticed?” Gregory is beaming from ear to ear.

  I can’t believe I’ve already broken my rule of withholding compliments from a guy on his appearance until you’re in a commitment. Gregory is making me break every one of my dating rules!

  Shrugging my shoulders in answer to his question, I take a bite out of a chocolate-dipped biscotti and simply say, “Maybe.”

  “Hey. If you want to run any of your interview questions by me tomorrow night, feel free to call. I’ll just be home painting.”

  “Thanks, but Francesca’s not the only control freak. Remember Colin said he’s going to come up with most of the questions? He’s letting me come up with a few of my own. I can’t wait to see his reaction when I show him Francesca’s conditions and how she’s limiting what we can ask her.”

  “I’m sure you’ll both be able to come up with some great questions.”

  A thought suddenly occurs to me.

  “You know, for someone as clever as Francesca, I can’t believe she forgot to list that I can’t ask her about all of her notorious nicknames!”

  “You wouldn’t!” Gregory smirks.

  “Why not? Is she the only one who gets to have a little fun?”

  “You’re bad, Pia! But please! Don’t do it. Remember what she said? She can end the interview anytime she wants. And she expressly stated that you need to treat her with the utmost respect. Don’t blow this opportunity, Pia.”

  Gregory’s smirk has completely faded, and his eyes are pleading with me.

  “Relax. I have class, more than Francesca, and I would never be cruel just for its own sake, as she’s known to be. I’ll find a way to ask about the nicknames so that she doesn’t sense I’m giving her a taste of her own medicine.” I giggle. “That’s exactly what she needs.”

  My heart is pounding loudly as I walk up the block toward the Mussolini Mansion. I need to get my nerves under control before I come face-to-face with Francesca. I refuse to let her see me rattled.

  I took great care last night in choosing my clothes. I’m wearing black trousers with a white button-down mandarin-collar shirt à la Diane Sawyer. By dressing in the fashion of my journalism idol, who normally wears neutral colors and mandarin-collar blouses and jackets, I’m hoping some of her talent will rub off on me during my interview. Though I hate wearing super-high heels since they just make me look like a giraffe, I decided to purchase a pair of four-inch Via Spiga peep-toe sling-back pumps in black patent leather. Maybe my now towering frame will intimidate Francesca. Of course, I don’t seriously believe that for one second.

  Zia Antoniella insisted I borrow her vintage Gucci black patent Kelly handbag since it matches my pumps. She also thought it would help to show Francesca that I, too, have good fashion taste. The purse is in mint condition even though it’s from the late sixties, and it sports a beautiful bamboo handle. I love it. Zia bought it before she departed for America.

  The paparazzi and the usual crowd of spectators are camped out in front of the Mussolini Mansion. Getting past them without being mobbed is going to be a challenge. The paparazzi have their backs turned toward the house as they sip on their morning coffee and smoke their cigarettes. The neighbors are gossiping among themselves as usual. I unlatch the front gate, hoping by some miracle I can make it up to the front door without being noticed, but of course, there’s no such luck. I’ve barely pushed open the gate when Olivia DeLuca gives me away.

  “Pia! Where are you going?”

  Everyone, including the paparazzi, turns in my direction.

  Deciding that lying is my best recourse at the moment, I say, “I’m here to see Signora Tesca.”

  “Signora Tesca?” Olivia frowns.

  “Yes, if you’ll please excuse me, I’m going to be late.”

  “You’re here to see Francesca, aren’t you?” a short, bald paparazzo asks me as he quickly walks over and then snaps my photo.

  “Please, don’t take any more photos of me.”

  Ignoring my request, he takes another as do the other paparazzi.

  “What’s your relation to the sisters?” a female paparazzo asks me. She’s the only woman among them.

  Instead of answering her question, I quickly run up the stairs. Out of my peripheral vision, I see Olivia is staring at me intently, still trying to guess why I’m seeing Signora Tesca. Ciggy waddles over to her with his huge beer belly and puffs smoke in her face as he whispers something to her. Olivia nods her head, and then they both look in my direction.

  Thankfully, one of Signora Tesca’s staff answers the door after just one ring of the bell.

  “Miss Santore, I presume?”

  “Yes, I have an appointment with Francesca Donata,” I whisper, hoping my voice is low enough so that the paparazzi and the neighbors don’t hear me.

  “Right this way, Miss Santore. We’ve been expecting you.”

  The butler—I feel ridiculous saying that in this day and age, but don’t know what else to call him—sounds just like you’d imagine one would sound like. He’s an older man, probably in his late sixties, but is groomed impeccably from the perfectly combed-back gray hair to the just-pressed navy suit he’s wearing. At least he isn’t decked out in one of those ridiculous butler uniforms.

  He leads me up a long, spiral staircase. Taking in Signora Tesca’s home, I can’t help noting that it definitely looks like a rich person lives here. But the décor seems dated as I glimpse the plastic-covered Queen Anne furniture in the library we’ve just passed. Monte di Capo vases line the foyer and the base of the staircase. Oil portraits hang on the walls. The floors are all hardwood and are buffed to a high shine. We walk down a long corridor toward a room with a slightly open door. Sunlight is streaming through.

  The butler lets me enter first. My heart begins racing again as I anticipate seeing Francesca in the room, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

  “Signorina Donata will be with you shortly. Please take a seat. I’ll bring up espresso shortly.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name.”

  “Carlo.” He bows slightly before he leaves. I can’t help but feel like royalty.

  I pace around the large sitting room and notice it adjoins another room. Beautiful French doors are at one end of the space. Surprisingly, the furniture here isn’t covered in plastic, which
is odd since it’s an eggshell color. I would think Signora Tesca would be more concerned about soiling this furniture with its light shade. Unlike the hallways and what I could make out of the library downstairs, this room emits a lot of light with the paler shades of furniture, the lemon-colored walls, and the natural sunlight streaming in from the French doors.

  A black-and-white photograph catches my attention. The photo is the only one present and rests on one of the end tables near the settee. I walk over and pick up the frame. Two teenage girls are sitting on a boulder. Their backs are turned toward the beach in the background. It’s a stunning photo, since the photographer captured the image just as a huge wave was crashing against the shore. The girls have their arms around each other’s waists and are laughing. They’re both wearing halter dresses with full skirts that are billowing out against the ocean’s breezes. One of the girls is unmistakably Francesca. Though she was quite young in the photo—no more than fourteen—her trademark beauty was already evident. Her face still possessed the innocence of youth. The haughtiness that I’ve often seen in her photos as well as the day I met her in the jewelry store is missing from her expression. But her eyes hold a hint of allure. She knew even then that she was beautiful.

  The girl next to her is pretty. Unlike Francesca, her eyes hold no suggestive glance. She’s just smiling from ear to ear. Tears fill my eyes as I think of numerous similarly posed photos of Erica and me. But I haven’t been able to bring myself to look at them since Erica died. My father had compiled a few photos of Erica for her wake. As they flashed on the flat-screen TV at the funeral home, I had to look away. Seeing Erica when she was in the prime of her youth in those photos was too much.

  “Good morning.”

  I’m startled by a woman’s voice and look up. Francesca! My stomach immediately coils into knots. Placing the photo frame back on the end table, I walk over to Francesca and extend my hand.

  “Good morning, Signor—ina Donata.” Whew! I almost blew that again.

  Francesca barely grazes my hand with hers in what has to be the weakest handshake I’ve ever experienced.

  “Please sit down. Make yourself comfortable, although I see you already have in a sense.” She glances toward the photo that I had been inspecting.