Rome in Love (12 page)

Amelia had never cared about her wardrobe. She liked her uniform of capris and cotton dresses and flat leather sandals. When she walked the red carpet, the studio sent a stylist and a selection of dresses by Dior and Yves Saint Laurent.

But it was fun to try on sheer cocktail dresses and satin pumps. It was fun to imagine what she would wear to the premiere of
Roman Holiday
—an ivory ball gown or a silver sheath with a plunging back.

“This would be wonderful to wear to the Villa Medici.” Sophie held up a white linen dress with gold buttons. “Theo is taking me to the opening of the Donatello exhibit.”

Amelia raised her eyebrows. “You’ve seen him every evening this week.”

“It’s lovely to have someone to go to galleries with.” Sophie blushed, taking the dress into the dressing room. “He’s interested in history and he knows all the museums and monuments.”

“You’re lucky.” Amelia sighed, following Sophie into the dressing room. “I go home to a hot bath and an empty bed.”

“I adore Rome.” Sophie slipped the white linen dress over her shoulders. “I love the boutiques and the cafés and the gardens. But in a few weeks I’ll go home and return to my royal duties.” Sophie turned to Amelia. “When I slip on the royal tiara and stand next to my father in a receiving line, I’m exactly where I belong. I’m Princess Sophia de Grasse and I could never be anyone else.”

“What about Theo?” Amelia asked.

“Theo is like this dress.” Sophie sighed, gazing in the mirror. Her eyes were wide and her lips trembled. “It’s lovely but I know I can’t keep it. It’s too short; princesses never wear anything above the knees.”

*   *   *

They left the boutique and walked toward Caffé Greco. Suddenly Amelia heard footsteps and turned around. She saw a man striding toward them, a silver camera bouncing against his chest.

Amelia grabbed Sophie’s hand and raced across the cobblestones. They ran down the Via del Corso, jostling tourists licking ice-cream cones. They ran through the Piazza del Piccolo, dodging street vendors and musicians. Amelia glanced back and saw the photographer coming closer, his heels thudding on the pavement. She looked around and saw a stone church with tall spires. She pulled Sophie through the iron doors and shut them behind her.

“I took off my sunglasses in the dressing room, one of the salesgirls must have seen me.” Amelia sat on a wooden pew, trying to catch her breath. “I’m sorry, I hope no one recognized you.”

“I haven’t had that much fun since Game Day at St. George’s.” Sophie grinned. “We almost knocked over that cart of roasted chestnuts.”

“It was a bit like a scene in a
Mission Impossible
movie.” Amelia giggled.

“And we ended up in a six-hundred-year-old church surrounded by priceless art.” Sophie studied a metal plaque. “The Santa Maria del Popolo was built in 1492 and houses paintings by Caravaggio and Raphael.”

Sophie smoothed her scarf and opened the tall doors. “Come on, we’re going to share a caprese salad and a plate of spaghetti calamari. If we’re going to run marathons through the streets of Rome we can’t be hungry.”

*   *   *

Amelia climbed the steps of the Hassler Hotel and walked through the revolving glass doors. They had a delicious lunch of mozzarella and sliced heirloom tomatoes and spaghetti with clams and porcini mushrooms. They shared a profiterole for dessert and drank glasses of Marsala.

It was lovely sitting with Sophie at Caffé Greco, talking about Raphael and Modigliani. It was lovely gazing at elegant women wearing Bulgari diamond chokers and Gucci belts. It was wonderful not thinking about her lines, just enjoying the afternoon sun and the delicious food and the sweet wine.

“Good afternoon, Miss Tate,” the concierge called. “I hope you are having a wonderful day.”

“Thank you, Ernesto.” Amelia beamed. “I had a delicious lunch and went shopping, I’m enjoying Rome very much.”

“That gentleman was here,” Ernesto continued. “He may have left something of interest to you.”

“What kind of thing?” Amelia asked.

“A letter of some kind.” Ernesto shrugged, turning back to his computer screen.

“Perhaps I could borrow it.” Amelia opened her purse and took out a ten-euro note. “I promise to return it.”

“Miss Tate, I could not take your money.” Ernesto shook his head.

“Then why don’t I leave the note on the counter and you put the letter beside it?” Amelia approached the desk. “Maybe I’ll pick up the wrong one.”

Ernesto inhaled Amelia’s floral perfume. He took the envelope from his pocket and let it fall on the marble counter.

“Excuse me.” He bowed. “I must help another guest.”

Amelia glanced at the words “Ann Prentiss” scrawled on the white envelope. She slipped it in her purse and hurried to the elevator. She pressed the button and waited for the doors to open.

*   *   *

Amelia dropped her shopping bags on the glass end table and slipped off her sandals. She sat on an ivory silk sofa and opened the envelope. She unfolded the white paper and read out loud.

Dear Ann,

I apologize for my boorish behavior at the concert last night. I blame the red wine and the rain. You are not just a danger to yourself when wet, but to anyone who comes in contact with you.

I would like to show you I am capable of enjoying clever conversation and fine wine without acting like a character in a D. H. Lawrence novel. I made a reservation at La Pergola for Saturday night. At least five waiters hover around your table at all times, so there is no chance of impropriety.

We can finish our conversation about black market truffles and see if you like duck ravioli with foie gras sauce as much as I do. If you leave a note with Ernesto, he can let me know what time and where to pick you up.

Warmly,

Philip

Amelia put the paper on the glass coffee table and giggled. She imagined Philip drinking from a crystal wineglass and eating off gold inlaid china. She saw them sipping demitasses of coffee and sharing a vanilla crepe and hazelnut ice cream.

She walked to the balcony and gazed at the late afternoon sun dropping behind the Colosseum. Suddenly her cheeks were flushed and she felt a slight chill. She walked back inside and slipped the letter in its envelope. She sat on the ivory silk sofa and pulled the cashmere blanket around her shoulders.

chapter thirteen

Amelia gazed at her pale cheeks in the gilt mirror and frowned. She came down with a fever the evening after the concert and spent two days in bed. Sheldon sent a bouquet of pink roses and baskets of peaches and strawberries. Sophie took her temperature and made sure she drank hot tea with lemon and honey.

She finally felt well enough to sit in the living room and eat a bowl of clear soup. But she missed chatting with the makeup artist while she brushed her hair. She missed slipping on satin evening gowns and diamond tiaras. She missed the glow she felt after a long day on the set.

She ate a slice of peach and glanced at the stack of paper on the glass coffee table. She had spent the last day reading Audrey Hepburn’s letters. She loved learning about her relationship with her fiancé and her friendship with Gregory Peck and her excitement about becoming a star. She loved picturing Audrey taking a bath in the white porcelain bathtub or curled up in the four-poster bed with a copy of
Vogue
.

She glanced at Philip’s envelope and flinched. She tried to reply but every time she pulled out a piece of paper she froze. He had been so kind, letting her share his cab and rescuing her from the fountain.

She ate another slice of peach and picked up a page in Audrey’s sloped handwriting. She still didn’t feel well enough to do anything but read.

June 27, 1952

Dear Kitty,

Something very disturbing happened on the set today. I was sitting in the sun, eating a turkey sandwich and a cup of fruit salad. We spent all morning shooting the scene at the Trevi Fountain and Mr. Wyler still wasn’t satisfied.

Mr. Peck sat beside me and unwrapped a baguette with salami and provolone cheese and red onions. He bit into a fresh plum and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“You’re drooling, Miss Hepburn,” he remarked. “Would you like a bite of my sandwich?”

“It smells delicious.” I sighed. “My lunch tastes like cardboard.”

“The first trick of being an actor is to become friends with craft services.” Mr. Peck handed me half a sandwich. “I paid Palo ten lire to go to the delicatessen and bring me a sandwich and a bottle of limoncello.”

I bit into the sandwich and dribbled olive oil onto my shirt. Mr. Peck handed me a napkin and gazed at my neck.

“That’s a stunning necklace. Aren’t you afraid someone will steal it?”

“It’s broad daylight, Romans aren’t complete barbarians.” I fingered the gold and emerald pendant. “It’s a gift from my fiancé. He was supposed to visit this weekend but he had to fly to New York.”

“He sent you an emerald necklace instead?” Mr. Peck whistled. “Sounds like quite a guy.”

“James is six foot four, I love tall men,” I glanced at Mr. Peck’s long legs spread out in front of him and blushed. “He’s wonderful, he treats me like a princess.”

“How did you meet?” he asked.

“At a Christmas party in London,” I replied. “I sat too close to the fire and burned a whole in my skirt. I was hiding in the library and James appeared looking for a cigar.

“He said I couldn’t lurk among the dreary volumes of Thackeray and Hardy and offered me his jacket. When I arrived back at the Connaught there was a silver box from Harrods. Inside were six Chanel silk dresses with a note that he couldn’t decide which shade complimented my eyes so he bought every color they had.”

“Sounds like a charmer,” Mr. Peck murmured, letting plum juice drip on the pavement.

“You make it sound like an affliction.” I frowned. “The next thing I knew James followed me to New York to see me on Broadway. He took Baroness Ella and me to lunch at the Four Seasons and drove us around Manhattan in his town car.”

“Baroness Ella?” Mr. Peck asked.

“My mother.” I blushed. “She’s Dutch and quite old fashioned. She still has a calling card and pays social visits in the afternoon.”

“I take it Baroness Ella approves of your fiancé?”

“Is there anything wrong with that?” I demanded.

For some reason he was making me cross. But the sandwich was so heavenly, I didn’t want to be rude.

“It depends on why you’re getting married,” Mr. Peck mused.

“Why does any girl get married?” I retorted. “James is everything I dreamed of. We’re going to have a flat in Convent Gardens and a country house in Surrey and half a dozen children.”

“Then I’m happy for you.” Mr. Peck took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. “I hope I’m invited to the christenings.”

Suddenly I remembered James’s last visit and how we argued about the wedding and the honeymoon. I pictured Amanda Carrow’s white-blond hair and wide blue eyes and started to cry.

“That’s not how a bride behaves.” Mr. Peck handed me the handkerchief. “Use this.”

I told him I dreamed of an intimate wedding luncheon but James insisted on a reception for five hundred people. I told him I longed for two weeks in Capri or Majorca but our honeymoon would be a glass of champagne in the first-class lounge of Heathrow on our way to New York.

Mr. Peck took out a Cadbury Fruit and Nut bar and offered me a square. “The British have the best chocolate, I discovered that on the set of
Spellbound,
” he mused. “Do you really love this guy?”

“I wouldn’t be getting married if I didn’t.” I handed him the handkerchief.

“Then I’d hightail it back to England and let the bishop pronounce you man and wife. I’d have four noisy children and a closet full of Shetland sweaters. I’d get a box at Ascot and a courtside seat at Wimbledon and never make another movie in my life.”

“I didn’t know you thought I was such a bad actress,” I said hotly. “I’m sorry Mr. Wyler hired me, you could be starring with Vivien Leigh or Elizabeth Taylor.”

“I think you’re the greatest actress I’ve ever worked with. You’re going to be a huge star and make movies all over the world. You’ll arrive at Christmas laden with presents and your children won’t recognize you. You might have a flirtation on the set because you haven’t been home in so long, you forgot the scent of your husband’s cologne. Or you’ll find a box of Lucky Strikes in the glove box of your car when you only smoke Marlboros.”

I didn’t know what to say. Finally I turned to him and whispered, “How old are your children?”

“Jonathon is eight and Stephen is six and Carey is three.” He showed me the photos in his wallet. “They all have blond hair and blue eyes like their mother. I met Greta when I was twenty-six and doing theater in New York. I was so poor I slept on a park bench and she let me stay in her apartment in Greenwich Village. Now we have a twenty-room hacienda in Beverly Hills with a swimming pool shaped like a kidney.”

“What a lovely tableau,” a female voice interrupted. “It’s like a painting by Seurat.”

I squinted into the sun and saw Veronique Passani standing above us. She wore a red Nina Ricci dress with camel-colored pumps. She clutched a sandwich in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

“I thought I was going to have to settle for egg salad on soggy white bread but I smell sausage and onions and baguettes.”

“You’re welcome to the rest of my sandwich.” Gregory Peck jumped up. “Miss Hepburn and I were discussing the merits of marriage over a career.”

“What a beautiful necklace,” Veronique mused. “Is it a Cartier?”