Rome in Love (3 page)

She opened the bathroom door and found Philip sitting at the table. He was reading the newspaper and drinking a second cup of coffee.

“Well, you don’t quite look like a drowned rat.” He smiled.

Amelia touched her hair and fiddled with her apron. She glanced at the dirty breakfast dishes and the rumpled bed and suddenly felt embarrassed.

“Thank you.” She held out her hand. “You’ve been very kind.”

“It’s nice to meet a fellow American.” Philip nodded. “They say the French are snobs but the Italians give them a run for their money. They think the only good thing that came out of America is spaghetti Westerns.”

Amelia ran down the cement steps and onto the street. It was almost noon and the cobblestones were bathed in sunshine. Amelia saw tourists lugging cameras and Italian men wearing silk suits. She saw street vendors selling warm pretzels and roasted chestnuts wrapped in newspaper.

Amelia saw the Spanish Steps rising in front of her and realized that last night she must have been walking in circles. Philip’s apartment was only a few blocks from the Piazza di Spagna. She ran up the steps two at a time, passing couples basking in the sun and women selling bunches of daisies.

She approached the Hassler Hotel and pulled the scarf tight around her hair. She slunk around to the kitchen door and slipped quickly inside. She ran down the staircase to the basement and entered the laundry.

Amelia gingerly turned on a light and breathed a sigh of relief. The laundry bag was stored safely in the locker and the vast room was empty. She peeled off the uniform and folded it neatly. She stepped into her pink satin evening gown and strapped on the Prada sandals.

She grabbed her phone and called Sheldon’s number. She reached his voice mail and left a message explaining she overslept. She was never good at time changes and was terribly sorry.

She was about to run up the stairs when she heard footsteps. She ducked behind the lockers and saw a woman enter the room. She had white-blond hair and wore a white lace dress and leather sandals. She glanced quickly around and climbed into a laundry basket.

Amelia held her breath and watched the woman cover herself with towels. She heard voices and saw two men race down the stairs and burst into the room. They spoke over each other in rapid Italian, gesturing with their hands. They shrugged their shoulders and disappeared into the hallway.

“
Merde,
” the woman exclaimed, tossing the towels on the floor. She climbed out of the laundry basket and lost her footing. She tumbled headfirst and landed hard on the wood floor. She lay with her arms sprawled and her ankle jutting at an odd angle.

“Are you all right?” Amelia rushed from behind the locker. She knelt down and saw a purple bruise forming on the young woman’s forehead.

“
Merde alore!
” the woman moaned. She had pale blue eyes and alabaster skin. Her hair was knotted in a low ponytail and she wore a gold necklace around her neck.

“
Êtes vous blessé?
” Amelia asked, trying to remember her high school French.

“I think I twisted my ankle,” the woman replied in accented English. “And my head feels like it’s been attacked by a flock of seagulls.”

“I’ll get the hotel doctor.” Amelia stood up. “Concussions can be serious.”

“No!” The woman put out her hand. “Help me up, I’ll be fine.”

Amelia gingerly pulled her up and let her rest on her arm. The woman took a step forward and sunk abruptly to the floor.

“My ankle is crap,” she said miserably, sitting in a heap on the floor.

“Why don’t you want me to call the doctor?” Amelia frowned. “Were those two men following you?”

“I don’t know, I don’t think so,” the woman mused. She looked at Amelia and her eyes were watery. “There’s a clinic down the street. Help me get there and I’ll explain.”

Amelia gazed at the growing bump on the woman’s forehead and the blue bird’s egg on her ankle. She thought of Sheldon impatiently waiting on the set and photographers lurking in the alley. Perhaps the two men had seen her slip in the back door and were looking for her. But why did the woman climb into the laundry basket unless she was hiding from something?

“I really have to be somewhere.” Amelia hesitated.

“Please.” She touched her hand. “It’s very important, you’d be doing me a huge favor.”

Amelia sighed and took the woman’s hand. She couldn’t just leave her on the floor of the laundry room. “All right, but I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Sophie.” The woman accepted her hand and her face broke into a small smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

*   *   *

They walked down a narrow alley onto the Via Gregoriana. Sophie stopped in front of a brick building with a bright yellow awning. She opened the door and entered a waiting room. There was a thin gray rug over white linoleum and two red vinyl chairs. Fluorescent lights shone from the ceiling and a plastic plant stood in the corner.

“Thank god it’s run by Americans.” Sophie sat gingerly on the chair. “Or it would be closed for the noon siesta.”

“Do you come here often?” Amelia frowned at the worn magazines and the half-empty coffeepot.

“Only once, I have asthma,” Sophie explained, twisting her ponytail around her fingers. “They have two doctors, they’re both ancient but they’re kind and they don’t make you wait for hours.”

The receptionist said something to Sophie in Italian and handed her a metal clipboard. A nurse ushered them into a small room with a gray stool and a plain white table.

“I can wait outside.” Amelia hesitated.

“Please, stay.” Sophie winced, leaning against the table. “I’m a baby when it comes to pain.”

The nurse took the clipboard and closed the door. Amelia gazed down at her pink Balenciaga gown and her jeweled Prada sandals and stifled a giggle. She hadn’t expected to spend her second day in Rome in a spartan clinic lending moral support to a stranger.

A man entered the room. “You look pretty banged up.” He had blond hair and green eyes and a cleft on his chin. He wore a white coat and couldn’t have been more than thirty.

“I tripped down the stairs,” Sophie said, avoiding Amelia’s eyes. “I’ve always been a klutz.”

“You’ve got a pretty healthy bump.” The doctor pressed her forehead softly. He shone a light in Sophie’s eyes and placed his fingers on her wrist. “But I don’t think there’s serious damage.”

“What about her ankle?” Amelia asked. “She can’t walk.”

The doctor maneuvered Sophie’s ankle and she let out a sharp moan. He wrapped it in a thick white bandage and secured it with tape.

“I’ll write a prescription for the pain.” He scribbled on a white notepad and handed it to Sophie. “I’d spend the next few days with my feet up reading romances.” His eyes sparkled and his face broke into a smile. “But I think you’ll be good as new.”

Sophie limped to the waiting room and Amelia opened the front door. They were about to walk into the street when the doctor appeared with the clipboard.

“You didn’t fill in your name.” He waved it at Sophie.

“You didn’t tell me yours either.” Sophie smiled and shut the door behind her.

*   *   *

“That was miserable,” Sophie said when they reached the alley behind the Hassler. “I’m starving and dying of thirst. We deserve a bottle of red wine and a plate of spaghetti marinara.”

“You shouldn’t drink if you’re taking medicine,” Amelia replied, taking her phone out of her purse and glancing at the screen.

Sheldon had left a message saying the wardrobe hadn’t arrived and filming would start tomorrow. Amelia let her shoulders relax and followed Sophie to a trattoria with round tables covered with checkered tablecloths and bottles of wine hanging from the ceiling. She smelled tomato and garlic and realized she hadn’t eaten since Philip’s breakfast.

“If I drink I won’t have to take anything for the pain.” Sophie grinned. “Don’t worry, one glass is my limit. I promised I’d explain and it will be a lot easier over a platter of shrimp scampi and a bottle of Chianti. I know the perfect place, it’s called Trattoria da Giggi. The waiters are horrid but they serve the best bruschetta in Rome.”

“Why would we want to eat in a restaurant with rude waiters?” Amelia wrinkled her brow.

“Trust me.” Sophie grabbed her hand. “You won’t forget it.”

They walked slowly down the Spanish Steps and onto the Via Belsiana. They entered a small restaurant with brown leather booths and smoky mirrors. Amelia gazed at the open kitchen and saw huge plates of prosciutto and mozzarella. There were bowls of rigatoni with porcini and spaghetti tossed with clams. She saw round pizzas topped with artichoke and spicy sausage and round red tomatoes. There was a tray of bruschetta with a dozen different toppings.

“The waiters take pride in being rude to tourists because they’d rather serve the locals,” Sophie explained, nibbling a breadstick. “I ordered in Italian, they brought me double servings of anything I wanted.”

“I would think tourists tip better,” Amelia replied, deciding between the tortellini con Parma and the lasagna al forno.

“Italians don’t care about money.” Sophie signaled a waiter. “They’d rather feel superior.”

Amelia watched Sophie converse with the waiter, pointing animatedly at the menu. Amelia studied her upturned nose and creamy white skin and thought she looked like a character in a Disney movie. Her hair was so blond it was almost white and her blue eyes were rimmed with thick lashes. She wore a gold necklace with the letter “S” around her neck and a heart-shaped diamond watch on her wrist.

“How long have you been in Rome?” Amelia asked when the waiter brought white porcelain plates of ravioli with ricotta and spinach and osso buco with wild mushrooms. He poured glasses of a full-bodied red wine and left a basket of fragrant olive bread.

“Three weeks,” Sophie sipped her wine. “It’s the most glorious city. Everyone sleeps until noon and eats and drinks until midnight. I’ve seen the Villa Borghese and the Roman Forum and Saint Peter’s Basilica. I can’t possibly take the doctor’s advice and keep my foot up.” She frowned, eating a forkful of ravioli. “I still have to visit Palatine Hill and the Colosseum and Hadrian’s Villa.”

“I’m here for two months.” Amelia sighed. “But I probably won’t see more than the Trevi Fountain.”

“Why not?” Sophie asked.

Amelia put down her glass of wine and looked at Sophie. She had been so concerned with getting her to the clinic and making sure she was all right, she hadn’t thought about the paparazzi. Now she glanced around the cramped restaurant to see if anyone was hovering with a camera.

“You don’t recognize me?” Amelia asked.

“Should I?” Sophie raised her eyebrow.

“I’m Amelia Tate. I’m playing the lead in the remake of
Roman Holiday
. The producer is brilliant but he’s a slave driver. I don’t think sightseeing tours are in my contract.”

“My father doesn’t let me see movies,” Sophie mused. “Or eat at restaurants or shop at department stores.”

“He sounds like a dictator.” Amelia frowned.

“He’s a king actually.” Sophie patted her mouth with a napkin. “Crown Prince Alfred of Lentz.”

“I don’t understand,” Amelia replied.

“My full name is Princess Sophia Victoria de Grasse. In December my father is stepping down and I’m going to be crowned Queen of Lentz. We are a small country between Germany and Austria, famous for our cows and chocolate.

“I’m supposed to be on the royal yacht in Portofino, planning my wedding. But I convinced my lady-in-waiting to pretend I was quarantined with the measles and I took the train to Rome. I have six glorious weeks to do anything I want: eat an ice-cream cone, run in the grass with bare feet, shop at the boutiques on the Via Condotti. I bought this dress today, it’s vintage Fendi.”

“Crown princes, ladies-in-waiting?” Amelia laughed. “You’re making this up.”

“Small monarchies in Europe are very real.” Sophie sipped her wine. “I attended Saint George’s Ecole in Geneva, there were twelve princes and princesses in my class. It’s a job like anything else: we bless hospitals and name ships and open factories.”

Amelia studied Sophie’s blue eyes and pink mouth and realized she was perfectly serious.

“How does your fiancé feel about you disappearing?” Amelia wrapped spaghetti around her fork.

“I haven’t seen him since I was twelve years old and he was sent to boarding school in America.”

“You’re having an arranged marriage?” Amelia spluttered.

“The monarchy is dying out, it’s my job to produce a suitable heir.” Sophie’s eyes were serious. “I’m sure Prince Leopold is perfectly nice. He never pulled my hair or put spiders down my dress when we were children and I remember he had beautiful green eyes.”

“You can’t be serious.” Amelia put down her fork. “This is the twenty-first century, arranged marriages went out in the Dark Ages.”

“India is the most populated country in the world and arranged marriages are the norm,” Sophie argued. “My mother and father played with each other in the royal nursery and didn’t meet again until the week before their wedding. They did everything together: skied in the French Alps, sailed around the Greek Islands, hunted in the Black Forest.” Sophie’s lips wavered. “She died when I was eleven.”

“What happened?” Amelia asked.

“A riding accident.” Sophie’s eyes darkened. “My father never married again, he didn’t want me to turn into Cinderella. I had the most wonderful childhood with my own skating rink and stables. Now it’s my turn to do something for him. I’m going to be the best ruler Lentz has seen in centuries.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Amelia finished her wine. “I thought it was difficult being an actress. Audrey Hepburn was one of the most-loved actresses in film and the paparazzi are waiting for me to fail. They write articles about whether my waist is too wide or if I have her smile.”

“You’re gorgeous,” Sophie replied. “My father doesn’t let photographers near the palace, we take one royal photo at Christmas. People might know my name, but they don’t recognize me.”

“My boyfriend isn’t very happy that I’m an actress.” Amelia frowned. “He hates that we live in different cities and only see each other on weekends. And he hates the paparazzi that started following us since I got the lead in
Roman Holiday
. He wishes I went to medical school and was doing my residency in San Francisco.”