The Perfect Location
The Perfect Location
Kate Forster
As you prepare to hit the sunshine with your e-book device, make sure you have the ultimate book in your catalogue. The Perfect Location is the definitive guilty pleasure and all you’ll need to wile away the hours.Join three Hollywood actresses as they set upon The Perfect Location to create a film that will change each of their lives forever. The question is, can you guess which real life star each of these characters is based upon?Calypso arrived to the party first. She glowed in the courtyard like a firefly, stunning in a One Vintage gold lamé dress from the 1920s that had been reworked for her. The beaded appliqué around the low neckline shimmered and a tulle detail around the skirt edged up over one side to reveal just the right amount of thigh. Worn with a pair of patent leather Christian Louboutin black slingbacks and her new evening bag from the Perugia flea market, Calypso shone in the dark.Next came Rose: tall and slender in a peach georgette chiffon, halter-neck Chloé gown, she was beautiful. Her shoulders and arms were lily white, and she wore a gold Etruscan cuff on one arm and matching gold hoop earrings, which showed off her long neck. Her brunette hair was swept up into a ponytail and she had applied her makeup in such a way that it looked as if she had barely any on but her features were perfect. Rose was an icon and had the power and had real respect within the industry.And finally Sapphira arrived and the whole table fell silent. She stood in the doorway of the courtyard, wearing a white leather Pucci mini dress, with a huge silver and black eagle on the front looking as if it were about to land on its prey. She wore no jewellery and long black hair hung loosely down her back. Her legs seemed to stretch forever, ending in a pair of Balmain suede calf-high boots, with five silver buckles up each side. Her entrance stunned the room; it was dramatic and powerful, not unlike Sapphira herself.An intricate web of passionate pasts, addictions, lovers and secrets, perfect for fans of Jennifer Weiner and Adriana Trigiani.
KATE FORSTER
The Perfect Location
Copyright
AVON
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Copyright © Kate Forster 2012
Kate Forster asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © May 2012 ISBN: 9780007452491
Version: 2014-07-23
Dedication
For Nicole whose ‘deliberately vague’ directions steered me here.
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u10d2d97a-cdd3-57a7-8df4-835fcef67644)
Copyright (#u24f95588-bd80-5ee3-b1a9-5379f7ee283e)
Dedication (#u96f6ed0c-8462-5513-9717-8dd3de8a2ce6)
Part One: Pre-Production (#u25ff5aae-9ee1-5c74-8485-ef8dc4e44931)
Chapter One (#ue9b838ec-d02c-5b18-a0b7-735a9e0d00b9)
Chapter Two (#u52ac08c9-4a1f-5b46-8871-3598b738fab6)
Chapter Three (#udf37b724-4a41-5f9c-aa9b-b60bcd01005d)
Part Two: Production (#ud3b62c2e-b6e2-5e1b-a440-cda9aa359c2e)
Chapter Four (#ub757d9df-6707-5ea1-a798-81250126b42c)
Chapter Five (#u05565d2e-8493-51c0-9fa1-3c46c07ad1a2)
Chapter Six (#u42613ca0-e584-54f9-a04f-df3f46afde44)
Chapter Seven (#u85cd6bc2-e8ef-503a-a638-597dc4acbca7)
Chapter Eight (#uddbe9be0-6f07-5e0f-901d-7a2cf7debffc)
Chapter Nine (#u1bc11fec-dff0-5a64-a5c3-bc9547e05dca)
Chapter Ten (#u4b4b2da1-6008-53b3-bf3b-28dedb89fc67)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Three: Post-Production (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Deleted Scenes (#litres_trial_promo)
Read on for an exclusive interview with Kate Forster and a guide to the Perfect Locations in Italy. (#litres_trial_promo)
In Conversation with Kate Forster (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
There is not a writer who is published who doesn’t owe somebody something at some point in their career. Writing books is collaborative, even though a few writers’ egos might argue otherwise.
Without the following people in my life, who knows where I would be and what I would be doing. I want to say thank you to them, it’s not nearly enough but it’s a start. Yes, I could drop them a bottle of wine and a thank you card but I would prefer to see their names in print for posterity and all that jazz. They put up with me; they deserve something more concrete than a Pinot Grigio and a scrawled note. Trust me, I can be hard work.
*Warning: gushing ahead. Look away if it offends.
To my mother Joan who never censored the books in our house and who has champagne taste and a song for everything.
To Emma and Fiona for being the first readers of everything I write. Thank you for telling me to keep writing. I am here now, because of you both. You are my ideal readers and ideal best girlfriends.
To my agent Tara Wynne at Curtis Brown for taking the call, seeing something in the first draft and taking me on, typos and all. Tara, you are a tigress, a patient teacher and always, extremely fabulous. I am blessed to have you in my corner.
To Domonique for her cheerleading across the pond and never-ending belief in me.
To Claire Bord and Sammia Rafique, thank you for your support, collaboration and sound advice. It has been a dream to work with you both and I am very thankful you took me on.
To Tansy for keeping me up to date with everything and telling me when something is really ‘lame’.
To Spike for having such faith in everything I do and not complaining (much) when dinner doesn’t always arrive on time.
And to David for understanding I didn’t have a choice and wanting me to be happy more than anything else.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Rose Nightingale walked into LAX, hiding behind large Dior sunglasses and ignoring the photographers that lurked at the international terminal, waiting for celebrities to come and go. They took their chance to harangue them, usually when they were holding travel-weary children and pushing a trolley full of luggage. It didn’t matter how fabulous you were, travel was travel and it was a bore.
As Rose approached the United Lounge, she was greeted by a flight attendant who ushered her inside a door to the sanctity of the private space.
‘Hello, Ms Nightingale. May I have your passport, please?’
Rose handed it over with a smile.
‘Can I offer you champagne and a light snack?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Rose as the attendant led her towards a private seating area.
Rose’s phone rang and she answered it as she sat down in a corner of the lounge, ignoring the flickers of recognition from other travellers.
‘Slapper,’ said Rose, seeing Kelly’s name appear on her phone.
‘Tosser, you all ready for Italia?’ Kelly’s thick Northern accent came down the line and Rose smiled at the sound of her oldest friend’s voice.
‘All sorted, babe. You and Chris there already?’
‘Yeah, we got here two days ago. Shit, it’s gorgeous, Rosie. You’re gonna flip when you see your villa, I checked it out yesterday, although the housekeeper is like something out of central casting. “Super Nonna”, I call her.’
Rose laughed. Kelly always had a way with words that summed up a person or a situation perfectly.
Rose and Kelly were from different parts of England, both geographically and economically but these differences were never remarked upon or noticed even by each other. The only acknowledgements they made to their upbringings were their nicknames referencing people’s perceptions of them, Rose being an upper class girl and Kelly being from Yorkshire.
Rose was the daughter of a successful novelist and a television writer. Her intellectual father had been nominated for the Pulitzer twice and her mother created and wrote a popular crime series for television. Rose moved amongst the society crowd at her private day school and her brief relationship with a minor European royal gave her enough social currency to be named the most eligible girl in England by Tatler magazine. Appearing on the cover in a dress handmade by Lacroix himself from fresh rose petals, the headline read ‘A Rose by any Other Name’. Rose could have then married well and faded away from fame with an occasional photo in the social pages of Jennifer’s Diary.
But Rose was no wallflower or country wife and she decided on a more precarious road, successfully auditioning for acting school in London. She worked hard at the school to be more than just the beautiful girl, but never overcame the stigma of being close to perfect.
It was the other women on her course who were the worst in their treatment of Rose. Deliberately excluding her from parties and events and even at one point calling a group meeting with her where they each told her what they disliked about her in a round circle as a way of ‘helping her fit in more’. Rose despaired, her self-esteem was gone, her confidence shot, and she hated herself and the way she looked.
It was Kelly who saved Rose from losing her mind. Students from The London School of Make-up Artistry were to create the make-up for the third year students’ production of William Congreve’s Love for Love. Rose had the lead role and Kelly, the best student in the course, was given Rose as her subject.
The heavy Restoration make-up required for the play meant Rose was in the chair earlier than the other actors. Even though Kelly liked to call herself psychic, it didn’t take much to realize that Rose was ostracized from the rest of the cast. Kelly thought Rose seemed pleasant enough, if not a little quiet.
As the play’s short run went on, Kelly realized that Rose was on the outside of the circle, deliberately punished for her beauty and her background. A shared joint at the cast party between Rose and Kelly bonded them. Kelly made an effort to include Rose in her group of interesting and creative friends from the make-up school and Rose was grateful for the company. Kelly’s friends were without the affectations of her school friends and without the competitiveness of her acting school peers. They celebrated Rose’s beauty and encouraged her to try new looks and styles with her face and even her clothes.
Kelly’s belief in new age philosophies was at odds at her country upbringing and it was something that Rose was interested in. She wasn’t sure she believed in it, but was always surprised at Kelly’s ability to intuit what another person was feeling.
‘You are a rose in a field of onion grass,’ Kelly said to her best friend after she graduated. ‘You need to go to America where they will appreciate you more.’
Rose ended up taking the US by storm and when it was Rose’s turn to help Kelly after she had made her mark in Hollywood she did it without a moment’s doubt. Rose got Kelly a job as an extra’s make-up artist on her next film, and soon Kelly was on her way to becoming the most sought after make-up artist in Hollywood.
Bringing her thoughts back to the present, Rose tuned in to Kelly’s voice on the other end of the phone.
‘Hey, are Wendy and Bruce coming over to stay?’ asked Kelly.
‘I don’t know. They’re being weird about it. I think Mum thinks it all a bit much, you know, Italy and flights for her and Dad. I asked Martin and Fiona and the kids too. I just think it would be nice to spend some time together. It’s not like I’m heading back to London anytime soon.’
‘I’m going back for Christmas,’ said Kelly.
‘Really?’ said Rose, not noticing the surprised faces looking at her.
‘I want to show him Skipton.’
‘Well, that should take half a day, what else will you do while you’re back in your old stomping ground?’ Rose teased.
‘Piss off, big city girl,’ laughed Kelly. ‘We’re going to visit my family and then head to London for a few days, you should come back with us,’ Kelly asked impulsively, although she already knew the answer.
Rose smiled thinking of her and Kelly in London. Drinking, dancing, more drinking. God, they had had so much fun until Rose moved to Hollywood.
‘I don’t think so, the English paps are relentless.’ Rose claimed it was too much hassle on her family to come back to London with the constant media intrusion. The truth was that Rose had only been back a handful of times in fifteen years and only then for fleeting visits, staying in a suite at The Dorchester.
Shooting The Italian Dream would give her the perfect opportunity to bring the Nightingales together in Italy on her own terms. When her agent was negotiating the deal, she had a number of villas to choose from. Rose chose the one with the most bedrooms on offer for her family and their brood.
Lauren, her trusted assistant, had organized a myriad of inflatable toys to be FedExed over, so Rose’s nieces and nephews could play in the infinity pool looking over the endless hills of Umbria. She had also sent board games, dolls and books and had a Wii installed in the den, with a large flat screen TV and a huge selection of DVDs.
‘No, I can’t come back to London, I’m booked up till the middle of next year, so that’s why I wanted them to come to see me,’ said Rose. ‘Hey, I’m really looking forward to working with TG,’ she said, in an effort to change the subject quickly.
‘TG’s really excited to work with you too, he told Chris,’ said Kelly.
‘He’s a great guy, I’m surprised we’ve never worked together till now,’ said Rose.
‘TG’, as everyone in the industry called him, was Tim Galvin, the hottest young gun director in Hollywood. A teenage skateboarding world champion who became an NYC film graduate, he made his mark directing videos for some of the LA garage band scene. He shot his films quickly, used quick edits and loud soundtracks, hepossessed a rare gift: he could create a happy film set.His best friend and Director of Photography was Chris Berman, Kelly’s husband.
‘He’s a good egg,’ said Kelly, ‘although he’s been around a lot since he and Lisa broke up. He’s a bit mopey, I need to find him a root.’
‘She was a piece of work,’ said Rose, mentioning TG’s ambitious actress girlfriend. ‘He’s better off without her. I only met her at your place but she was scary, like a reptile. He seemed sad at the audition, more low-key than usual although maybe he was nervous.’
‘Probably. I think he was amazed you agreed to audition but he said the studio wanted to see all the women.’
‘Oh God, I don’t mind auditioning,’ laughed Rose. ‘Puts me back in my box, reminds me that the fame is fleeting.’
‘’Tis true, ’tis true,’ said Kelly. ‘So, call me when you arrive, yeah? I miss you like crazy, Tosser.’
‘Love you too, Slapper. Call me every five minutes,’ said Rose, giggling at the use of their old names for each other.
Rose settled down in the chair and opened her script. She already knew her lines but she always liked to do as much work as possible. As she read the scenes between her and her on-screen lover, she wondered who it would be. Her agent Randy said that the role wasn’t cast yet but she was so keen to be a part of the film, she signed on without knowing who would take the role opposite her. For a brief moment she panicked it might be Paul but then she dismissed it with a silent laugh. There was no way the universe or TG would be cruel enough to cast her ex-husband, she thought.
Rose stared out the window, watching the planes take off and land. The LA smog was settling in over the city and she hoped it would not affect the flight. She despised lateness and lived by a rigid schedule. Organization gave her a sense of control.
A text message came through on her iPhone from her equally organized assistant, Lauren: Car service will pick you up on arrival and drive you to the villa. If you get stuck then call Guilia, TG’s assistant. I have keyed number into your phone.
Rose already had this information printed out neatly on her letterhead, tucked away safely in her iris calf leather Smythson travel wallet. But she appreciated Lauren’s attention to detail and concern.
Rose poached Lauren from the director, Jerry Hyman, who Rose was shooting a film with after her divorce from Paul. Daily she had watched him berate Lauren and abuse her in front of the crew. His constant comments about her weight, sexual innuendos and the ridiculous demands that she had to fulfil became painful for everyone to watch. Rose saw Lauren losing her self-esteem, wanting to please the obese tyrant and failing at every turn. Towards the end of shooting, she took her lunch tray over to sit with Lauren who was typing on the computer, with five mobile phones in front of her. Each one was labelled neatly in Dymo labels: Home, Studio, LA, NY, Other.
Rose put her tray aside and sat down. Lauren looked up, surprise registered on her face. ‘Um. Hi,’ she said.
‘Hi, yourself,’ replied Rose sunnily. ‘How are things?’
Lauren looked at the screen, ‘Fine, fine, Jerry’s very busy. I’ve always got something to do.’
Rose looked at the phones. ‘So, let me guess,’ she said as she picked up the phones and laid them out in front of her. ‘Home is the wife and kids. LA is his agent and the studio. NY is his dealer. And Other is his whores. How did I do?’
Lauren looked shocked, and then pulled herself together. ‘No, no, entirely wrong.’ Rose smiled and bit into her apple.
Lauren went back to typing, feeling unnerved by Rose’s correct guesses about Jerry’s many phones. The stars never talked to her. Granted, Rose seemed nicer than most. Just that morning she had raised her eyebrows comically at Lauren when the director went on one of his tirades at Lauren because his latte was too hot.
Looking at Lauren’s eyes twitch and her mouth tighten, Rose wondered what the notorious director had done to her. She knew his reputation; he liked to dominate women in every way. Rose herself was too much of a class act and too outspoken for his tastes. He liked them young, thankful and ambitious.
Rose pondered a little longer then said casually, ‘Anyway, I have a job opening. I really need an assistant. They need to be super organized. I like lists and Apple Macs.’ She stared disdainfully at the PC Lauren was working on. ‘I only have one mobile phone, so that may be a put-off to any potential applicants. I can offer them their own office, a BMW and I promise to never hit them with a phone. I will not make them do ridiculous jobs; I’m capable of buying my own tampons. I need help with schedules, Christmas and birthday lists, help with some of the charities that I work with. And someone to field the media and my agent.’ She smiled at Lauren and walked away. Always leave them wanting more, she thought, as she felt Lauren’s eyes on her.
That evening, after speaking to Lauren on set, Rose found Lauren’s professional CV and cover letter expressing her interest in the job on hotel stationery, slipped under her hotel room door. Rose smiled when she opened the envelope; she knew Lauren was perfect for her.
The boarding call sounded over the loudspeaker and Rose’s mind was brought back to the present. Rose walked to the desk, and handed her passport and boarding pass to the flight attendant. The girl took them with a smile and then passed them back to her. ‘Thank you, Ms Nightingale, your flight to Italy is boarding now.’
Rose placed her passport in her bag and headed towards the plane. Italy, here I come, she thought, excited by the idea of living in a new country, even for a short amount of time.
Rose arrived in Perugia reasonably relaxed, although feeling a little grimy. As predicted by the wonderful Lauren, her car was indeed waiting for her. Surprisingly, there were no paparazzi lurking around and Rose was relieved. I hope this continues, she thought, as she sank into the back seat of the Mercedes.
When she arrived at the villa and got out of the car, the housekeeper stood on the front step, waiting to greet the surrogate grandchildren she assumed were coming from all the toys that had been sent over.
Instead it was just Rose who shook her hand and walked inside the cool foyer. Lucia walked over to the car to check there were no children inside. She shook her head. ‘Bizarro,’ she mumbled as she followed Rose inside.
Rose was tired but not enough to dull the beauty of her new home for the summer. A restored 200-year-old villa, it was surrounded by green lawns and a grove of olive trees to one side. There was a magnificent outdoor terrace, covered in grapevines and wisteria, giving much-needed shade throughout the day. The pool looked out over the hills and the garden was filled with roses, lemon trees and lavenders.
Inside were six bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. Lauren had sent Rose’s luggage by FedEx with all the toys, so Rose didn’t have to wait at the airport. Lucia had hung all her clothes in the solid oak wardrobes, marvelling at the tissue paper and the scented sachets from Maryse à Paris. Her Smythson beauty case had been unpacked and all her toiletries had been placed carefully in the bathroom cupboards. The Egyptian cotton sheets with a 250 thread count had been washed and dried in the Umbrian sun by Lucia and placed on the bed.
‘Signorina, you want something to eat?’ asked Lucia hopefully. She was looking forward to feeding up this skinny girl with her imaginary children.
Rose smiled. ‘No, maybe just a cup of tea and a biscuit. I might have a bath and lie down for a while.’
Lucia wandered off, mumbling in Italian to herself. Rose thought she heard her saying something about ghost children and she reminded herself to listen more to the Italian lessons on her iPod. Ghost children, she thought. My Italian is worse than I thought.
Rose walked into the bathroom. It was astonishing, even by Rose’s Hollywood standards. The floors were covered with beautiful stone tiles in natural colours and the surrounding walls whitewashed. At the end of the room were three steps that led down into a large sunken tub. Above the tub was a leadlight window that opened wide, letting the warm summer breeze float into the room.
At the foot of the tub was a gorgeous gift basket filled with a selection of products from Santa Maria Novella, a 13th century apothecary, once run by Dominican monks with a note from the film’s producers welcoming her and thanking her for taking the role in the film. The handmade basket was overflowing with vanilla bath and shower gels, pomegranate bath salts, lily and rose water, summer candles smelling of the sea and a selection of fragrances including honeysuckle, opoponax, orange blossom, tuberose, and the stunning Angels of Florence perfume – a blend of jasmine, lilac, peach, violet and white musk.
Lying next to the basket of scented items was a tower of towels, all with the Frette crest embroidered on them, an exquisitely folded ivory bathrobe, several quilted spa mitts and a pile of beautifully folded bath sheets in dusk and sandstone.
Tiredness washed over Rose and she sat on the antique armchair in the corner of the room. Lucia knocked at the open door and saw how weary Rose seemed. Clucking in Italian and bustling into the bathroom, she walked over and turned on the water in the bath. Rummaging through the basket of bath and body goodies, Lucia pulled out citrus bath oil and poured a few drops under the running water. She undid the robe and shook out the bath sheets.
‘Come, signorina. Time to bathe, very nice for you, quiet. I bring you your tea, yes?’
Rose nodded her acceptance and was actually grateful for someone taking over while she was in her jet-lagged state.
Lucia felt the temperature of the water. ‘All ready now, signorina.’ She left the bathroom and brought back a tray with a silver teapot with strainer, a bone china cup and saucer, a small matching pitcher of milk and tiny bowl of little sugar cubes, a silver spoon and a selection of Italian biscuits and left Rose alone.
Rose slowly undressed and stepped down into the tub. If this was Italy, then I never want to leave, she thought.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Lucia moaned to her husband, the gardener, about Rose. No children, too skinny, too old, should be married … the list went on of Lucia’s complaints about Rose. It wouldn’t do, said Lucia to herself, deciding then and there she would have to draw Rose’s future to her. All the women in the family had the gift and Lucia knew she had no choice but to magic a man and some children into Rose’s life. Pronto!
CHAPTER TWO
Calypso Gable woke up, fully dressed, in the biggest suite of the Hotel Brufani Palace in Perugia and checked her phone for the time. Nine o’clock in the evening. Damn, she had slept all day, she thought, exhausted from jet-lag.
She wanted to be amongst the action, not stuck in a villa in the country, playing house. Basing herself in the city of Perugia meant she could stroll the streets and explore with almost no one recognizing her. Her TV show had not been shown in Italy and her latest film had yet to be released in Europe. Besides tourists, no one knew who she was and she was looking forward to exploring the city and some of the gorgeous antique shops she had spied on the drive through the city to her hotel.
She was shocked that she had won the role. Rumour was that Jessica Biel, Carey Mulligan, and Scarlett Johansson were up for the role. Calypso only went because her manager told her she needed to be seen by a better class of directors.
Calypso hadn’t worked with the director, TG, as he was known, but she did know his ex-girlfriend, Lisa. She had always been on the make, trying to get up the next step of the career ladder, fucking and sucking her way to the top. She had made quite a few films, starring in supporting roles and then starting to get more leading roles. Labelled as the next Indie Queen, she and TG were the star couple of LA and New York.
But Calypso knew it was all bullshit. She had seen girls like her before over the years. Underneath the façade of the intellectual, art house style she displayed was just another actress desperate for the Spielberg epic and the paycheque.
Now the ex was dating a studio head, Calypso had heard. An obese, sweaty man who was notorious for his penchant for sexually deviant activities. His favourite was having his partner bite him during sex, all over, till he was black and blue; he loved it even more when they drew blood, apparently. Calypso shuddered at the thought.
The audition for The Italian Dream had been torturous. Calypso was nervous and said ‘fuck’ throughout the meeting and drank from the Coke can on the table until she realized it wasn’t hers but the director’s. He hadn’t seemed to mind and seemed to be okay as far as directors went. At least he didn’t try to hit on her but he looked at her oddly throughout the audition and she wondered of she had something in her teeth.
She knew she gave a shocking read and although she could do the part, she fucked it up and would have put money on Scarlett getting the role. But apparently the director saw something in her that she didn’t see in herself, her manager said when she rang with the news.
To celebrate, she had spent a morning at the Miu Miu store in LA, hoping to channel the Italian style she admired so much while trawling The Sartorialist. Now she looked at the piles of luggage piled in the corner of the suite and wondered if it was too much. The store on Rodeo Drive had closed for her for two hours while she tried on everything. Calypso now had in her possession bags and boxes of the latest season and even some of the upcoming season that had not yet been copied by Zara. Miu Miu’s classic, super cool look wasn’t exactly Calypso’s style – she preferred something a little more eclectic – but what the hell, she could always accessorize to make it a little more Calypso and a little less Miuccia.
Calypso had left the Miu Miu store in a carbon wool-fringed short jacket over her white American Vintage t-shirt. The jacket dressed up her black J Brand cigarette-style jeans and brought an almost European style to her California look. She had swept back her perfectly lightened blond hair – ‘Buttercup’, her colourist called it. Calypso’s hair was one of her signatures and she returned to the salon every two weeks to have her roots done. A natural redhead, with tight corkscrew curls, she now wore her hair long and straight, courtesy of the Brazilian blow waves she got every six weeks. With a tiny frame and lean muscles courtesy of a combination of yoga, Pilates and a fat-free vegetarian existence, Calypso had a pretty voice and an even prettier face.
As she lay in the hotel bed thinking of the shopping spree, she remembered the paparazzi hounding her in LA outside Miu Miu. Some actors sought that attention, even tipping them off themselves with their whereabouts. But not Calypso. The media’s intrusion was a recent problem for her. Now that she was a part of the film circus, she understood that often the film studios started the rumours and hired the photographers to drive the heat and interest for whatever vehicle they were pushing. Calypso wondered who had made the call to them. Her studio, her stylist, or was it one of the store employees? The more she thought about it, Calypso began to suspect who had tipped off the media, and it made sense the longer she considered it.
She remembered the last conversation with Leeza before she left for Italy.
‘Hi, Mom.’ Calypso had answered her cell phone impatiently; they’d only spoken an hour ago.
‘Hi, baby!’ Leeza breathed. Always so eager. ‘How was shopping?’
‘It was great, Mom. But … err … Mom …’ Calypso licked her lips nervously. Why was she always nervous when questioning her mother?
‘Mom, did you tip off the paps?’ Calypso was smart enough to know she wasn’t a big enough celebrity yet for her studio to have called in such an overwhelming number of photographers.
‘I just made one call. Were there many there?’ Leeza had sounded happy – she thought all publicity was good publicity, especially when you were an unknown.
‘Mom, it’s not good. It’s weird. It makes me look desperate and sad. Leave that shit for Miley and Lindsay. Greg will kill me when he finds out. He’s being really careful about my exposure right now. You know this already! Jesus!’
‘Have you heard from Greg or Mandy?’ asked Leeza, ignoring Calypso’s frustration.
Calypso’s hiring of a new manager, Mandy, had replaced her mother who had held the title since Calypso was six years old and in her first commercial. The decision resulted in a huge fight with Leeza who locked herself in the bathroom for six hours at Calypso’s house. She only emerged after Calypso slid a back copy of Variety, with an article on Mandy in it, under the door and was finally satisfied that Mandy might be able to do the job.
Now Calypso felt free as she lay in bed. Free from Leeza, the paparazzi and from LA. Stretching, she stepped out of bed, peeled off her Burberry silk shorts and Calvin Klein singlet and walked into the bathroom. Turning on the shower she examined herself in the mirror. Her hair looked amazing, straight and yet with body, thanks to the blow-dry she had just before she left LA. She was due to have another in six weeks but since she was on set for twelve weeks, she wondered if they had them in Italy. She reminded herself to ask Kelly, the head make-up artist on the film, although it may cost a lot here compared to US prices.
Calypso lived on a budget, despite her moderate wealth. It was too easy to overspend and she was mindful of her money, having worked so hard for so long. Besides, Leeza was always in her mind, reminding her never to stray from her budget. It wasn’t as though Calypso was tight with money, however, she was just very aware of what it was like not to have any. No one but her and Leeza and her father knew how tough things had been for them when she was trying to make it in Hollywood. All the money her father had earned had gone into nurturing Calypso’s talent. Although her father had a job, it was meagre pay and trying to make it in Hollywood was expensive. Dancing lessons, headshots, acting lessons, clothes, and flights for auditions to New York for the attempts to make it on Broadway. Her agents and lawyers both demanded a cut when she did work and it was a struggle at times. Calypso knew her parents had gone without for her. She remembered the nights without electricity; the beans on toast for dinner, or sometimes just the beans. Once she found her father in the yard, nailing the soles of his work shoes back together.
The sense of responsibility Calypso felt to ensure she was successful and to look after her parents was what drove her – and what stopped her from losing her head. Calypso had been offered drugs, sex and all the other temptations during her years growing up but she abstained, thinking of the faith her parents had placed in their only child’s talent. Whenever she was interviewed, Calypso painted the picture that she was the typical California girl, growing up in middle-class affluence and wanting for nothing. She claimed she grew up in the house she had actually bought for her parents in Brentwood, whereas in fact she and Leeza and her dad went from place to place until the money ran out. Leeza would check them into rough hotels and trailer parks when the money was really low. Sometimes they skipped paying the bill if they could, just to save a few dollars here and there.
It all changed for a while when Calypso was cast on a variety show, singing and dancing her little heart out until she grew breasts and the show was cancelled. Calypso received the news she had been let go the day before the producer found out the show had been cancelled. She never told anyone, only she and Leeza knew. That day, Leeza sent out a press release saying that Calypso was leaving to explore other opportunities. It was a smart move. She was always seen as the kid who left early and avoided being a part of an axed show. Leeza was considered an excellent manager for knowing when it was time for Calypso to move on.
The next opportunity did not come though until Calypso was nineteen. She did a few bit parts and commercials and this helped the bank balance. She urged her parents to use the money she earned from the show but her father wouldn’t hear of it, so they were back to where they were before. Scrounging and living hand to mouth, job to job.
Now she was in Italy, shooting a film with Rose Nightingale and Sapphira De Mont. She could hardly believe it. Rose Nightingale was her hero and Sapphira De Mont was the hottest star in Hollywood. Why the director, TG, had asked for her, she had no idea. She wasn’t a huge name yet, and certainly not in film, she had thought when Mandy had rung to her gauge her interest in auditioning for TG.
Against Leeza’s advice, she had knocked back the action film that was on offer and had jumped at the chance to act opposite Rose and Sapphira. This was her chance to move into the big league. No more TV, only film and opposite the best actresses in Hollywood. Convincing Leeza was a different story though.
‘But, honey, if you take the action movie, think about it. A percentage of the profits, royalties, Comic-Con appearances and your own action figure. You’ll be a movie star, honey, big time.’
‘Mom, a movie star is different to an actor. Cameron Diaz is a movie star. Meryl Streep is an actor. You can’t be both. Well, maybe if you’re Reese Witherspoon, but there aren’t many others. I want to be an actor.’
‘Being a movie star is what we always wanted,’ Leeza said, forgetting she had recently been demoted in Calypso’s life from manager to mother, as she carefully prepared the salad with no-fat dressing for a family barbeque, protecting her acrylic nails with a new French manicure.
No, Mom, it’s what you wanted, thought Calypso.
But she said nothing. Instead she signed on the next day, letting Leeza know her decision via text message. It was time she ran her own life, she thought and now that she was in Italy, she was excited.
Showered and dressed in a towel, she read the room service menu. ‘Blah,’ she said, putting it down again.
Wandering over to the window, she looked outside. She had meant to go for a run when she got back to the hotel but the tiredness from the jet-lag was still in her system and instead she fell asleep, fully dressed, until sounds from outside drifted up to her window. It was nine o’clock at night, but it seemed most people were only now going out for dinner. What the hell, she thought, I’m going out.
Opening her wardrobe, she chose a pair of black vintage cigarette silk pants and teamed them with a floaty silver Catherine Malandrino camisole and pink Costume Nationale flat sandals. The hills of Perugia would murder her heels; flats were sensible and Calypso was always sensible, particularly when it came to looking after her clothes. Leaving her hair down, she grabbed a vintage beaded clutch and skipped through the door into the bustle outside.
Wandering around the ancient city, the sound of smooth jazz came up a laneway and Calypso followed the music.
She found herself in an elegant thoroughfare filled with laughing students from the university, families with sleeping children in strollers and tourists all mingling together in the warm evening.
The cafés were filled with people who spilled out onto the stone ledges and steps, listening to the jazz. Calypso thought she knew the song from an old album her dad used to play. ‘There’s a somebody I’m longing to see, I hope that he turns out to be, someone who’ll watch over me,’ she sang quietly to herself.
An older couple walked out in front of the band and started to dance to the old Gershwin classic and Calypso felt her eyes fill with tears as she saw the tenderness on the man’s face.
It was an almost perfect moment except for the gnawing in Calypso’s stomach. I haven’t eaten in fourteen hours, she counted as she moved towards some bright lights in the side of a stone wall. SandriPasticceria it read. The window boasted some of the most delicious pastries Calypso had ever seen. Never would she allow herself something so fat-filled in LA but here, without the gaze of the paparazzi and her trainer, Calypso decided to live a little. Stepping inside the crowded shop, she was pushed forward by the crowd until she found herself at a stool at the marble bar.
A red-coated waiter placed a chocolate-filled pastry with glazed berries on top of it in front of her with a cappuccino. ‘I didn’t order this,’ she said to the waiter who had already turned his back. She sat awkwardly, unsure of what to do.
‘I would just eat it,’ said a voice next to her over the din in the bar.
Calypso turned and was faced with Eros himself. Impossibly handsome, with long, light brown hair loose and curling around his face. Smiling at Calypso, his teeth were the whitest and straightest that Calypso had ever seen, which was quite something, considering she lived in California, the state of orthodontists. ‘Ciao, bella,’ he said, his green eyes dancing as he took in her face.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ said Calypso, doing her best Barbra Streisand impersonation.
‘I know that voice, that’s Barbra, si?’
Calypso laughed, ‘Yes, that’s Barbra.’
‘Mangia,’ he said, gesturing.
Calypso paused. It did look divine and saying a little prayer to the God of Cellulite to stay away, she took a bite.
‘Oh my God, it’s amazing.’ She sputtered pastry flakes across the table, not caring to wipe the chocolate cream from her mouth.
The Italian watched her, amused. ‘You like?’
‘I like,’ said Calypso, her mouth full.
‘So, what is your name? Barbra?’
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Calypso,’ she smiled shyly.
‘Beautiful name, the nymph of the sea, si? I am Marco. Lord of the planet Mars.’
His bewitching accent and the way he looked so intently at her, as if wanting her approval was endearing. Calypso smiled. She had made her first Italian friend.
CHAPTER THREE
Sapphira De Mont arrived in Italy courtesy of the film studio’s Gulfstream. She would have liked to have flown the plane herself but her instructor said she was not yet ready for such a large aircraft, much to Sapphira’s disappointment.
She stretched her back like a cat as she unbuckled her seatbelt on the plane. Her skin across her shoulder blades was tight from the new tattoo she had recently added to her thin body as a nod to her newly gained pilot’s licence. Alis volat propri, it read in a serif script across her back. A Latin phrase, meaning ‘She flies with her own wings’.
All her life experiences were illustrated by the tattoos on her body. On her left wrist was a tiny crab – her sun sign; on her right wrist a symbol for Leo, her astrological Moon sign. On one foot was a delicate vine that wound its way around her ankle and on the outside of each ankle was a tiny fairy curtsying. On her back, underneath the new tattoos, was a tattoo of a tree, the one she dreamed of most nights. She had explained it and the tattoo artist had drawn it repeatedly until he got it right.
Sapphira’s life had been one of adventure and saying ‘yes’ to whatever came her way. Italy was like a new affair to her; she wanted to get to know the country, learn the language and understand its moods. Spending six weeks in a foreign country was exhilarating and made Sapphira feel safe.
The private plane had been an indulgence that the studio was only too happy to agree to when Sapphira’s agent requested it to get her to the film’s location. She was a big star and had taken a slight pay cut to do the movie – compared to what she had been paid after the last two action hits she had starred in. There was big money to be made with Sapphira’s name on the marquee and they knew it. The studio was only too happy to keep their bankroll comfortable. A little gift from them for her having to audition, she thought.
It was her first screen test for four years. Her agent told her she should hold out and they would come round and just give her the part. She ignored him. She ignored most advice. Instead, she arrived smoking a cigarette, and in a coffee coloured silk blouse so transparent it showed the outline of her tattoos and no bra. TG was ready to dismiss her until she did the lines of dialogue more perfectly than the writer could have wished for. She was a chameleon when she acted and he was excited to work with her. He was also smart enough to realize she would bring a new audience to this genre of film.
It was not as though the idea of flying a commercial flight was beneath Sapphira, but she had more reason than most to need the private flight.
Sapphira held her Bottega Veneta black leather tote bag close to her chest feeling the little beads of sweat form on her forehead. The door of the aircraft opened and Sapphira heard the pilot talking to the officials in Italian as he stood at the top of the steps.
‘They need to just check your details and do a quick look around,’ he said as two Italian airport officials came aboard the plane. Sapphira sat up straight and smiled her million dollar smile. The men were instantly smitten. Handing over her travel documents, Sapphira attempted to greet them in the basic Italian she had learned.
‘Ciao. Grazie per lasciarlo venire al vostro paese bella,’ she said, a little uncertainly.
The Italians looked at each other, pleased that such a big American movie star would bother to try speaking their wonderful language. They gave a cursory glance at her documents. Sapphira smiled again, this time they melted. ‘Welcome, Signora De Mont.’
‘My mother is Italian. I’m so pleased to be here in her country that she speaks so warmly about,’ Sapphira said.
She left out the fact that her mother was now in the best nursing home in LA, all bills paid for by Sapphira. The years of alcohol abuse had caught up with her and most days she didn’t even remember she had a daughter.
‘That is why you are so beautiful,’ said the older man. ‘Your father must be Italian also?’
‘No,’ said Sapphira, almost apologetically. ‘He’s French.’
And dead, she left out. A minor French aristocrat, dying from a heroin overdose when she was twelve years old and she’d been left with her mother to raise herself.
One of the men held out a small notepad and asked shyly for an autograph. Sapphira signed quickly and posed for a photo with each of them taken on their cell phones. Deciding that such a beautiful star with an Italian mother was absolutely no security risk, they waved her through Customs and soon Sapphira was in the back of her car, and heading towards her new home. Relief flowed through her as the car pulled away from the airport and towards the villa booked for her stay.
The villa, a former 12th century monastery, was not the biggest in the region but it had the most security. Surrounded by large, stone walls with locked gates, security cameras were set to capture every angle of the property and it came with a set of security guards to protect its guests.
Sapphira lit a cigarette and wound down the window. Her driver looked at her in the rear mirror. She seemed tired and unwell, he thought, as he drove through the picturesque countryside. Italy will fix anyone, he thought proudly.
The car pulled up outside a large set of iron gates. There was a scrolled crest on the gates and ivy grew on the walls on either side. With its palm trees and green lawns, the property looked like an oasis, Sapphira thought.
As the gates swung open, the car drove slowly along the gravel drive and soon the villa appeared. A tower rose from the centre of the building, with a cross on the top. Remembering it was once a monastery, Sapphira prayed it was a sign of protection while she was in Italy.
When the car pulled to a stop, a stylish young woman came out of the arched oak doorway. The woman smiled warmly. ‘Welcome, Ms De Mont, to Villa Castello Saint Carolina. I hope you enjoy your stay here.’
‘Please call me Sapphira,’ she said and indicated to the driver to take her cases and bags inside.
‘I am Giulia, TG’s assistant while he is in Italy. He requested I come and ensure you have everything you need.’
‘Thank you, Giulia. I appreciate it,’ Sapphira said, wishing she were upstairs in the privacy of a bedroom.
Giulia walked inside and stood in the magnificent foyer. High above them was a ceiling mural of Madonna and the baby Jesus, surrounded by cherubs in the Garden of Eden. It was breathtaking. Sapphira stood with her neck craned back trying to drink in the picture.
Giulia spoke again. ‘I have your set of keys and your map of the property as requested. The kitchen has been stocked to your requirements and all your other requests have been fulfilled.’
Sapphira nodded her approval.
‘The security are on site at all times and will do their best to not disturb your privacy, but please contact them or myself if you should require anything extra during your stay here. If you give me your phone I will punch my number into it so you can contact me day or night.’
Sapphira dug into her handbag, searching for her phone. Her hand ran over her secret and she felt like she might vomit. Finding her phone, she handed it to Giulia who expertly keyed in her number and name.
‘Bene,’ she said. ‘Finito.’ She handed it back.
Sapphira stood waiting. There was an awkward silence. ‘Well then, I go,’ said Giulia.
‘Thank you, Giulia,’ Sapphira said, relieved.
‘One more thing, you want me to take your bags to your room?’ asked Giulia.
‘No,’ said Sapphira a little shortly. ‘I’m fine.’
Giulia looked at her almost skeletal arms and wondered how on earth she would manage the array of cases the driver had left in the foyer up the flight of stairs.
‘The staff will come by every morning to make up your room and restock your kitchen once you are on set, as requested. They have all signed the confidentiality papers and these have been faxed to your agent.’
Sapphira nodded and Giulia walked out the door. ‘Thanks again,’ Sapphira called as Giulia climbed into her red Alfa. Sapphira closed the door behind her.
Giulia sat in the car for a moment, looking for her car keys. Sapphira’s appearance troubled her. Her demands, while not extraordinary compared to some stars, still seemed covert and secretive when she had received them from Sapphira’s agent. She required no one to look after her in the villa, didn’t want a tour of the vast property, only a map to be left for her in Italian. She asked for two cartons of Marlboro Light cigarettes and an espresso maker with the best local coffee blend. Seeing her in person, she seemed edgy and anxious, and clearly could not wait for Giulia to leave. Giulia knew it was more than tiredness; she had seen it in her brother years before when he had come home from living in Rome. She picked up her mobile phone. ‘Hello, TG? It’s Giulia.’
‘Hey, how’s our star Sapphira?’ he asked as he jumped out of the shower.
‘Okay, all settled. She seems fine.’ She paused. ‘She’s a little, how you say, preoccupato. Worried. Anxious, you know?’
TG laughed. ‘That’s Hollywood stars for you, Giulia. They’re all a little crazy, although she is supposed to be great on set, so don’t worry about it, she’s fine. Kelly said so and she’s worked with her plenty of times.’
‘Okay then, I will not worry. You all okay for tonight?’ she asked as she turned on the car engine.
‘Fine, it all looks great, Giulia. Thank you, you are a star! Arrivederci.’
‘Arrivederci,’ Giulia replied and drove off down the driveway, the huge gates closing behind her.
Sapphira watched Giulia on the phone in her driveway from the upstairs window. ‘Go,’ she said as she willed her away from her house.
Finally the red car disappeared and the gates closed in the distance. Walking over to the bed, she emptied her bag out onto the crisp white bedspread.
Opening a small Comme des Garçons bag, she took out her instruments and prepared her hit.
Thankfully her tattoos were placed all over her body and so she was always accustomed to covering them up. If she knew she would be showing a lot of flesh then she shot up between her toes. Citing privacy, she always dressed herself and never allowed herself to be partially dressed in front of the costume or make-up crew. Living with her addiction for the last ten years had taught Sapphira a thing or two about secrets and how to hide them. A few of her lovers had been addicts as well, sharing her bed and her smack till she got sick of them. She had tried to get off it, taking OxyContin, which her LA doctor had only been too happy to supply. But there was nothing like pure snow, she thought.
Sapphira was a big enough star not have to go through the medical tests for insurance. Her record on set was flawless, she was a hard worker and big money earner; as far as the studio could see, there was no problem.
Coming to Italy was not a problem on the private jet, once she had been waived through Customs. She had enough to get her through the next eight weeks and then she would have to sort out her next supply. No problem, she thought. Rome is filled with drugs, I’ll send someone off to score. Who that might be, she was not sure, but there was always someone to help Sapphira De Mont, she figured.
She took an alcohol swab out of the bag. Getting her spoon, she wiped it down with the swab and placed the chunk on it. Filling the syringe with water, she squirted it onto the spoon and lit the tea light candle she carried in her kit. Melting down the smack, she rubbed her fingers with another swab and then placed a small piece of cloth on the spoon. Rubbing between her toes with the alcohol swab, she drew the shot up into the syringe and looked for a vein. Finding one between her little toe and the one next to it, she put the needle in, withdrawing it slightly to ensure she had it in the vein. Seeing a small prick of blood come out, she injected herself.
The OxyContin worked when she was doing the action movies, as she had to be fit and trained everyday. But the hit from heroin lasted longer and so she was back on it whenever she could get away with it. When she took it she felt like nothing would ever go wrong in her world again. She stopped injecting once, a long time ago but then started again after her hopes and dreams had been shattered. That was too much for anyone to handle, she had justified at the time.
As soon as the needle touched her skin she lay on the bed and felt the relaxation drape over her like a blanket. She breathed in and out, listening to the sound of herself in the silence, thinking about the first time she took heroin.
What was the guy’s name? she wondered. They had met at a party for someone whose name they didn’t even know, and the attraction between them was instant. The knowledge that Sapphira had with her a bag of coke, twelve joints pre-rolled in her father’s Cartier diamond Art Deco cigarette case was also appealing. They blew her bag of coke together in the bathroom, smoked three joints in the spa and then fucked at her apartment.
She tried heroin because she could. There was no thought that she would be hooked, no thought of her father’s addiction. She was attached to nothing and addicted to no one but the drug had other ideas. The first time she was sick. The second time she thought she was kissing God. And now all she did was shoot up trying to chase that feeling.
The sex with the guy on smack was beyond anything she had ever felt before. It lasted for hours and Sapphira recalled a continual searching for something elusive, not finding it, yet still being incredibly satisfied.
‘Ethan,’ she said out loud. ‘That was his name. Ethan.’
She felt strong enough to rise up from the bed and finally explore her surroundings. Walking downstairs, she took in the frescos on the wall, depicting magnificent gardens and angelic characters. Grabbing the map and the large set of keys from the hall table, she stood in the foyer and tried to get her bearings. Sapphira loved this part best: being in the mystery, finding her way. Wandering from room to room, map in one hand and lit cigarette in the other she was almost happy.
Where the church had originally sat in the centre of the monastery had been transformed into the most amazing sitting room. The pews were now around the outside of the walls; the vaulted ceiling had angels and demons carved into the ancient stone. While the space was awe-inspiring, however, it was not really to Sapphira’s taste. A little too overdone and European, reminding her of her father’s house in LA, filled to overflowing with his family’s heirlooms.
Looking at the map, she took in the pool, the pool house, the kitchen, the bedrooms and the bathrooms. She noticed a smaller room on the other side of the property; biblioteca, it read on the map. Padding barefoot through the villa, Sapphira felt at home. She had an almost chameleon-like ability to feel instantly at ease wherever she was, one of the few benefits that came from her gypsy-like childhood. Touching the silk tapestries that covered the walls, she headed down the hallway and checked the map of the villa. The biblioteca should be here, she thought, as she stood in the huge passageway. She could not see a door anywhere. Stopping, she tried to get her bearings. Yes, there was the room there on the map. So where was the freaking door, she wondered, loving the mystery unfolding before her.
Standing in front of the huge tapestry where the door should have been, her eyes squinted at the needlework of knights and maidens in front of a doorway. In the doorway was an angel, holding what seemed to be the Holy Grail and a book. Sapphira stood and looked and then got the message. Knowledge is God.
Pulling back the heavy tapestry, she found the doorway to the room behind the image. The door was heavily carved in Latin, but Sapphira didn’t know what any of it meant. She tried the brass handle but the door was locked. She grabbed the set of keys from her pocket and looked for the oldest one. There were three. She tried the first one but it did not turn; the next one didn’t work either. Finally, she heard the click of the lock as it opened for the third key.
Filled from ceiling to floor with books of all shapes and sizes, it was the most beautiful room she had ever seen. There was a long sofa, as wide as a double bed, filled with cushions and covered with blankets and quilts. The room was long and had thin tall windows along the top of the walls. Running across the centre was a table, similar to one in a royal dining room, but this had Tiffany lamps on it for the readers who sat at it, poring over whatever tome they were interested in. Wooden ladders on wheels leaned against brass rods that ran around the walls of the room to enable its climbers to visit the highest realms of knowledge. Sapphira looked up at the ceiling, which was covered in a painting of the nine muses dancing under the moonlight. A bit racy for the old monks, she thought, noticing the exposed breasts of some of the dancers.
A small, single-arched doorway seemed almost hidden among the books and wooden panelled walls. Sapphira walked over and discovered an exquisite small bathroom, with a shower and walls of azure mosaic tiles. This is perfect, she thought. I can live in here, surrounded by books and I will have no one looking in on me!
She had found her secret hiding place. Her dream come true. She used to hide in the tower of her father’s house when he had his infamous parties, escaping the noise and the endless parade of people who used her father for drugs. The hidden library made her feel safe. It was comforting to be surrounded by all the knowledge. She wished she had more schooling, even though she knew she was smarter than most actresses around her. She could learn anything if she was shown a few times, she thought defiantly.
Looking at the many books, she was pleased to see some were in English, and she clapped her hands in joy and ran out along the hallway and dragged her bags into the room. Scrabbling through a suitcase, she found her iPod and Bose portable speakers. Plugging them in, Billie Holiday filled the room singing ‘Strange Fruit’ and Sapphira sang along.
Looking around the library, her eyes searched out the perfect hiding spot. Crawling under the long table with the Comme des Garçons zippered purse, she felt along the underside and sought out the ledge she instinctively knew was there. Placing the purse on it, she clambered out and stood in the centre of the room. She was safe.
PART TWO
CHAPTER FOUR
Sometimes film sets can be magical places. When everyone comes together with the same goal, and egos stay off the set, great films are made.
TG thought that hosting a dinner at his villa with the female actors in attendance would create a connection between everyone. Giulia, his Italian assistant, had been working for the last two weeks with Italy’s premier party planner to create the perfect welcoming event. Lanterns had been strung across the vast courtyard in the centre of the villa. Candles were all around the outside, giving the place a ceremonial feel. There were two long tables running down the centre to seat the sixty guests and armfuls of sunflowers had been placed in tall vases with lengths of grapevine laced between every place setting. The soft orange linens lay on the table with an array of glasses in different sizes and shapes.
Local chefs were to provide a Tuscan feast for the crew. When asking for the dietary requirements of the leading stars, Giulia was relieved to find that there were not too many quirks to cope with. Calypso was a vegetarian, so Giulia ensured that there were delectable pastas that would appeal to her as well as salads and breads. The thought quickly passed through her mind that maybe this American actress was ‘carbophobic’, but she pushed it away again. Who doesn’t love pasta, she mused as she moved the chairs around the tables.
Upstairs, TG was being interviewed on the phone by a Variety reporter about The Italian Dream.
‘Tell me about the film, it seems very different than your other films, more of a chick flick,’ said the reporter.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said TG, trying to keep the exasperation from his voice. Why wouldn’t Hollywood ever allow you to change, he wondered. ‘But, yeah, it is, very different,’ said TG. ‘It’s a story about three women in Italy all at a crisis in their life. Sapphira De Mont plays the role of the woman mourning the loss of her husband and trying to renovate a villa so she can sell it to return to the US. Rose Nightingale’s character plays a woman discovering herself after leaving her husband who cheated on her and Calypso Gable is a young backpacker who finds love in Italy. It’s an ensemble piece and I’m really excited about working with such great women,’ said TG. He was actually terrified of fucking it up but he didn’t say such a thing. Variety wanted to hear about the biggest film to be released next year, destined to be a critical and commercial success, provided TG could pull it off.
‘Your last film had the most expensive car chase ever filmed. How are you going to go from filming such high-impact scenes to filming women talking about their feelings?’ laughed the reporter.
TG paused. He asked himself the same thing every night since he had agreed to direct the film. ‘Telling the story is what I do. So whether it’s a car chase or an interchange between two actors, I do my best to get the story across.’
As the interview finished, TG hung up the phone and ran his hands through his hair and walked over to the large window in the study, staring at the amazing view in front of him. The hills of Umbria rolled out in front of him, the violet skies signalled twilight and TG knew the party was soon to start. He sent a small wish out as he saw the first star start to twinkle. Please let the shoot go well, he thought and laughed to himself, wondering what the Variety reporter would think of him, if he knew he was wishing on a star.
TG walked downstairs and looked at the party Giulia and her party planner had organized. It was a sight to behold: the lanterns and candles were lit, citronella was in the air and, as dusk fell, the courtyard was heavy with atmosphere and romance. The waiters stood by waiting for guests and ready to ply them with Prosecco and wine. The chefs were busy in the huge kitchen, applying the finishing touches to the feast. All they needed now were the guests.
The lower members of the crew arrived first, then the producers and finally the stars. Calypso arrived, always punctual, as taught by Leeza. She glowed in the courtyard like a firefly, stunning in a One Vintage gold lamé dress from the 1920s that had been reworked for her. The beaded appliqué around the low neckline shimmered and a tulle detail around the skirt edged up over one side to reveal just the right amount of thigh. Worn with a pair of patent leather Christian Louboutin black slingbacks and her new evening bag from the Perugia flea market, Calypso shone in the dark. Gratefully accepting a glass of champagne from a waiter, she took a sip to relieve her nerves.
The start of any job, big or small, made her nervous. Self-doubt and worry stayed with her till her director made her comfortable. Working with TG, she hoped, would be easy and he would be helpful. Calypso relied heavily on her director for both moral and directorial support. While she was a good actor, with sound comedic timing reminiscent of a young Ginger Rogers, she lacked the self-confidence and maturity to truly explore the options for the character. The last film she had done had really just required her to say her lines, look gorgeous and do her perfect laugh several times – the laugh which made audiences fall in love with her. This shoot was going to be different; she was really going to have to act, particularly in the scenes with Sapphira and Rose. Christ, she thought, I hope I can cut it.
She felt a little sick. Looking around for a familiar face, she spotted Kelly talking to two men, with their backs to Calypso. She walked over towards them, aware all eyes in the room were on her, except for TG in a navy blue velvet jacket and worn jeans laughing with Kelly. He whispered something in Kelly’s ear and she looked over to Calypso and smiled, waving her over.
‘Hi, doll, you look divine. God, what a dress! Calypso, this is my husband Chris, who is also the DOP. And I presume you already know TG,’ she said warmly, motioning towards the man in the blue jacket.
TG turned and looked at Calypso. Jesus fucking Christ, he thought, she is stunning. When she had walked into the audition back in LA he was instantly attracted to her but he had sworn off actresses and especially ones in his own films.
‘Yes, yes, hi again,’ he heard himself saying. He remembered Calypso was gorgeous but had no idea how beautiful she really was till he saw her dressed in gold and so luminous. The light of the candles lit the shadows under her cheekbones and made her hazel eyes almost seem yellow in the light. He felt a chill run down his spine.
Calypso smiled and took a sip from her glass and remained silent. When she was nervous she said too much, and right now, she was really, really nervous. Any minute he’ll find out I’m an imposter, she thought.
‘How’s things, Cal?’ asked Kelly. ‘How’re you settling into bella Italia?’
‘Great. I slept for nearly eighteen hours, I think, then woke up and went to dinner and ate the most amazing pastry and met a boy.’ Calypso stopped, aware she had just run on and then swore in front of her director again, just like in the audition. I must look like a kid to them, she thought as she felt them staring at her.
There was no judgement from her audience though. Chris was thinking: I can’t wait to shoot her. She is gorgeous.
Kelly was thinking several things: She met a boy? Already? Well played, Calypso. And then looking at Calypso’s slender figure, she thought incredulously, she ate carbs!
TG didn’t hear a word Calypso said. He just watched her mouth move and the way the light flickered over her face and shoulders. He felt himself mesmerized and tried to pull himself together.
A boy? he wondered. Man, she was fast. Lucky bastard, he thought. Shit, TG, you just broke up with an actress. You know what they’re like! The last thing you need is a distraction. Get your head in the game, boy, he admonished himself. Smiling thinly at Calypso, he turned his back on her and walked towards the bar.
Calypso felt her cheeks flush with shame. He thinks I’m an idiot, a silly little girl, she thought as she watched him walk away.
The inadequacies she felt always came back, leaving her feeling stupid and uneducated. She watched TG as he chatted to someone by the bar. He was probably one of those uptight intellectual New Yorkers, she thought and immediately decided to hate him. Partly because this was her normal reaction to someone when she felt less than them, but also because it protected her. Leeza had drummed into her: ‘If they don’t like you, then fuck them, you didn’t like them first.’
For all the self-help and self-improvement books she had read over the years, when Calypso felt threatened, everything she thought she had learned went out the window and she returned to being Leeza’s daughter again, defensive when doubted or questioned.
Kelly watched TG’s reaction and Calypso’s response to him carefully. Knowing TG as she did, he was clearly attracted to her. Yet this is what he always did, she thought. He runs away, afraid of his feelings, and the woman always has to chase him. Looking at the young girl in front of her, she reached out and touched her arm, her skin soft beneath her hand. ‘He’s a little wound up, always like this before a shoot. He really is a great guy, you’ll see.’
‘Whatever, it’s cool,’ Calypso said to Kelly but inside she was fuming.
Looking around for any other faces she knew, she saw Rose Nightingale had arrived. She hadn’t seen her come in but couldn’t miss her now. Tall and slender in a peach georgette chiffon, halter-neck Chloé gown, Rose was beautiful. Her shoulders and arms were lily white, and she wore a gold Etruscan cuff on one arm and matching gold hoop earrings, which showed off her long neck.
Her brunette hair was swept up into a ponytail and she had applied her make-up in such a way that it looked as if she had barely any on but her features were perfect. Calypso knew this kind of make-up took over an hour to apply and she was a little star-struck. Rose was an icon and had the power and respect in the industry that Calypso hoped to one day have herself.
Seeing the girl in the gold dress staring at her, Rose made a beeline to her. ‘Hello, I’m Rose,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m thrilled to be working with you. I saw your film on the plane on the way over. You were great, well done.’
Rose had a way of instantly putting people at ease. After her experience at drama school in London, she worked hard to make women at ease with her. Her warmth and kindness, just when Calypso felt so vulnerable, was exactly what was needed.
‘You’re very funny, it’s so hard to be funny. I can’t ever do it. It’s easy to cry on set, just think of your dog dying or something and then the waterworks start. But to make people laugh, well, that’s hard.’
Rose was so sincere and earnest that Calypso believed her immediately and decided to like her straightaway. Seeing her relax in her presence, Rose touched her arm. ‘Let’s sit together at dinner, shall we? I want to hear all about you.’
Calypso nodded eagerly. Rose’s motherly instinct was exactly what Calypso needed at that moment.
TG walked over and kissed Rose on both cheeks. They had known each other through the industry A-list parties and events and Rose was thrilled to be finally working with him.
‘Well, hello there,’ he said. ‘I see you’ve met Calypso.’
Calypso glared at him. If Rose noticed any tension she didn’t let on, instead she talked about how happy she was to be in Italy and how she hoped her family would come and visit her here.
While she spoke, TG did not look at Calypso once, even though Rose included her in the conversation several times. Calypso was becoming more and more incensed. This guy is an asshole, she thought, wishing she had taken the action film instead.
TG was aware of Calypso next to him though. Her presence was electric and whatever perfume she was wearing was driving him crazy. He knew if he turned to face her he would want to touch her face, her hair, her body. Oh my God, he thought, as Rose kept talking, I’m insane. I’m tragic. What kind of a guy falls for a woman he has just met? This isn’t right. It must be the candles and the fact that I haven’t had sex for five months.
Gun-shy from his experience with the ambitious starlet, he made a vow he would never date an actress again – until he met Calypso. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and saw her looking at Rose as she spoke. She seemed tense; maybe she was nervous. Perhaps he should say something to relax her, he thought.
Racking his brain he said the first thing that popped into his head. ‘Calypso ate a pastry.’ The shock of this sentence ran through his body and he felt himself cringing.
Calypso shot a deathly stare at him. Was he worried she was going to get fat in Italy? Was he making fun of her? I’ll have to ring my trainer and get her to send me a DVD tomorrow to do while I’m here, she thought. Fuck, what the hell does that comment mean?
Rose clapped her hands, her gold cuff catching the light. ‘Oh God, the food here is wonderful. I plan to get really fat after filming! I want my family to come over and we’ll go on a gastronomic tour of the region. What sort of pastry did you have?’ she asked.
Calypso’s mouth was set in a straight line. ‘Berries, chocolate.’ she answered through gritted teeth.
TG saw her face set and knew she thought he was a dick. Oh well, at least I won’t have to worry about my crush if she hates me, he thought.
Giulia walked over and suggested to TG it was time to sit down for the dinner as the chefs were getting worried their feast would be spoiled.
‘Is Sapphira here yet?’
‘No, not yet but she’s on her way. I rang her driver,’ Giulia replied.
‘Great, we’ll start to get everyone to the table and begin without her.’
‘Excuse me,’ he said to Rose and Calypso, and walked towards a group of people, gesturing at the table.
Rose and Calypso wandered over, setting down their glasses. Rose pulled out her chair and sat down before the waiter standing behind her had time. Patting the chair next to her, she looked up at Calypso, who was debating whether to run away. ‘Come on, sit next to me. This’ll be fun.’
Rose’s enthusiasm was infectious and Calypso decided things would be all right if she stuck with her for the shoot. The party sat down, and TG stood and tapped his champagne glass with his fork. As he did, Sapphira arrived and the whole table fell silent. She stood in the doorway of the courtyard, wearing a white leather Pucci mini dress, with a huge silver and black eagle on the front looking as if it were about to land on its prey. She wore no jewellery and long black hair hung loosely down her back. Her legs seemed to stretch forever, ending in a pair of Balmain suede calf-high boots, with five silver buckles up each side. Her entrance stunned the room; it was dramatic and powerful, not unlike Sapphira herself.
TG spoke, breaking the moment. ‘Well, I was about to make a speech but one of our stars took the words right out of my mouth,’ he said, laughing.
The table joined in his laughter and Sapphira smiled at the group, getting the joke. She felt good tonight; she had slept this afternoon and had a gorgeous swim in the pool. She had lain in the sun and was instantly sun kissed. She looked great and she knew it. Looking along the table, she recognized Rose. Everyone knew Rose, but she didn’t know the young girl sitting next to her looking anxious. Sapphira didn’t watch television or films, preferring books and providing her own entertainment. The industry did not interest her but the craft of acting did, so she tried to read and experience as much as she could so she would have emotions to draw on when she was working.
Rose waved at her and smiled. They had met at a few Women in Hollywood functions and while it was only small talk, they had found each other pleasant. Sapphira didn’t have girlfriends. In fact, she didn’t have any friends; she only had lovers or ex-lovers.
Friendship was not something she’d had growing up. Her mother hadn’t had friends and her father only had people who used him for drugs and parties at his house. The pack she ran with in her teenage years had not stayed together; drug overdoses, rehab and prison time had split the group up and then Sapphira became a star. It was problematic enough trying to maintain a steady sexual relationship, let alone an emotional one.
Walking towards Rose, Sapphira hoped she would be easy to work with and not get too close. People always tried to be her friend but she would have none of it. Besides, she didn’t want people to know her secret. Better she spent her time alone. It had worked for her fine, so far.
‘Hello there,’ said Rose. ‘You look amazing! Well done, you. That dress looks as though it was made for you.’
‘It was,’ said Sapphira, without any arrogance. Designers made her outfits all the time and she chose the ones she could wear, instead of the dress wearing her. She had seen too many celebrities on red carpets overdressed and struggling with their trains and fussing over a lost Harry Winston earring on loan for the night.
‘This is Calypso Gable, our other actress. We’re the three amigos, I guess,’ laughed Rose.
‘Hi,’ said Sapphira.
‘Hello,’ answered Calypso, intimidated by Sapphira’s sexual presence and beauty.
‘Calypso has just made a big impact in her new hit film. Have you seen it?’
‘No,’ said Sapphira, sitting down. ‘I don’t watch films or television,’ she shrugged unapologetically.
‘Not at all?’ asked Rose.
‘Nope, I prefer to read,’ she answered.
‘Well, good for you. Although if people didn’t watch anything then we would be out of jobs, I suppose,’ she said, laughing at her own joke.
The fog of worry began to envelop Calypso again. She was not of this calibre, she thought. Rose, the greatest actress of this generation; Sapphira, an intellectual and sexual powerhouse. And her, little Miss Hollywood. She pulled out her phone and began to text her mother, then took a big swig of the red wine that the waiter had put in front of her.
TG tapped his glass again. ‘Thank you, everyone. If I can have a moment … Sapphira, is that okay with you?’
The table laughed again and Sapphira nodded majestically towards him, as if allowing him his time in her spotlight.
‘This is a big thrill for me, having such a great team to do justice to this wonderful script. For those I’ve worked with before, thanks for helping me out again. For those I’ve not yet worked with, I look forward to building a great relationship.’
As he said these last words, he felt his eyes drawn to Calypso. She was looking at her mobile phone, not listening to him at all. Probably texting her boyfriend, he thought. Maybe Kelly was wrong; maybe she is just a spoilt little brat.
He paused. Hearing the silence Calypso looked up at him. He felt a shock run through his body. ‘So, thank you. I’m available for any of you night or day. Please let me know if you need anything – and here’s to a great shoot.’ He raised his glass as did everyone else at the table. ‘Salut!’ he cried.
‘Salut!’ the table cried in unison.
‘Let’s eat!’ Rose called out.
The dinner was a great success, the food amazing. Bruschetta, fresh asparagus, seven types of pasta dish, some with the black truffles of the region grated over them, fennel and orange salad, duck breast with cabbage and glazed vegetables, three cheeses from the region. The Umbrian red and white wine flowed all night and they finished with chocolate and crema di fragola, with fresh strawberries on the side.
It was a decadent feast, with Rose the only one allowing herself to try several of the pastas. Calypso, still smarting from TG’s comment, stuck to the salad and vegetables and some cheese. Sapphira took some duck and salad but pushed it around the plate. She did eat the chocolate, however, allowing herself to indulge as her body always craved sugar.
None of the male co-stars were on set yet. TG wanted to shoot all the collective scenes with the women first, then he would shoot their individual scenes later.
Rose was working hard to draw more information out of Sapphira, as she seemed a little glazed. Probably just jet-lag, thought Rose.
‘How’s your villa?’ Rose asked. ‘Mine’s lovely.’
‘It’s okay. I haven’t really looked around much,’ Sapphira said vacantly.
‘Oh,’ said Rose surprised. Once she had awoken from her sleep, exploring the house and the garden was the first thing she did. ‘Well, plenty of time for that, I’m sure.’
‘How about you, Calypso? How’s your villa? The views from mine are amazing.’
‘Um, I’m staying in a hotel,’ she said, instantly regretting her reply. Now I look like the child in the hotel and not grown-up enough to have a house, she thought. ‘I was offered a villa,’ she added quickly. ‘But I wanted to be in the city.’
‘Yeah, I get it,’ said Rose. ‘That’s where Kelly and I were when we were young. Any good shops I should visit?’
‘Did you know Kelly before LA?’ asked Calypso.
‘Yeah, we went to school together, best friends since we were fourteen,’ laughed Rose.
‘How great, and now you are here together,’ marvelled Calypso. She would have done anything for a best friend from school.
‘I know, amazing, really,’ said Rose, looking fondly at her best friend telling TG off for something.
TG came over and pulled up a chair opposite the women. ‘Hello, ladies,’ he said, in his smoothest professional lounge voice. ‘We’re all getting to know each other?’
Calypso and Sapphira were silent, so Rose spoke. ‘Yes, it’s lovely, we’re all becoming fast friends now, I think?’ She looked to the other women; Sapphira and Calypso smiled.
‘Thank you for this, TG. I’m really excited to explore my character with you,’ said Sapphira.
There was an open invitation in her voice and Calypso was startled. Jesus, the eagle on her dress wasn’t just for show! She was a hunter and TG was her prey.
TG smiled. ‘Sure, I think we’ll all do great work on this. Please speak to me about any ideas you may have on the character or the scenes and we can work through it all together.’
Calypso noticed that he didn’t seem to take Sapphira up on her offer; instead he kept his professional mask on. Probably didn’t want to mix business and pleasure, she thought, although Sapphira was incredible in her beauty and presence.
TG was called by Giulia and Calypso watched him walk away. ‘Is he gay?’ Sapphira asked.
‘No, no, he just broke up with someone in LA, I think,’ Rose answered vaguely.
Sapphira watched him walk away. A shame, she thought. Might have been some fun while in Italy. Oh well, there’s always my co-star.
Sapphira’s ego was large enough not to take TG’s snub as insulting. She factored it down to him being broken-hearted – something she could have fixed, but she wasn’t going to chase after him. She stood up, smoothed her dress, drained her wine glass and set it on the table.
‘Rose, Calypso, I look forward to working with you both. Goodnight.’ Then she turned and walked out to her driver and car.
Rose and Calypso sat staring after her. ‘Well, that’s lovely,’ said Rose unconvincingly.
‘She’s weird,’ Calypso replied and Rose couldn’t disagree with Calypso’s assessment.
Sapphira was certainly more than unusual, thought Rose, but it was more than being eccentric. Rose understood eccentric, she was friends with Kelly after all. No, Sapphira was troubled, Rose was sure of it. Behind the façade of fabulous was fear.
Rose wondered what on earth Sapphira had to fear. The girl had everything.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘What do you mean they can’t find the time?’ Rose barked down the phone to Lauren as Lucia placed a bowl of apples in front of the apricots on the table.
‘Well, I tried to tee it up but they’re really busy, and it’s the wrong time of the year for some of them with school and work,’ said Lauren.
‘Bloody hell. Now I have this fucking giant villa filled with stuff and no one to use it. No wonder the housekeeper thinks I’m mad. She keeps mumbling “ghost children” at me in Italian and now it makes sense,’ said Rose, biting into the crisp fruit.
Lauren laughed, ‘That’s too funny!’
‘Really? You think?’ rebutted Rose.
‘I know you’re sad but your family have lives also, Rose. I know you may think I’m out of line but you can’t expect them to drop everything just because you have a villa and a box of Snakes and Ladders.’
‘I know that. It’s just I never see them. My niece and nephew never see me anymore except in Hello! magazine,’ said Rose sadly.
‘Well, maybe you can head over there before you start shooting the next film and spend some time with your family. I can move a few things and make some more room in your schedule.’
Rose could hear Lauren tapping at the keyboard. ‘Maybe, we’ll see,’ said Rose.
It was irritating that her family never met her halfway when she asked them. They had no understanding of her fame or if they did, they were unaffected by it. In fact, Rose was certain her parents had not even seen her last two films. Rose had offered them premiere tickets but they declined, saying they had promised to babysit for Rose’s brother and look after the grandchildren.
Rose had yelled at her mother down the phone from her hotel suite, claiming she didn’t care, which her mother gently pushed back onto Rose. ‘Rosie,’ she had said, ‘I had promised Martin I would help him and Fiona months ago. I cannot drop everything just because your face is on the trams. First in, best dressed,’ her mother had explained in her usual unemotional way.
Rose had begrudgingly apologized to her mother and later, with her therapist, had acknowledged that her parents’ refusal to be spellbound by her job and instead retain equal relationships with their children was to be commended. Sometimes though, Rose felt a little left out, being so far away from England and with no grandchildren for her mother to babysit.
Rose’s temper was legendary in her family. If anyone threw a tantrum, they called it ‘doing a Rose’. It was something she was able to keep a lid on when she worked, but privately she could rage and rage. It never had any effect on Paul; in fact, it became worse when she was married to him. She would yell and throw things just to be heard but he just ignored her. His cruelty was astounding, something she did not realize he had in him till it was too late. His favourite way to punish her was to ignore her; he would literally cast her out of his life till he decided to forgive her. She never knew when this would be. He would eat at the same table, sleep in the spare room but he would not answer her, not even flinch when at times she slapped him. If he had a message for her, he would leave it with their bewildered Mexican housekeeper. Once, her parents came to visit in the middle of one of these episodes. Whenever they were around he would act as if they didn’t have a care in the world. The minute they were out of the room, he started ignoring her again.
Her ex-husband, Paul Ross, had been a teen heartthrob and had become a household name, loved by critics and the public alike. After seeing Rose in a small independent film that she had made when she was first in LA, Paul had pursued Rose relentlessly.
Rose, at twenty-two and fresh out of acting school had been entranced by his fame, good looks and energy. But the more Rose learned about Paul after the ring was on her finger, the more she realized he was unhinged. Taking huge doses of vitamins and prescription and non-prescription drugs, convinced that they would help him stay young. Drinking a bottle of tomato ketchup every day to prevent prostate cancer. His obsession with immortality even went to the extreme of his forging an obsessive relationship with a South American plastic surgeon, whom Rose secretly called Doctor Dorian Gray.
Rose and Paul’s sex life was uninspiring but a sexually inexperienced Rose hadn’t known any better. They tried for a baby – well, Rose did – but it’s hard to make a child when your husband won’t even talk to you, let alone have sex with you.
After ten years of marriage, Rose was no closer to having a baby and no closer to fulfilling the talent and potential that she had shown in her first film.
The treatment ate away at Rose’s self-esteem. She started to see a therapist and while she told him of her marriage problems she never told the whole truth about the way Paul rejected her.
‘You need to talk more, you and Paul. Communication is the answer,’ advised the therapist.
Rose nodded and smiled. She had finally communicated her frustration by running into a wall with a small kitchen knife to her chest. Not that anyone besides Paul, her agent and her mother knew this – and her trusted doctors, of course. After intensive therapy and a five-week stay in hospital, Rose slowly revealed the years of Paul’s mental torture. She still remembered the look on her doctor’s face when he spoke to Rose. ‘He’s a bully. Anyone who treats another person like this is in pain. They hate themselves and they hate everyone else. He feels better when you feel bad. It gives him power. It’s abuse, Rose.’
What he said was the truth, as Rose knew in her heart, but to leave Paul was the biggest decision she would ever have to make. The suicide attempt had actually saved her, as had the film in Europe. Maybe this was why she worked so much. When she worked she was safe and busy and did not have time to think about what her life lacked or the choices she had made.
Had she been serious about wanting to die, Rose often wondered. Was she trying to get Paul to notice her? Or did she just want to feel something, prove she existed? Thankfully, her agent, Randy, had arrived in time to get her help and cover up everything so it didn’t end up in the tabloids. But not once did Paul visit her in hospital, not even a card or a phone call.
Lauren’s voice pulled Rose out of her dark memories. ‘You have dresses from Oscar De La Renta, Zac Posen, Dior, Elie Saab and Chanel for the Cannes Film Festival opening. I can send you images via email or FedEx them over if you like.’
‘Send over the images and I’ll have a look.’
‘Maybe you can wear one of them there. You sure you don’t want me to send them over?’ asked Lauren, looking at the divine dresses hanging in the office.
‘Nah, I’ve nowhere to wear them. All I do is try not to eat the entire contents of this house,’ Rose sulked. ‘The housekeeper feeds me every five minutes, I swear. I’m going to be too huge for the dresses anyway. Call Weight Watchers, they just got themselves a new spokesperson.’
Lauren knew this voice. Rose was feeling sorry for herself. ‘What about Sapphira or Calypso? What are they doing?’ she said, ignoring Rose’s self pity.
‘Ha!’ said Rose. ‘You’ve got to be joking. Sapphira is as odd as a box of frogs and Calypso is so young, it makes me feel old just looking at her. Maybe you can come over and play Snakes and Ladders with me,’ Rose laughed. ‘I could throw a fit and send a private plane for you, courtesy of the studio and you can come and visit with me.’
Lauren was silent on the phone.
‘Lauren, are you there?’ asked Rose.
‘Yep, sorry, I’m here, just distracted,’ came back Lauren’s tight voice.
‘Did I say something to upset you?’ asked Rose, confused.
‘No, no. Not at all. I would love to come, of course, but I’ve lots to do here, you know that,’ said Lauren, and the ease between them closed over and Lauren was back as an employee.
Rose shook off her concern and put Lauren’s reaction down to her being over-friendly. She had to remember to put up professional boundaries, her therapist said. But boundaries were not Rose’s strong point; she barged in and tried to fix everything in everyone’s lives. Choosing not to explore Lauren’s reaction to her invitation in the name of boundaries, she and Lauren then chatted about the emails Lauren was forwarding her and then she rang off.
Hanging up from Lauren, she walked around the grand salon. She didn’t want to watch TV; Italian TV was odd, filled with semi-nude women and dancing – and that was just the nightly news report, she thought. Lucia had left her a delicious looking frittata and salad. She had asked for no more carbs, like pasta. Lucia mumbled to her husband that Rose was ‘too thin, needed feeding’.
She walked down to the study and stood looking at the Wii machine. Wondering how it worked she opened the manual and, following the prompts, played around with the buttons until it sprang into life on the screen. What did she want to play? Tennis? Baseball? Basketball? Bowling?
I was always good at tennis, she thought, remembering her days back on the school team. Playing through the demonstration, Rose found it easier than she expected. Next thing she knew, she was playing the machine and laughing and cheering herself on. An hour later, she was in a lather of perspiration and her serving arm was quite sore. Who needs a trainer, she thought as she drank from a bottle of water she grabbed from the large kitchen.
Opening the fridge, she cut herself a large slice of frittata and put some salad on the plate. Wandering into the lounge, she turned on the TV. Flicking through the channels, she saw a film that Paul had made during the time of their divorce. He seemed so beautiful onscreen, untouched by the drama in their personal lives. Paul had dealt with the breakup by dating a new starlet from Romania, tipped to be the new Bond girl. Rose knew she was with Paul’s agent, so didn’t believe the relationship; the agency manufactured relationships between their stars all the time. For years the rumours about her and Paul’s marriage was that it was a business deal. Perhaps it was to Paul but to Rose it was a real marriage and even though she was happy to be free, all the same she grieved for what life might have been like.
The last time Rose and Paul had faced each other was with their lawyers at her lawyer’s plush offices to sign the papers and work out a satisfactory financial deal. Paul had been charming to Rose, friendly and caring, claiming he wanted the best for her and mostly for her to be happy. Rose had sat waiting for the change in him to manifest but Paul kept up the act until the lawyers left them for a moment in the large boardroom.
As the door closed behind them, Paul had leaned over the table and hissed, ‘You will get nothing, you slut. Nothing, you hear me. I am gonna bury you. That affair with that asshole was the final straw. I always knew you couldn’t keep your legs shut.’
Rose sat silently, relieved to see the Paul she knew come back. His act in front of the lawyers was disarming; this Paul she felt she had finally learned to handle.
‘Be very careful, Paul,’ she said, doing her best Judi Dench impersonation. He was always intimidated by her English accent. ‘I happen to know about you and your South American surgeon, or should I say lover. I had my lawyers look into it with a private detective and if I were you, I would stay tuned to Inside Edition to see the highlights of the tape I have in my possession.’
Rose took a punt and it worked. He was shocked and his face visibly paled in front of her. This time Rose hissed across the table. ‘I want only what I deserve after putting up with ten years of your lies, abuse and bullshit. You’re the asshole. You didn’t even come and see me in hospital, you prick!’ She spat out the words.
Paul sat stunned and Rose felt a tiny bit sorry for him. ‘Paul, if you’re gay then just come out. You don’t need any more money. You are beyond wealthy. You are living a lie and you and I know it. If you care about your doctor then tell him, be with him.’
Paul looked up at her, his eyes filled with tears and Rose finally understood why he was like he was, always trying to push down his sexual urges, trying to control what he couldn’t when what he wanted to control was his attraction to men.
‘Rose, you know …’ His voice was soft, real almost, and then the door opened to the boardroom and the lawyers walked back in. Paul straightened his posture. ‘Whatever Rose wants, guys. She was a good wife and I’m sorry it didn’t work out.’
And with that he grabbed the divorce papers on the desk, signed them with his Visconti pen, stood up, walked around to Rose, kissed her cheek softly and left the room. It was the most tender moment of their marriage that she could remember.
Rose pushed the thoughts away and changed the channel on the TV remote. Satellite had been installed and there were more channels than back in LA. Flicking over, she saw something she recognized. ‘Yay!’ she squealed and sat down with her dinner on her lap and watched an episode of The Bill, alone but content.
In the kitchen, Lucia was less than content with Rose being alone. Apples were a start, she thought, apples would draw a lover to her but it was apple with cinnamon that would bring the man faster to the woman.
Lucia busied herself in the kitchen. Mele speziate con sultanine, she thought. Spiced apple with sultanas. No one could resist Lucia’s cooking, it was magic, everyone said so. Lucia sang as she worked. If only they knew, she thought.
CHAPTER SIX
There was no rehearsal time for The Italian Dream. TG wanted the actors to be ready to film once they came on set. The affable guy who had greeted the women at the dinner party the previous night had disappeared and in his place was a man focused on his task.
‘I’m going to try and shoot as much as I can in order for your sake and the DOP. Chris and I have worked out some shots which won’t require long set-up times but some may take a while, so please be patient,’ said TG as he addressed the women in the make-up trailer, who had already been in hair and make-up for the past two hours, before walking back to the dilapidated villa where the shoot was taking place.
‘He seems stressed,’ said Calypso to Kelly, worried about the day ahead.
‘Nah, he’s not stressed, just focused. He’s pretty single minded when he wants to be,’ said Kelly as she moved about the trailer lining up make-up brushes. ‘He’s a funny one, all soft on the outside but if anyone fucks with him or people he loves he gets all Tony Soprano on their ass.’
Calypso watched TG as he and Chris stood talking as she walked over for her call in wardrobe.
They were discussing the first scene where Rose and Sapphira’s characters arrive at Rose’s character’s villa looking for a place to stay.
TG walked across to wardrobe, where Calypso was about to be dressed by the costume crew. Her character was a young backpacker who had just finished university, so they had pulled together jeans and cut-off shorts, t-shirts, singlets and sandals, as well as a few pretty dresses and shirts. It was casual and homespun; the kind of clothes Calypso felt the most comfortable in. Walking into the dressing room trailer, TG found her standing in a tiny Calvin Klein pink polka dotted bra and pants. With a full face of make-up and her hair in loose plaits, courtesy of the hair department, she looked like a young Brigitte Bardot. She took TG’s breath away, not because she was so incredibly sexy but because she looked so innocent. Her figure was insane, he thought. He could see her tiny waist and pert breasts, her toned legs and gorgeous ass in the mirror behind her.
He felt his cock start to move. Nooooo, he thought, barking at her to cover his embarrassment. ‘Hurry up, you ready yet? We’re waiting.’
Calypso looked at Helen, the costume head, who shook her head slightly as if to say, I don’t know what bug got up his ass.
Calypso slipped on denim shorts and a pink singlet, and sliding into her sandals, she stomped out of the trailer. ‘Isn’t it kinda hard to be behind when you haven’t started shooting yet?’ she retorted to TG.
This was going to be a nightmare, she thought as she walked towards the set.
TG wanted to kick himself. He knew he was being an asshole; he was always an asshole when he was nervous. Walking towards the set, he headed towards Calypso, wanting to apologize, but she was deep in conversation with Kelly. No doubt telling her what a prick he was, he thought, as he saw Kelly turn and throw a death stare in his direction. Fuck, now he was going to face the wrath of ‘Kali’, as she called herself when she got mad.
Rose and Sapphira came on set, perfect in their costume and make-up. He called the women over. ‘So, this is where we meet you all. Sapphira, your character is already at the villa. Calypso, you have just turned up, with no idea where you are, lost and looking for help. Rose, you know what you are doing?’
Rose nodded.
‘Let’s run it a few times and get the feel,’ TG said.
While the actors walked through the lines and found their marks, the crew were busy, fixing the lighting and the sound. Props were moving items to work with the actors’ marks, and make-up stood by waiting to do touch-ups if needed.
The actors had a natural chemistry and looked like a dream through the camera. TG felt they were ready to shoot. Four takes later and they had it in the can. There’d been a spark as soon as TG yelled ‘action’ and each of them brought their own specialness to the roles. Calypso was perfect, her flustered comedic timing brought lightness to the sadness of Rose’s character who was mourning her husband. And Sapphira brought the right amount of enigmatic pathos to her role, balancing out the others perfectly.
‘Fucking excellent!’ yelled TG as he watched the playbacks. The crew all clapped, as was the ritual when the first shot was done on the shoot.
The morning went like a dream, all of the actors being pleasant and professional. Rose and Calypso instantly bonded and even Sapphira was seen joking with some of the guys in the crew. The assistant director called ‘lunch’ and the actors and crew walked over to catering. Every imaginable sort of food was laid out in front of them. American, Italian and even some French. TG grabbed a tray and stood while Kelly helped herself to salad, cheeses and bread. Without looking up at him, she asked, ‘Why are you being a dick to Calypso?’
‘I didn’t think I was,’ he said, knowing it was an outright lie.
‘Well, you are, and it’s stressing her out. She thinks you think she’s fat and stupid. What the hell did you say to her?’
‘Nothing. Oh you know, I said something and it came out wrong and then every time I see her I say something even more stupid than the last time. It’s like I’ve got Tourette’s or something. I’ll apologize.’
‘You better, ’cause the acting you just saw was bloody good from her and the more relaxed she is the better she performs. I worked with her on the Bazaar shoot and when she’s chilled she is a dream,’ she said, waving the salad tongs at him.
TG put down his tray and walked towards Calypso’s trailer. Rose and Sapphira were eating with the crew, but Calypso had headed off for time by herself – never a good sign. This film was only going to work if the crew became like a family and right now he had a problem. He saw her door was open, and as he climbed the step he heard her talking.
‘He is so mean to me, Mom. He yells at me and I swear he thinks I’m fat. I said I ate a pastry and then he saw me in costume today and looked at me like I was a freaking elephant.’
She paused. ‘Mom, it was one pastry! I know, I know, I’ll go for a run. Yes. No, I don’t want you to come over. I’m fine. Rose is nice and Kelly is sweet to me. I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl now. I just hate him. I hate him all the time!’
Calypso sounded like a small child and TG felt awful. Now was not the right time to see her; he would wait and try to make it up to her on set that afternoon.
The afternoon shooting went better but Calypso didn’t speak to TG unless he spoke to her first. Any questions she had about her character she ran by Sapphira and Rose, who were really helpful and ran lines with her off set. Rose was great at helping Calypso dissect the script to find the hidden clues about the character, and Sapphira offered different ways to say the lines, which Calypso found inspiring.
‘There is no one way. I think finding the right reaction is a process. There is no immediate right response. You can explore and then if you want to use the original choice, then great, but it’s worth finding out,’ Sapphira explained as she and Calypso sat in Calypso’s trailer talking.
‘You’re so smart. How do you know all this?’ asked Calypso admiringly. Sapphira was not quite as weird as she had first thought. Calypso had broken through Sapphira’s defensive attitude with sheer persistence and by the end of the first day Calypso hugged her. ‘You’re a saint, Sapphira. I would have been lost today without you and Rose.’
‘You’ll be fine, sweetie. You just gotta believe it,’ Sapphira said with a casual wave as she walked to her car.
TG was so busy he didn’t have time to speak to Calypso and before he knew it they had wrapped for the day and the crew had packed up.
Kelly and Chris walked over. ‘Dinner at yours tonight?’ asked Chris.
‘Sure, sure, make it a bit later though. I have to go through today’s rushes and call LA.’
Kelly glared at him; he was not looking forward to tonight’s date. He watched Calypso walk over to her car. She turned and looked at him; he felt sick in his stomach. ‘Don’t hate me,’ he said under his breath. He smiled and waved goodbye at her.
Calypso looked at him blankly, and then slipped in the back seat and the car drove off. On the drive to her hotel, she was confused. Maybe he was one of those uptight directors who was a tyrant on set and a teddy bear off. Too hard, she thought, as the car sped along the dusty roads towards the main highway. He wasn’t worth thinking about, she thought. Closing her eyes, she let the day and TG slip from her mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Calypso waited in Sapphira’s trailer while the set was readied for their scene. Sapphira had asked her to run lines, which Calypso was grateful for, although she thought that Sapphira had the lines down fine. It was Calypso who needed the practice. Marco was taking up most of her time outside of filming and yesterday TG had yelled at her when she flubbed a few lines.
Sapphira had watched with interest. There was no doubt TG had a crush on Calypso but he decided to play the school-yard card and treat her unfairly, thought Sapphira. He was so conscious of not playing favourites that Calypso was being bullied in a way.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Sapphira quietly as the focus puller measured them for the next shot. ‘He’s just a bit uptight, big pressure on him from the studio, no doubt. But I’ve worked with worse directors, at least he’s not Jerry Hyman, what a cunt.’
‘That’s terrible word,’ she said shocked.
‘What, hyman?’ asked Sapphira, being deliberately ignorant.
‘No, the other one, the C word.’
‘The C word, Jesus, you’re uptight,’ laughed Sapphira and Calypso felt very unsophisticated and young.
‘TG is so weird around me,’ whispered Calypso. ‘The other day he saw me in costume in my bra and panties and he yelled at me.’
Sapphira made a face.
‘What?’ asked Calypso at the sight of Sapphira’s face.
‘Let’s make a deal, you don’t say the word panties and I won’t say the word cunt. They’re both equally offensive in my book,’ Sapphira stated.
Calypso laughed. ‘What’s wrong with panties?’
Sapphira shuddered, ‘Horrible word.’
‘So is the C word.’
Sapphira sighed, and Calypso changed the subject.
‘I shouldn’t have done this film, I was offered an action movie for much more money. I wish I’d done it.’ Calypso sounded forlorn and Sapphira felt sorry for her.
Sapphira laughed quietly. ‘Been there, done that. It’s all bullshit, babe, don’t get stuck in that genre, so hard to break out of.’
Calypso said nothing as Chris came and checked the measurements of his assistant and then went back behind the camera.
‘You know why I think he’s being a fuckwit?’ asked Sapphira.
‘Why?’ said Calypso grumpily.
‘I think he’s got a crush on you,’ she said as Kelly walked onto the set to adjust Sapphira’s powdered face. ‘That’s why he yelled at you in your underwear,’ she said, emphasizing the last word.
‘No way!’ Calypso shrieked. ‘He hates me. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m Malibu Barbie. I’m surprised I haven’t been replaced yet.’
‘He’s got a crush on you, he likes you,’ Sapphira found herself singing softly in Calypso’s ear to try make her laugh.
Kelly laughed conspiratorially with the girls. ‘Yeah, I reckon he’s got a massive keeny,’ she said.
‘A keeny?’ asked Calypso. ‘Gross.’
‘A keeny, he’s keen on you. A crush,’ said Kelly.
‘No way. Anyway, I’ve got Marco,’ said Calypso defiantly.
‘Marco Schmarco,’ Sapphira said.
‘You gonna come and do a reading after?’ Kelly asked Calypso as she adjusted her hair.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ said Calypso.
‘What reading?’ asked Sapphira, feeling left out for the first time in her life.
‘Kel’s teaching me to read tarot,’ said Calypso.
‘When you gonna give me a reading?’ she asked lazily, as though not caring.
Calypso perked up. ‘Really? That’s so exciting! You want one from me? I mean, Kelly will be there to interpret as well ’cause I’m just learning,’ Calypso said, her words tumbling over each other. ‘Is that okay, Kel?’
Kelly smiled. ‘Of course.’ She watched Sapphira as she stood still, perfect but soulless somehow, as though a piece of her was missing. She would have loved to read her cards and this opportunity, although through the innocent Calypso, was too good to pass up. ‘Maybe later we can come to your trailer?’
‘Great, don’t forget your magic wand and broomstick,’ laughed Sapphira as the assistant director called places for shooting.
During the lunch break, Kelly and Calypso descended on Sapphira’s trailer with tarot cards in hand. Calypso took her role as tarot reader very seriously and was almost ceremonial about the cards, which were wrapped in a purple Pucci silk scarf.
‘Okay, so shuffle and think about what you want to ask and then pull cards till I ask you to stop,’ Calypso instructed intently.
‘You’re not serious about this, are you?’ laughed Sapphira as she shuffled the cards like a Vegas croupier.
‘We are,’ said Calypso, looking to Kelly for agreement.
Kelly laughed. ‘Ah, Little Grasshopper takes things very seriously.’
Calypso was looking at Sapphira’s hands flying over the cards. ‘Okay, so now you just spread them in a line and pull them out.’
Sapphira started to pull the cards as Calypso ordered them into a cross formation in front of her on the round table, Kelly helping her.
Calypso stared at the cards. ‘Okay,’ she started. ‘This formation here is the issues your life is centred around at the moment. Is that right, Kelly?’
‘Yep,’ said Kelly nodding encouragingly.
‘Justice and the Knave of Cups. This is the card of …’ Calypso took the book she had brought with her and started to leaf through the pages to get to the right section.
Kelly looked at the two cards. The cards of dependence, she thought. Sapphira seemed not to depend on anyone, she imagined.
Calypso found the right page. ‘You need to stop smoking, Sapphira,’ she said, looking with disgust at her cigarette smouldering in the ashtray. ‘Justice is the card of dependence. Whatever you are doing to your body is bad. This card is about coming out of a bad place and trying to find balance in your life, health, mind, body, spirit. I’ve got some books I could recommend,’ she said earnestly.
Sapphira defiantly picked up the cigarette and took a long drag. ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ she said good-naturedly.
‘The card which covers it is the Knave of Cups. Maybe you are thinking about a baby? Maybe you want to be pregnant?’ asked Calypso, confused. Sapphira appeared to be the least nurturing person she knew. Not mean, but not at all motherly.
Calypso looked to Kelly for guidance. Kelly looked at Sapphira. ‘The Knave of Cups is a child, a child of psychic means. Perhaps in the spirit world.’ Kelly looked at Sapphira’s face for any sign of recognition. It remained impassive but Kelly saw the tiniest twitch of her left eye.
Calypso spoke quickly, thinking she was off the track. ‘Anyway, this next card is the card of unconscious – the Knave of Swords.’
Sapphira sat, her eyes smiling at Calypso’s absolute conviction.
‘The card of unconscious suggests you’re playing tricks with yourself. Using your sword unwisely. You fly planes, don’t you? You should be careful,’ she said, her voice filled with concern.
Kelly looked at the card – the Knave of Swords was about safety. Sapphira lived as though she was a cat with nine lives; that was something everybody knew, but Kelly intuitively knew it was more than just planes. She wondered what Sapphira was playing with which threatened her safety.
Still Sapphira said nothing, so Calypso continued. ‘The past card is the death card – someone has died who had a huge impact on you. This could be one of your parents, perhaps?’ She looked to Sapphira for affirmation but Sapphira was smoking another cigarette and shrugged.
Kelly spoke up. ‘The death card does not mean that it’s bad, though. This card suggests the person who died has travelled and has transformed. Reincarnated, if you like. When this person died, something else changed in your life. I don’t know what that is, only you do, but it influences everything you do now, good and bad.’
Calypso looked at Kelly and then at Sapphira. ‘How is she? Crazy, huh? She’s so wise!’
Kelly laughed out loud. ‘Easy there, grasshopper, don’t worship me. I’m as human as the next person.’
Calypso looked at the next card and opened her book again to the correct page. ‘This is the card of the future. The Ace of Cups. A baby perhaps!’
She seemed relieved finally to have something good and tangible for Sapphira’s future.
Kelly looked at Sapphira’s face, which appeared as though a shadow had crossed it.
Calypso looked at Sapphira excitedly. ‘Perhaps you’ll find a new lover.’ Calypso was unsure whether Sapphira was straight so thought it best to remain gender neutral.
‘Perhaps,’ said Sapphira noncommittally.
Calypso continued, slightly self-important in her role as esoteric messenger. ‘The card of work is the Eight of Cups, which indicates a break from work for a while. Yes, Kelly?’
Kelly nodded.
‘Perhaps you’ll take a break after this film?’ offered Calypso.
Sapphira shrugged again, thinking of the projects slated for her for the next two years. ‘Maybe.’
Calypso thought she was boring Sapphira, so hurried through the rest of the cards. ‘The card of home and family is the Seven of Swords. This card indicates deception and betrayal from an unreliable person in your life. Someone with a careful plan.’ Calypso rushed over this card, not sure what it meant, but Kelly looked at it with interest. Whatever Sapphira was about to face she needed some damned good protection.
‘The card of how you expect things to turn out is the Hanged Man – this is seeing things from a new perspective. Clearer and changing your mind.’
Kelly interrupted. ‘It’s also about dreams, dreams of the future which indicate you will be released from what keeps you in suspended time.’
Sapphira sat still, saying nothing.
Calypso looked at the last card. ‘This is the card of how things will actually work out. The Queen of Coins. This is you. This is the card of the mother, someone who is generous to others. It also tells of charity and aid to those who cannot help themselves. Using your energy for the greater good.’
Sapphira butted out the cigarette.
‘Did it make sense? The reading?’ Calypso asked, her eyes wide.
Sapphira looked as though she was about to speak but stopped herself. Finally she smiled. ‘Spot on.’
Calypso breathed a sigh of relief. Sapphira seemed unimpressed but Kelly pondered the cards. Whatever was in Sapphira’s past, present and future was murky and painful and made her feel uneasy. Calypso was called to the set for a close-up and Kelly and Sapphira sat in the trailer.
‘Is there anything you need to talk to me about, Sapphira? I know we’re not close but I worry about you sometimes,’ said Kelly, kindness radiating out of her.
Sapphira sat debating whether to share her secrets with Kelly and then quickly put her mask back up. ‘I’m not sure I get the tarot, no disrespect meant,’ she said in a low voice.
‘Nah, that’s fine,’ said Kelly, getting the message that Sapphira was as guarded as she ever was.
‘Just know I’m always around, here or in America, if you need me,’ said Kelly getting to her feet.
Sapphira grabbed her arm lightly as Kelly went to walk past her and out of the trailer. ‘The card about deception …’
‘The Seven of Swords.’
‘Yes, that one. What does it mean exactly?’
Kelly spoke slowly. She knew there was something Sapphira was hiding but she wasn’t sure what it was; it was up to Sapphira to explore and confront what the card meant. ‘It’s a fear card. It can mean there is something you fear, someone or something.’
Kelly placed her hands on Sapphira’s thin shoulders. The energy from Kelly’s body resonated through Sapphira and she felt herself involuntarily shudder.
‘Good to know,’ she said laughing as Kelly walked to the trailer door.
‘Be safe, okay?’ Kelly said as she left the trailer.
Sapphira nodded and smiled. She was trying, God knows she was trying.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Hey Slapper, you want to come over and play?’ asked Rose down the phone.
‘Who is this?’ asked Kelly.
‘Haha, funny,’ said Rose. ‘Really, entertain me, let’s go out.’
‘I can’t, I feel so sick,’ said Kelly. ‘In bed, sorry, and then I have to shoot the night scenes with Calypso tonight,’ she moaned.
‘You’re a shit friend,’ said Rose.
‘I know. I aim to disappoint.’
‘You’re succeeding,’ said Rose sulkily.
‘Go out and do something, you loser,’ said Kelly.
‘I know. I will, later,’ lied Rose as she hung up.
Opening the refrigerator, she picked at the leftover spiced apple and cream but it didn’t make her feel better. Instead, she felt restless. Slumping into a kitchen chair, she decided to ‘take charge’, as her therapist said, and head into town to see what entertainment could be found there. Pulling the Frommers Guidebook to Italy from her handbag, put there by Lauren and which had remained unopened so far, she looked up Perugia. Leafing through, she spotted the Galleria Nazionale, the home of the finest collection of Umbrian art in the world. Why not, she thought and rang her driver and asked him to be ready for her in 30 minutes.
Climbing upstairs, she had a shower and dressed in a black linen Phillip Lim sundress and a pair of black and white Chanel ballet flats. Pulling her hair back into a low bun, she applied tinted moisturizer with SPF 20 and sun block on her arms and legs. Running downstairs, she threw on her Fendi sunglasses and her panama hat, grabbed her green Lavin tote bag and jumped in her car.
Driving through the countryside, Rose was enthralled by the timeless quality to the houses, olive groves and vineyards. She waved at an elderly man pushing a wheelbarrow down the road. He tipped his cloth cap at her as she sailed past in the Mercedes.
Pulling up the Corso Vanucci, the car stopped and the driver told Rose she would have to walk the rest of the way on foot, as there were no cars allowed on the old roads and pathways. Entering the Galleria, Rose was soothed by the quietness and the coolness of the building. Taking a map from a sleepy guard, who did not seem to recognize her, she stood and decided what route to take.
As she stood assessing the map, she heard voices in the quiet space and looked up to see a man with three little boys trailing after him. Rose smiled as she watched the smallest one with a blue drink bottle in his hand stop and touch a marble statue in the entranceway. She watched his small hands feeling the cold stone as she looked up at the statue of a woman on her knees. The boy’s father and brothers walked away but the small boy stayed at the side of the statue. Rose walked over to him.
‘Do you like the feel of the marble?’ she asked him in a gentle voice.
‘It’s cold,’ said the boy, looking at her, and Rose felt her heart open at the sight of his little face, so earnest and trusting.
‘Yes,’ said Rose, reaching out to touch the woman.
‘Why is she so sad?’ asked the boy.
Rose read the description of the statue. ‘Assetata,’ she said aloud. ‘She’s thirsty,’ she explained.
‘She needs a drink,’ said the boy, looking at the drink bottle in his hand.
‘She does,’ said Rose gravely.
‘Milo, hurry up.’ Rose turned to see the boy’s father in the distance of the gallery standing impatiently.
Milo ran towards his father and Rose watched him run, carefully hanging onto his drink. Rose walked in the other direction of the family, wondering where the mother was. Hopefully getting some much needed rest from the challenge of three boys and a grumpy father, she laughed to herself as she wandered the rooms.
In Room Three, the earliest paintings and artifacts were housed, showing the start of 13th century Perugian art. Wandering through the rooms, drinking in the history and creativity was Rose’s idea of heaven. Her knowledge of European art was extensive, but not Italian art and certainly not as far back as the 13th century.
Facing Duccio di Buoninsegna’s depiction of the Madonna and Child, with the six tiny angels watching them from above, Rose wondered if she would ever have a child of her own. She was aware time was running out for her on the fertility front. It didn’t matter what medicine did to stop the aging process, the plain fact was that if you wanted to get pregnant naturally then you had to do it when you were young. Facing her fortieth birthday in six months, Rose was keenly aware of her biological clock ticking like a time bomb inside her.
As she turned to walk into the next room, she heard the sound of running feet. Milo ran into the room, his little round face streaming with tears. As he ran towards her, he tripped on his shoelace and went sprawling in front of Rose onto his face, landing at her feet.
‘Oh dear, what a big fall! Come on, let’s get up.’
The child was sobbing quietly, a sound Rose recognized from her niece and nephew, one that a child makes when they have really hurt themselves.
‘Ups a daisy. Come on now.’ Rose sat on the wooden bench in the centre of the room and lifted the child onto her lap. ‘Come on, let’s have a look at you then.’
Assessing the child, she saw he had blood coming out of his mouth. Opening his mouth gently she saw he had bitten his tongue but no teeth seemed to be damaged. Rose waited for his parents to arrive, assuming they would be chasing after him, but the room stayed silent. The child nestled his head into her neck and she heard his breathing slow down and his sobs quietly ease away.
‘There you are, getting better? I have just the pill to make you tip-top in no time,’ she said, remembering the packet of barley sugar she had in her bag that she had brought to suck on when her plane took off. Taking out a piece she unwrapped it. ‘Open wide,’ she said and the child obediently did so.
Popping the sweet into his mouth, he put his head back on her chest and sucked contentedly. Looking up at the Madonna and Child hanging on the wall in front of her, she sent a little prayer up to the Patron Saint of Mothers to send her own little child to her one day.
‘Milo, bloody hell, we have been looking for you everywhere. You’re bloody hopeless, I’m very cross with you.’ A man came into the room, followed by two older boys, about six and eight.
Hearing his father’s voice, Milo started to cry again and clung to Rose.
‘I just wanted to give her a drink,’ he whispered in Rose’s ear.
Rose was unsure what he was saying and was about to ask him when the child’s father interrupted again.
‘You cannot run away from me, do you understand, do you?’ the father said, tearing the child away from Rose’s body and standing in front of him. Towering over the child, the man’s face was flushed. The two other boys looked at the floor.
‘Dominic and Jasper have been searching everywhere, as have I. Not good enough, Milo, really! Hopeless, hopeless, and where’s your drink bottle? You’ve lost that also, I see,’ said the man.
The small child stood frightened and shaking. ‘And now you’ve bloody wet yourself. Jesus Christ, Milo! Can’t you do anything right? When we get home, you will spend the rest of the day in your room. Do you understand me?’
Rising from the bench, Rose stood in front of the man. ‘Excuse me …’ she began.
The man snapped his head around to look at her. ‘Yes?’ he said, his voice slightly menacing. Rose recognized an English accent and thought she knew him from somewhere but wasn’t sure. Was he an actor? A politician? She stopped trying to place him when she looked at the small child’s face in front of her.
‘It’s not his fault he wet himself …’ Rose smiled at the child who was clearly traumatized.
‘Really? Well, if he had listened to me when I said he needed to go to the toilet then he wouldn’t be here all wet and embarrassing himself, would he?’
Rose tried again, ‘Well, accidents happen, nothing that can’t be fixed.’
‘Are you going to fix it? No? No. I’ll have to fucking fix it, as I always have to fix everything. Always up to me, and what do I get from them? Nothing. Just more fucking jobs to do and nothing in return. Christ! You’re all bloody useless.’ He directed this to not only the children, but also Rose.
Where her rage came from, Rose wasn’t sure. Was it because he had blasphemed in front of the Madonna and Child, or was it because she felt so motherly towards this little boy? Or was it that his words reminded her of Paul, yelling at her, telling her she was hopeless and then ignoring her as this man wanted to do to the small child?
‘You’re a bully. No wonder he ran away from you. I don’t blame him. I’d want to run away from you, too. And as for wetting his pants, well …’ She looked down at Milo and held his hand.
‘I would have wet myself too, if you had yelled at me that way, and I’m a lot older than him. You should be ashamed of yourself!’ she shouted. ‘I’m sure their mother would be shocked if she saw the way you speak to them. I think I should meet her or at least discuss your bullying of these kids or is she just like you also?’ Rose challenged.
‘Well, good luck, because she’s dead!’ the man shouted back at her.
Rose saw the middle child start to cry now. She felt awful but this man was too much for anyone to bear. She composed herself and put on her sunglasses. ‘Well, I suggest you get some therapy, for you first and then for the children just so they can have some strategies to learn to live with you.’
Bending down, she took Milo’s face in her hands. ‘Don’t worry about anything. Your tongue will heal and you will have an excellent excuse to eat yummy Italian gelato now. Never mind about wetting yourself. I wet myself all the time till I was seven. No shame in it, many clever people wet their pants,’ she said confidently and Milo looked up at her, his eyes wide.
Milo smiled shyly and Rose stood up. ‘Goodbye, boys,’ she directed at the children as she walked out of the room.
The man picked up the little boy and hugging him close, he cried, ‘I am so sorry, Milo Schmilo. I’m so sorry. Don’t run away again, okay? Daddy promises to be nicer, I just get a bit sad and angry sometimes.’
Milo nodded and put his arms around his neck. ‘She smelt nice, Daddy.’
He looked at the door she had just exited through. This was going to be complicated, he thought.
Rose, still shaking, headed down to the bathroom in the entrance of the gallery. Composing herself in front of the mirror, Rose was surprised at the venom in her outburst to the man. She did feel awful mentioning their mother but she justified it to herself when she remembered the trauma on Milo’s face.
As she walked out of the bathroom, she glanced at the sculpture where she had first spoken to Milo and saw a flash of blue she hadn’t seen before. At the woman’s feet was Milo’s drink bottle that he had carefully carried before.
Rose felt like crying. Bless him, she thought, the little man had given the thirsty woman his drink. She closed her eyes for a moment to control the tears that threatened and picked up the drink bottle and put it into her bag.
Driving back to her villa, she was shocked at how angry she still felt, but realized she was happy to have not had children with Paul. No doubt that’s how he would have spoken to their child if she had let him. She could still feel the warmth of the little boy’s body on her lap. ‘He smelt nice,’ she said to no one in particular and she took the drink bottle out of her bag and placed it in the cupholder of the car. It looked right, she thought, the clash of the cheap plastic against the luxury of the car. God, how she wanted her own child’s drink bottle in her life, she thought. More than anything else in the world.
CHAPTER NINE
Calypso was having trouble keeping her co-star’s hands off her while filming and she figured if anyone had advice, it would be Sapphira.
Calypso sat on her sofa in the trailer drinking her spirulina shake.
‘Hmm, smells like toxic waste to me,’ said Sapphira, waving away the drink Calypso offered her.
‘He’s gross,’ said Calypso, sipping her drink, which left a faint green moustache on her top lip. ‘I swear he had a hard-on today when we were shooting and I’m pretty sure he wanted me to know it.’
‘Got waste?’ she asked, in reference to the famous milk ads showing stars with milk on their upper lip. Sapphira had shot one years ago and it still made her laugh when she thought about the shoot, trying to get the paste which supposedly resembled milk onto her lip.
‘What?’ asked Calypso, confused.
‘Your lip, babe. It’s green,’ said Sapphira, lighting another cigarette with the one she was smoking.
Calypso, embarrassed, rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand. Sapphira was like the cool older sister she never had and spending time with her had made her realize how much she wished she had siblings to deflect Leeza’s focus and to share things with.
‘Raphael’s a fucking asshole,’ said Sapphira, frowning. ‘I met him at Cannes last year. He was promoting some movie but it was more like he was promoting himself.’
‘I know a lot of actors like that,’ laughed Calypso.
Sapphira paused. ‘Listen, I’m not one for gossip and I hate to be indiscreet, but he is bad news. I’m surprised TG cast him. He’s seriously fucked up,’ she said as she checked the text message that rang through on her cell phone.
‘Now you have to tell me,’ said Calypso, her eyes widening. Sapphira shook her head. ‘Come on, just give me something so I know what I’m up against.’
Sapphira put down her phone and thought for a moment. ‘Just watch him, okay? Don’t get caught up in the charm. He’s a snake.’
Calypso heeded Sapphira’s warning and was careful around Raphael. Whatever Sapphira had intimated was enough for Calypso to be aloof on set and keep him at arm’s length, which was no easy feat. He flirted constantly with her. She tried to be pleasant but he was wearing and trying her patience.
The chemistry between them was not evident on the shoot and TG was at a loss to understand why Calypso was being almost rude to Raphael, who seemed to be trying hard to win her over. This shoot was harder than he had thought. Shooting on location, they were at the mercy of the weather, the planes flying overhead and the ants that crawled up the actors’ legs and bit them.
That morning on set, Calypso was constantly slapping her legs, as the ants seemed immune to insect repellant. In fact, she thought they preferred it.
TG walked over to her. ‘Calypso, you have to stop slapping your legs. All I can see is red hand marks up and down your thighs. It looks like you’ve been beaten up.’
‘I can’t help it, it’s these fucking ants,’ she said, slapping her leg again.
‘Okay, let me deal with it.’ He called out to the second assistant director. ‘Can you find the fucking ants’ nest and pour coffee down it, please? Do something about the ants!’
The assistant director, who was Italian, laughed outrageously. ‘You not get rid of the ants, TG. Impossible.’ He kept laughing like TG had just told the funniest joke in the world.
TG stomped back to his chair. Calypso tried in vain not to slap her leg. Standing with a grimace, TG looked up, and walked back over to her. He looked at her legs, reached down and flicked the soft white skin inside her thigh. ‘Ow!’ she yelled.
‘Maybe you should flick them off instead of slapping, okay?’
‘Jesus, ow, okay, that hurt,’ she said, rubbing her leg.
‘Sorry,’ said TG, not really meaning it. He didn’t know why he was angry with Calypso. Because she largely ignored him, was rude to Raphael. Always running off set as soon as filming started to be with that Italian he had seen on set occasionally.
He walked back to his chair again. He could still feel her soft skin on his fingertips.
Calypso stood confused. Was he physically abusing her now? What an asshole, she thought.
The day’s shoot was tense, to say the least, and Calypso was happy when it was finished. As she walked over to her car, Raphael ran up to her. ‘Tonight I come to town, you show me a good time.’
‘Ah no, I have plans,’ said Calypso wearily. She wished he would return to his villa or Rome, whichever was easier.
‘What are your plans? I can come,’ he said as though his presence was a gift.
Inwardly Calypso groaned. The last thing she needed was this guy sharing her car and trying to hit on her all the way back to the hotel. ‘Umm … I’m seeing my boyfriend.’ she started.
‘You have a boyfriend? Ah, I want to meet the man who vies for my love,’ he said dramatically, jumping in the front next to the driver.
Calypso got in the back, relieved she wouldn’t have his roaming hands all over her. Surprisingly, he didn’t speak to her at all on the way back, talking in rapid-fire Italian to her driver, and her driver talking just as fast back and gesticulating wildly. Calypso prayed he would keep his hands on the wheel and get her back to Marco alive.
Calypso’s relationship with Marco was all the talk of the set. He visited her and brought her flowers, much to TG’s chagrin, hanging about and talking to the Italian crew. He and Calypso went out with his friends almost every night and even spent time with his parents on their farm, looking for white truffles in the woods, with no success. What had been successful was the sex they had on the floor of the woods, with Calypso never having felt as free before in the open air, abandoning herself to Marco and the nature all around her. None of the boys back home had been so passionate and intense as him. He was insatiable; he wanted her constantly and made her feel incredible.
After he’d asked her so many questions about America one night as they lay in her hotel bed, she suggested he move there to find out for himself what America was like.
‘No, no,’ he said as he kissed the tip of her nose. ‘I will never leave Italy. This is my home. Perhaps I will visit.’
Inside Calypso was disappointed; she knew he wouldn’t want to move there. But in her fantasy, she imagined him being a hotshot LA lawyer, her being a successful actress and presenting the Best Foreign Film nominations at the Oscars and being able to say the Italian nomination flawlessly.
Listening to the hysterical laughter of her co-star and the driver, she wondered what they were laughing so hard at. What could be that funny?
The car pulled up in front of the hotel and the doorman opened the door for Calypso. She saw Marco waiting for her, leaning against the front wall. ‘Ciao, bella,’ he said sexily. Calypso felt her insides melting, perhaps she loved him, she thought.
The doorman opened up the front passenger door and Raphael jumped out. Seeing Raphael, Marco was instantly star-stuck. Rushing over and shaking his hand and talking in Italian, he gesticulated and pointed to Calypso.
‘I didn’t know that Raphael Perini was in this movie. He is my favourite actor. I love him,’ he said earnestly to her.
Calypso smiled thinly. Perhaps if he knew what an utter dick Raphael was, then he wouldn’t be so in love, she thought.
Raphael, always ready to greet a fan, grabbed Calypso around the shoulders. ‘It is decided then, we shall break bread together tonight.’
Calypso frowned. She wanted Marco all to herself, not to share him with this self-lover of the highest order.
That night they all ate together at a local bar. Every ten minutes someone came to the table to say hello or get an autograph from Raphael. He was like a god and the Italians were his worshippers. Marco and Raphael spoke Italian most of the night and occasionally interpreted for Calypso, when they remembered she was there.
Towards the end of the dinner, Marco pulled out his phone, rang two numbers and spoke fast down the phone. Calypso looked at him, questioning him with her eyes. ‘I’ve rung some friends. They will come and meet us and then we will drink, si?’
‘Not for me. I’ve gotta shoot tomorrow and we have to be on set at 6.30 am,’ she said, looking at Raphael.
‘Si si, but one drink. Come on, bella.’
She looked at Marco. He was not paying any attention to her, just looking at Raphael in adoration. Calypso sighed. ‘Well, I’m going back to the hotel. Good night.’
She left the bar, expecting Marco to come after her but deep down knowing he wouldn’t. She had been usurped by Raphael and she was pissed off. Heading back down the road to her hotel, Calypso was surprised how she felt. She really liked Marco; in fact, she thought she could even love him. His parents loved her and, let’s face it, the sex was incredible. Now he seemed like a fawning loser. Fuck it, she thought as she went up to her hotel room. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.
After taking a long bath and drinking a chamomile tea, Calypso hopped into bed. It seems too big without Marco, she thought drowsily, as she dropped off to sleep.
She was woken by a loud knocking at the door. She opened her eyes and looked at the clock next to her bedside – 1.00 am. ‘Fuck!’ she said as she went to the door. ‘Who is it?’ she called, not fully awake.
‘Ciao, bella,’ she heard.
Marco! Padding over in the dark, she stubbed her toe on a chair. ‘Oww,’ she cried, hopping on one foot. Opening the door, her foot throbbing in pain, she hobbled back to the bed and jumped under the covers, lying on her stomach. ‘It’s late, don’t talk to me. I have to be up in three hours,’ she said as she started to drop off to sleep again.
She heard him undressing and felt the covers pull back and him start to caress her back. ‘Hmm, that’s nice, but I’m really tired, baby.’
He continued, rubbing her back and buttocks. She felt her legs spread open involuntarily. He placed his fingers down between her thighs and started to feel her. She was wet and ready. Climbing on top of her, he entered her from behind, slowly thrusting and grinding. ‘Mmmmm,’ she said sexily.
He pulled her up onto her knees and then leant down and held her breasts, fucking her harder and harder until Calypso felt uncomfortable. He started to slap her ass and pulled back on her hair. ‘Yeah, puttana, you like it!’ he cried.
And then he came. Calypso turned around, shocked. In the darkness, she could just make out that it was not Marco who had just fucked her but Raphael. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ she screamed. ‘Oh my God!’ She started to cry, pulling the bed sheet up around her.
Raphael got up off the bed, the semen dripping from his cock. ‘What do you mean? You knew it was me when you opened the door naked.’
‘I thought you were Marco,’ she said, crying on the bed.
‘Well, Marco said you were a great fuck and he was right. He said the American puttana will do anything. I like American girls.’
‘Get out, get out! I’m calling the police, get out!’
Raphael picked up his clothes. ‘You liked it,’ he said arrogantly.
‘Get out!’ she yelled again and threw him out into the hallway naked.
She sat back on the bed, sobbing. She knew she should call the police but she could not deal with the intrusion. Once the press got wind of this in America she would be exposed as a slut and her career ruined. She started to shake, uncontrollably. Who could she ring? Not her mother. Maybe Rose or Kelly?
The thought of being on set with him in the morning made her start to vomit. She rushed to the bathroom but didn’t make it, throwing up all over the floor next to the bed. Picking up her phone, she dialled the one number she knew would answer.
‘Hello? TG? I need you.’
CHAPTER TEN
Aware she had spent much of her time in Italy by herself, Sapphira was looking forward to meeting her co-star. Jack Reynolds was a big star. He was a renowned bachelor who spent part of the year in LA and part in Italy. Speaking flawless Italian, he was a spokesperson for Brioni suits and Longines watches, and had been voted Sexiest Man of the Year for the past three years. Jack was the male equivalent of Sapphira, according to one of the biggest gossip magazines back in the States. He worked only when he wanted to and chose his projects carefully. The role TG had offered him was perfect – a script which promised to create celluloid history, acting opposite one of the biggest female stars of the time and shooting in his beloved adopted country was an offer Jack could not pass up.
His affairs always made the news and he had dated many beautiful young women from all over the world, always brunettes and never for longer than a year. He never spoke about his love life, instead making witty and occasionally ironic comments about the celebrity fascination and culture. He was due on set that morning. Jack arrived on time and chatted freely with the crew, switching from Italian to English effortlessly. Sapphira came on to the set, walking like a panther and as if Jack was her prey.
‘Hello, I’m Sapphira De Mont. I’m surprised we haven’t yet worked together.’
‘Jack, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Sapphira.’ He looked at her bemused, and stuck out his hand for her to shake it.
She leaned over and kissed each cheek while pressing herself against him. He stood, his head cocked to one side, his greying temples glinting in the sun.
‘Well, let’s get to work,’ he said and turned on his heel and walked to TG, where he proceeded to spend the next thirty minutes discussing character and plot.
For all his playboy reputation, Jack was a professional in every sense of the word, and when Sapphira sat in the make-up chair, she wondered about his reaction to her.
‘Is Jack dating anyone?’ she asked Kelly as she dabbed on her pancake base.
‘Nope, just broke up with a Swiss TV presenter. No word from her yet. I thought she may sell her story to National Enquirer and the like, but I haven’t heard a thing.’
Sapphira’s reputation preceded her, and Kelly and Chris had a bet on to see how long before Sapphira and Jack were an item, at least for the remaining duration of the shoot.
Sapphira wondered if perhaps Jack was heartbroken. Not fucking likely, she thought.
Walking into the trailer, Jack kissed Kelly, whom he had worked with before and sat next to Sapphira. She knew she looked good in the chair, make-up flawless and artfully applied. Her hair was long and out. She was wearing a strapless black dress, showing off her tattoos and her tanned skin. She was the kind of woman who knew what she wanted and Jack was in her sights. She smiled at him in the mirror. He smiled back and pulled out a copy of the local newspaper, La Nazione and started to read it, much to Sapphira’s shock.
The assistant director knocked on the door. ‘All ready, Sapphira? TG wants to do your close-up, then Jack’s. We’ll be ready for you.’
‘See you then,’ said Jack from the depths of his paper.
Sapphira stood up, unnerved. Heading onto the set, she went through the motions of the close-up, standing patiently while they sorted out the angles and focus measurements for the camera. I’ll just have to work harder, she thought, having never yet given up on a challenge. This is what she felt the best at, luring her man in on her long line.
TG came on set soon after with Jack and talked them through their first scene. They were inside the Villa and in the kitchen set. ‘Ok, so I need you, Sapphira, to have your bare feet up on the table and Jack, you come in. Sapphira, your eyes are shut for this scene. You are worn out from working on the Villa all day. Jack, you rub her shoulders and then you say the lines. Want to rehearse it first for marks?’
‘Nope,’ said Jack. ‘I think we are good.’ He smiled at Sapphira, who responded to him with one of her million-dollar laughs.
‘Whatever you want, Jacky boy.’
‘Action.’ Called TG from off set.
Jack came through the door and saw Sapphira with her feet on the table but instead of walking around behind her he sat down at her feet, saying his lines. he started to give her foot a rub.
Sapphira stayed in character and kept her eyes shut while Jack rubbed her feet. He said his lines and she responded.
‘Cut,’ yelled TG.
Jack stood up. ‘I just felt he would rub her feet since it’s the first thing he sees when he walks into the room.’
‘Yeah fine, worked well from our angle. Let’s do it again for different shots, ok?’
Sapphira was panicking. Had he noticed her feet? She had tried hard to cover the track marks but did he know what they were?
She looked at him. He seemed not to notice anything unusual about her feet. They waited for the camera to move. ‘Sorry about my disgusting feet,’ she said arching her long foot. ‘They are covered in ant bites,’ she explained, laughing.
Jack didn’t look at her. ‘You take care of yourself Sapphira, ok?’
‘Of course, I always do, Jacky boy.’ She threw her head back again and laughed. This is what she felt the best at, luring her man in on her long line.
When her close-up had been shot, and Jack had come on set for his, she sauntered towards him. ‘Why don’t we meet tonight, Jack? I can come to your place and we can discuss characters, trade war stories, whatever …’ The open invitation hung heavily in the air.
‘I don’t think so. I don’t play with the talent.’ This was true, Jack always played with talent lower than him on the celebrity radar; he was always the racehorse and his new girlfriend was always the donkey. Of course, this wasn’t disrespectful but Jack’s ego and celebrity were too big for two stars, and Sapphira would be too huge a star to orbit. The pressure of them pairing up might bring the kind of publicity that opened closet doors and let the skeletons out, and this was the last thing Jack wanted.
‘That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. You are breaking my heart, Mr Reynolds.’
‘I’m sure it will mend, Ms De Mont,’ he said, laughing.
Sapphira felt herself relax. She refused to see not seducing Jack as failure. Instead, she understood his rules. She had her own set of rules she conducted her life by; there was a part of her which respected him.
‘Thanks for being honest, I guess.’ There was something genuine and honourable about Jack; she felt she could trust him.
‘Friends?’ asked Jack.
‘I guess, I don’t really have men as friends.’
‘What? Just for breakfast?’ Jack laughed at his own joke and Sapphira joined in.
Sapphira was quiet. ‘You want to know something?’
‘Sure,’ said Jack not looking up.
‘Today is my birthday. Please don’t say anything to anyone. I just wanted you to know.’ She stared into the distance, her face expressionless.
‘I am assuming then, there won’t be a party,’ Jack said, picking up on the change in Sapphira’s mood. ‘Well, have you heard from anyone? Family? Agent, at least? They’re always good for a useless gift and a sycophantic card.’
‘My father’s dead. My mother might as well be, we haven’t spoken in about eight years. As for my agent, he will ring tomorrow no doubt, being ignorant of the time delay.’
Staring out at the crew busying themselves, a warm breeze blew over them and took Sapphira’s mood with it. ‘Doesn’t matter, age is just a state of mind anyway.’
‘Do you worry about being older?’ asked Jack.
‘Never. I suppose I think about everything I want to do and I panic, as there’s never enough time. There’s so much to learn, to see, to experience.’
‘Amelia Earhart, look out, huh? Next thing you will need to learn is how to fly and you can see the world at your own leisure.’
‘I already know how to fly. I learned at the start of this year.’
‘Of course you did, why am I not surprised?’ he said as he crossed his legs. ‘I tell you what, I’m gonna break my own rule. I will throw you birthday dinner. I’ll send my car to pick you up at 6.00 pm. We finish early today, which will give us plenty of time.’
‘Six? I thought everyone ate later in Italy.’
‘Well, I want to take you somewhere special,’ he answered enigmatically. ‘A surprise, stay tuned, Amelia.’
Sapphira thought of another night in her library, reading and smoking and then thought of an evening with Jack. ‘It’s a date!’
‘Friends, remember?’
‘I remember,’ said Sapphira. ‘You have nothing to worry about. Your virtue is safe with me, Mr Reynolds.’ And she stood up and went to the set for her next close-up.
That evening, she was dressed for sex. She wore a Blumarine leopard print silk strapless dress, with huge Moroccan wooden bangles she had picked up on her last shoot in Marrakesh and a pair of Yves Saint Laurent black suede ankle boots. Her hair was swept back into a bun, high on her head, and she wore minimal make-up and a liberal amount of her customized Lyn Harris perfume, leaving a trail of amber, musk and jasmine.
The helicopter that picked her up in Perugia landed at Nicelli Airport at 7.10 pm and Sapphira was whisked straight into a waiting water limousine and taken through the canals towards Jack. Venice was spectacular. The sun was still up and the canals were busy. The white, navy trimmed leather seats and the mahogany panelled walls and tinted windows gave her complete privacy to watch Venice without any interruption or distraction. It truly was an amazing city, she thought, as they sailed down the Grand Canal.
There was a bottle of French Champagne on the small mahogany table with a note written by Jack – Happy birthday, Amelia, enjoy the ride.
Pouring herself a glass, she sat forward on her chair and enjoyed the view. The buildings and people floated past her and Sapphira imagined for a moment she was in a magical land filled with the most wonderful buildings the human mind could create, all floating and rocking their inhabitants to sleep each night.
Soon, they turned off the canal and the boat came to a stop. Sapphira heard the captain speaking Italian and then the door opened. She alighted and was standing on the edge of the canal in front of huge carved wooden doors, which opened. Jack stood with his arms open. ‘Happy birthday, kid!’
Sapphira walked into them and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Howdy, Jack. Look at this place.’
The palazzo was impressive. Built in the 15th century, it was one of the largest private residences in Venice. Spread over five floors, the palazzo had a perfect view of the Bridge of Sighs and a roof garden for the summer.
Jack was dressed in white linen pants, a black t-shirt and barefoot. His ease in his own home made him all the more attractive to Sapphira. He led her into the huge sitting room, with its high ceilings and three Murano glass chandeliers. The room was filled with antique and contemporary furniture and art. It was Jack in every way – elegant, stylish and urbane.
‘Venetian?’ said Jack as he opened up an art deco cabinet to reveal a fully stocked bar with every possible bottle of liquor imaginable.
‘I’m assuming that’s a drink,’ asked Sapphira, as she prowled the room studying its contents.
‘Yep. Campari, gin, vermouth, amaretto and a twist of lemon.’
‘I thought the Bellini was the Venetian cocktail of choice?’ said Sapphira as she stood back from a large Francis Bacon painting.
‘The Bellini is the choice of tourists, although it is a lovely drink on a hot night on the roof, but not too often.’
‘Are you a snob, Mr Reynolds? Are you not a tourist in this lovely country?’ Sapphira flirted with him as she crossed the floor to accept the drink he was bringing to her.
‘I may be a tourist to the Italians, but it feels like home to me. I love this place more than America, though I would never say so in an interview. The people, the history, the contradictions are what appeal to me. I like being so close to Europe and I like being out of the craziness of the US. Here, a celebrity is someone on TV or a politician or a model. Some American movie star means nothing to them and I’m just fine with that.’
Sapphira looked at his ease and relaxed demeanour and thought he had never looked more attractive. It was as though he was a drug and she wanted more of it, his contentment and satisfaction with life almost an elixir. Sapphira was hooked.
‘Grab your drink and I’ll give you a tour,’ he said.
Leading the way, he walked Sapphira through each level, with a story to tell about his art and furniture, the parties he had thrown there and the peace he felt when he heard the water at night. Finishing on the roof, Sapphira was entranced by the view and the sounds below of the water city.
‘Your life is very agreeable, sir,’ she said, sipping her drink. ‘You live how you want and you do what you want. I admire you.’
‘Let’s go back down now and talk shit, then we will eat, yes? Then later we can go out for a twilight tour of the canals. It’s amazing, it never stops.’
Sapphira smiled, but she knew she was ready for another hit. ‘It sounds wonderful. I might just use your bathroom, if you don’t mind.’
‘No problem, use the one downstairs I just showed you and then I will meet you back down where you originally came in. If you get lost, just holler and I’ll come with a search party.’
Walking with Sapphira down the stairs, he left her at the bathroom and then went down to fix more drinks.
Sapphira entered the bathroom and noticed there was no lock on the door. Fuck, she thought. Opening her bag, she pulled out her works and set up. She had been craving more than usual; this happened sometimes but she was careful, writing down in her little notebook when and what she had taken last.
Checking her book, she fixed up the hit and hitching up her dress, injected herself into her groin. The hit was instant; she felt the rush as she sat on the toilet. Maybe she had taken a little more than last time, she wondered, as she felt her legs heavy. She tried to get up but couldn’t stand. I’ll wait for a while and then I’ll go down, she thought. Sitting on the toilet with her head on her chest, the sleepiness was too much to bear and she gave in.
‘Sapphira, Sapphira, you need to walk, you need to walk. Come on, baby.’
She heard the voice in the distance but he seemed so far away. She shook her head; whoever it was speaking was annoying her. Come on. She felt herself moving. How? Did she have wings? Laughing to herself, she heard the voice again. ‘It’s not funny. Come on, goddammit, walk.’
He walked her around the room, up and down, up and down, until her head began to clear a little and she became more conscious of her surroundings. ‘Jack?’
‘Who the fuck else would it be?’
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Kate Forster
As you prepare to hit the sunshine with your e-book device, make sure you have the ultimate book in your catalogue. The Perfect Location is the definitive guilty pleasure and all you’ll need to wile away the hours.Join three Hollywood actresses as they set upon The Perfect Location to create a film that will change each of their lives forever. The question is, can you guess which real life star each of these characters is based upon?Calypso arrived to the party first. She glowed in the courtyard like a firefly, stunning in a One Vintage gold lamé dress from the 1920s that had been reworked for her. The beaded appliqué around the low neckline shimmered and a tulle detail around the skirt edged up over one side to reveal just the right amount of thigh. Worn with a pair of patent leather Christian Louboutin black slingbacks and her new evening bag from the Perugia flea market, Calypso shone in the dark.Next came Rose: tall and slender in a peach georgette chiffon, halter-neck Chloé gown, she was beautiful. Her shoulders and arms were lily white, and she wore a gold Etruscan cuff on one arm and matching gold hoop earrings, which showed off her long neck. Her brunette hair was swept up into a ponytail and she had applied her makeup in such a way that it looked as if she had barely any on but her features were perfect. Rose was an icon and had the power and had real respect within the industry.And finally Sapphira arrived and the whole table fell silent. She stood in the doorway of the courtyard, wearing a white leather Pucci mini dress, with a huge silver and black eagle on the front looking as if it were about to land on its prey. She wore no jewellery and long black hair hung loosely down her back. Her legs seemed to stretch forever, ending in a pair of Balmain suede calf-high boots, with five silver buckles up each side. Her entrance stunned the room; it was dramatic and powerful, not unlike Sapphira herself.An intricate web of passionate pasts, addictions, lovers and secrets, perfect for fans of Jennifer Weiner and Adriana Trigiani.
KATE FORSTER
The Perfect Location
Copyright
AVON
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Copyright © Kate Forster 2012
Kate Forster asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © May 2012 ISBN: 9780007452491
Version: 2014-07-23
Dedication
For Nicole whose ‘deliberately vague’ directions steered me here.
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u10d2d97a-cdd3-57a7-8df4-835fcef67644)
Copyright (#u24f95588-bd80-5ee3-b1a9-5379f7ee283e)
Dedication (#u96f6ed0c-8462-5513-9717-8dd3de8a2ce6)
Part One: Pre-Production (#u25ff5aae-9ee1-5c74-8485-ef8dc4e44931)
Chapter One (#ue9b838ec-d02c-5b18-a0b7-735a9e0d00b9)
Chapter Two (#u52ac08c9-4a1f-5b46-8871-3598b738fab6)
Chapter Three (#udf37b724-4a41-5f9c-aa9b-b60bcd01005d)
Part Two: Production (#ud3b62c2e-b6e2-5e1b-a440-cda9aa359c2e)
Chapter Four (#ub757d9df-6707-5ea1-a798-81250126b42c)
Chapter Five (#u05565d2e-8493-51c0-9fa1-3c46c07ad1a2)
Chapter Six (#u42613ca0-e584-54f9-a04f-df3f46afde44)
Chapter Seven (#u85cd6bc2-e8ef-503a-a638-597dc4acbca7)
Chapter Eight (#uddbe9be0-6f07-5e0f-901d-7a2cf7debffc)
Chapter Nine (#u1bc11fec-dff0-5a64-a5c3-bc9547e05dca)
Chapter Ten (#u4b4b2da1-6008-53b3-bf3b-28dedb89fc67)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Three: Post-Production (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Deleted Scenes (#litres_trial_promo)
Read on for an exclusive interview with Kate Forster and a guide to the Perfect Locations in Italy. (#litres_trial_promo)
In Conversation with Kate Forster (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
There is not a writer who is published who doesn’t owe somebody something at some point in their career. Writing books is collaborative, even though a few writers’ egos might argue otherwise.
Without the following people in my life, who knows where I would be and what I would be doing. I want to say thank you to them, it’s not nearly enough but it’s a start. Yes, I could drop them a bottle of wine and a thank you card but I would prefer to see their names in print for posterity and all that jazz. They put up with me; they deserve something more concrete than a Pinot Grigio and a scrawled note. Trust me, I can be hard work.
*Warning: gushing ahead. Look away if it offends.
To my mother Joan who never censored the books in our house and who has champagne taste and a song for everything.
To Emma and Fiona for being the first readers of everything I write. Thank you for telling me to keep writing. I am here now, because of you both. You are my ideal readers and ideal best girlfriends.
To my agent Tara Wynne at Curtis Brown for taking the call, seeing something in the first draft and taking me on, typos and all. Tara, you are a tigress, a patient teacher and always, extremely fabulous. I am blessed to have you in my corner.
To Domonique for her cheerleading across the pond and never-ending belief in me.
To Claire Bord and Sammia Rafique, thank you for your support, collaboration and sound advice. It has been a dream to work with you both and I am very thankful you took me on.
To Tansy for keeping me up to date with everything and telling me when something is really ‘lame’.
To Spike for having such faith in everything I do and not complaining (much) when dinner doesn’t always arrive on time.
And to David for understanding I didn’t have a choice and wanting me to be happy more than anything else.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Rose Nightingale walked into LAX, hiding behind large Dior sunglasses and ignoring the photographers that lurked at the international terminal, waiting for celebrities to come and go. They took their chance to harangue them, usually when they were holding travel-weary children and pushing a trolley full of luggage. It didn’t matter how fabulous you were, travel was travel and it was a bore.
As Rose approached the United Lounge, she was greeted by a flight attendant who ushered her inside a door to the sanctity of the private space.
‘Hello, Ms Nightingale. May I have your passport, please?’
Rose handed it over with a smile.
‘Can I offer you champagne and a light snack?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Rose as the attendant led her towards a private seating area.
Rose’s phone rang and she answered it as she sat down in a corner of the lounge, ignoring the flickers of recognition from other travellers.
‘Slapper,’ said Rose, seeing Kelly’s name appear on her phone.
‘Tosser, you all ready for Italia?’ Kelly’s thick Northern accent came down the line and Rose smiled at the sound of her oldest friend’s voice.
‘All sorted, babe. You and Chris there already?’
‘Yeah, we got here two days ago. Shit, it’s gorgeous, Rosie. You’re gonna flip when you see your villa, I checked it out yesterday, although the housekeeper is like something out of central casting. “Super Nonna”, I call her.’
Rose laughed. Kelly always had a way with words that summed up a person or a situation perfectly.
Rose and Kelly were from different parts of England, both geographically and economically but these differences were never remarked upon or noticed even by each other. The only acknowledgements they made to their upbringings were their nicknames referencing people’s perceptions of them, Rose being an upper class girl and Kelly being from Yorkshire.
Rose was the daughter of a successful novelist and a television writer. Her intellectual father had been nominated for the Pulitzer twice and her mother created and wrote a popular crime series for television. Rose moved amongst the society crowd at her private day school and her brief relationship with a minor European royal gave her enough social currency to be named the most eligible girl in England by Tatler magazine. Appearing on the cover in a dress handmade by Lacroix himself from fresh rose petals, the headline read ‘A Rose by any Other Name’. Rose could have then married well and faded away from fame with an occasional photo in the social pages of Jennifer’s Diary.
But Rose was no wallflower or country wife and she decided on a more precarious road, successfully auditioning for acting school in London. She worked hard at the school to be more than just the beautiful girl, but never overcame the stigma of being close to perfect.
It was the other women on her course who were the worst in their treatment of Rose. Deliberately excluding her from parties and events and even at one point calling a group meeting with her where they each told her what they disliked about her in a round circle as a way of ‘helping her fit in more’. Rose despaired, her self-esteem was gone, her confidence shot, and she hated herself and the way she looked.
It was Kelly who saved Rose from losing her mind. Students from The London School of Make-up Artistry were to create the make-up for the third year students’ production of William Congreve’s Love for Love. Rose had the lead role and Kelly, the best student in the course, was given Rose as her subject.
The heavy Restoration make-up required for the play meant Rose was in the chair earlier than the other actors. Even though Kelly liked to call herself psychic, it didn’t take much to realize that Rose was ostracized from the rest of the cast. Kelly thought Rose seemed pleasant enough, if not a little quiet.
As the play’s short run went on, Kelly realized that Rose was on the outside of the circle, deliberately punished for her beauty and her background. A shared joint at the cast party between Rose and Kelly bonded them. Kelly made an effort to include Rose in her group of interesting and creative friends from the make-up school and Rose was grateful for the company. Kelly’s friends were without the affectations of her school friends and without the competitiveness of her acting school peers. They celebrated Rose’s beauty and encouraged her to try new looks and styles with her face and even her clothes.
Kelly’s belief in new age philosophies was at odds at her country upbringing and it was something that Rose was interested in. She wasn’t sure she believed in it, but was always surprised at Kelly’s ability to intuit what another person was feeling.
‘You are a rose in a field of onion grass,’ Kelly said to her best friend after she graduated. ‘You need to go to America where they will appreciate you more.’
Rose ended up taking the US by storm and when it was Rose’s turn to help Kelly after she had made her mark in Hollywood she did it without a moment’s doubt. Rose got Kelly a job as an extra’s make-up artist on her next film, and soon Kelly was on her way to becoming the most sought after make-up artist in Hollywood.
Bringing her thoughts back to the present, Rose tuned in to Kelly’s voice on the other end of the phone.
‘Hey, are Wendy and Bruce coming over to stay?’ asked Kelly.
‘I don’t know. They’re being weird about it. I think Mum thinks it all a bit much, you know, Italy and flights for her and Dad. I asked Martin and Fiona and the kids too. I just think it would be nice to spend some time together. It’s not like I’m heading back to London anytime soon.’
‘I’m going back for Christmas,’ said Kelly.
‘Really?’ said Rose, not noticing the surprised faces looking at her.
‘I want to show him Skipton.’
‘Well, that should take half a day, what else will you do while you’re back in your old stomping ground?’ Rose teased.
‘Piss off, big city girl,’ laughed Kelly. ‘We’re going to visit my family and then head to London for a few days, you should come back with us,’ Kelly asked impulsively, although she already knew the answer.
Rose smiled thinking of her and Kelly in London. Drinking, dancing, more drinking. God, they had had so much fun until Rose moved to Hollywood.
‘I don’t think so, the English paps are relentless.’ Rose claimed it was too much hassle on her family to come back to London with the constant media intrusion. The truth was that Rose had only been back a handful of times in fifteen years and only then for fleeting visits, staying in a suite at The Dorchester.
Shooting The Italian Dream would give her the perfect opportunity to bring the Nightingales together in Italy on her own terms. When her agent was negotiating the deal, she had a number of villas to choose from. Rose chose the one with the most bedrooms on offer for her family and their brood.
Lauren, her trusted assistant, had organized a myriad of inflatable toys to be FedExed over, so Rose’s nieces and nephews could play in the infinity pool looking over the endless hills of Umbria. She had also sent board games, dolls and books and had a Wii installed in the den, with a large flat screen TV and a huge selection of DVDs.
‘No, I can’t come back to London, I’m booked up till the middle of next year, so that’s why I wanted them to come to see me,’ said Rose. ‘Hey, I’m really looking forward to working with TG,’ she said, in an effort to change the subject quickly.
‘TG’s really excited to work with you too, he told Chris,’ said Kelly.
‘He’s a great guy, I’m surprised we’ve never worked together till now,’ said Rose.
‘TG’, as everyone in the industry called him, was Tim Galvin, the hottest young gun director in Hollywood. A teenage skateboarding world champion who became an NYC film graduate, he made his mark directing videos for some of the LA garage band scene. He shot his films quickly, used quick edits and loud soundtracks, hepossessed a rare gift: he could create a happy film set.His best friend and Director of Photography was Chris Berman, Kelly’s husband.
‘He’s a good egg,’ said Kelly, ‘although he’s been around a lot since he and Lisa broke up. He’s a bit mopey, I need to find him a root.’
‘She was a piece of work,’ said Rose, mentioning TG’s ambitious actress girlfriend. ‘He’s better off without her. I only met her at your place but she was scary, like a reptile. He seemed sad at the audition, more low-key than usual although maybe he was nervous.’
‘Probably. I think he was amazed you agreed to audition but he said the studio wanted to see all the women.’
‘Oh God, I don’t mind auditioning,’ laughed Rose. ‘Puts me back in my box, reminds me that the fame is fleeting.’
‘’Tis true, ’tis true,’ said Kelly. ‘So, call me when you arrive, yeah? I miss you like crazy, Tosser.’
‘Love you too, Slapper. Call me every five minutes,’ said Rose, giggling at the use of their old names for each other.
Rose settled down in the chair and opened her script. She already knew her lines but she always liked to do as much work as possible. As she read the scenes between her and her on-screen lover, she wondered who it would be. Her agent Randy said that the role wasn’t cast yet but she was so keen to be a part of the film, she signed on without knowing who would take the role opposite her. For a brief moment she panicked it might be Paul but then she dismissed it with a silent laugh. There was no way the universe or TG would be cruel enough to cast her ex-husband, she thought.
Rose stared out the window, watching the planes take off and land. The LA smog was settling in over the city and she hoped it would not affect the flight. She despised lateness and lived by a rigid schedule. Organization gave her a sense of control.
A text message came through on her iPhone from her equally organized assistant, Lauren: Car service will pick you up on arrival and drive you to the villa. If you get stuck then call Guilia, TG’s assistant. I have keyed number into your phone.
Rose already had this information printed out neatly on her letterhead, tucked away safely in her iris calf leather Smythson travel wallet. But she appreciated Lauren’s attention to detail and concern.
Rose poached Lauren from the director, Jerry Hyman, who Rose was shooting a film with after her divorce from Paul. Daily she had watched him berate Lauren and abuse her in front of the crew. His constant comments about her weight, sexual innuendos and the ridiculous demands that she had to fulfil became painful for everyone to watch. Rose saw Lauren losing her self-esteem, wanting to please the obese tyrant and failing at every turn. Towards the end of shooting, she took her lunch tray over to sit with Lauren who was typing on the computer, with five mobile phones in front of her. Each one was labelled neatly in Dymo labels: Home, Studio, LA, NY, Other.
Rose put her tray aside and sat down. Lauren looked up, surprise registered on her face. ‘Um. Hi,’ she said.
‘Hi, yourself,’ replied Rose sunnily. ‘How are things?’
Lauren looked at the screen, ‘Fine, fine, Jerry’s very busy. I’ve always got something to do.’
Rose looked at the phones. ‘So, let me guess,’ she said as she picked up the phones and laid them out in front of her. ‘Home is the wife and kids. LA is his agent and the studio. NY is his dealer. And Other is his whores. How did I do?’
Lauren looked shocked, and then pulled herself together. ‘No, no, entirely wrong.’ Rose smiled and bit into her apple.
Lauren went back to typing, feeling unnerved by Rose’s correct guesses about Jerry’s many phones. The stars never talked to her. Granted, Rose seemed nicer than most. Just that morning she had raised her eyebrows comically at Lauren when the director went on one of his tirades at Lauren because his latte was too hot.
Looking at Lauren’s eyes twitch and her mouth tighten, Rose wondered what the notorious director had done to her. She knew his reputation; he liked to dominate women in every way. Rose herself was too much of a class act and too outspoken for his tastes. He liked them young, thankful and ambitious.
Rose pondered a little longer then said casually, ‘Anyway, I have a job opening. I really need an assistant. They need to be super organized. I like lists and Apple Macs.’ She stared disdainfully at the PC Lauren was working on. ‘I only have one mobile phone, so that may be a put-off to any potential applicants. I can offer them their own office, a BMW and I promise to never hit them with a phone. I will not make them do ridiculous jobs; I’m capable of buying my own tampons. I need help with schedules, Christmas and birthday lists, help with some of the charities that I work with. And someone to field the media and my agent.’ She smiled at Lauren and walked away. Always leave them wanting more, she thought, as she felt Lauren’s eyes on her.
That evening, after speaking to Lauren on set, Rose found Lauren’s professional CV and cover letter expressing her interest in the job on hotel stationery, slipped under her hotel room door. Rose smiled when she opened the envelope; she knew Lauren was perfect for her.
The boarding call sounded over the loudspeaker and Rose’s mind was brought back to the present. Rose walked to the desk, and handed her passport and boarding pass to the flight attendant. The girl took them with a smile and then passed them back to her. ‘Thank you, Ms Nightingale, your flight to Italy is boarding now.’
Rose placed her passport in her bag and headed towards the plane. Italy, here I come, she thought, excited by the idea of living in a new country, even for a short amount of time.
Rose arrived in Perugia reasonably relaxed, although feeling a little grimy. As predicted by the wonderful Lauren, her car was indeed waiting for her. Surprisingly, there were no paparazzi lurking around and Rose was relieved. I hope this continues, she thought, as she sank into the back seat of the Mercedes.
When she arrived at the villa and got out of the car, the housekeeper stood on the front step, waiting to greet the surrogate grandchildren she assumed were coming from all the toys that had been sent over.
Instead it was just Rose who shook her hand and walked inside the cool foyer. Lucia walked over to the car to check there were no children inside. She shook her head. ‘Bizarro,’ she mumbled as she followed Rose inside.
Rose was tired but not enough to dull the beauty of her new home for the summer. A restored 200-year-old villa, it was surrounded by green lawns and a grove of olive trees to one side. There was a magnificent outdoor terrace, covered in grapevines and wisteria, giving much-needed shade throughout the day. The pool looked out over the hills and the garden was filled with roses, lemon trees and lavenders.
Inside were six bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. Lauren had sent Rose’s luggage by FedEx with all the toys, so Rose didn’t have to wait at the airport. Lucia had hung all her clothes in the solid oak wardrobes, marvelling at the tissue paper and the scented sachets from Maryse à Paris. Her Smythson beauty case had been unpacked and all her toiletries had been placed carefully in the bathroom cupboards. The Egyptian cotton sheets with a 250 thread count had been washed and dried in the Umbrian sun by Lucia and placed on the bed.
‘Signorina, you want something to eat?’ asked Lucia hopefully. She was looking forward to feeding up this skinny girl with her imaginary children.
Rose smiled. ‘No, maybe just a cup of tea and a biscuit. I might have a bath and lie down for a while.’
Lucia wandered off, mumbling in Italian to herself. Rose thought she heard her saying something about ghost children and she reminded herself to listen more to the Italian lessons on her iPod. Ghost children, she thought. My Italian is worse than I thought.
Rose walked into the bathroom. It was astonishing, even by Rose’s Hollywood standards. The floors were covered with beautiful stone tiles in natural colours and the surrounding walls whitewashed. At the end of the room were three steps that led down into a large sunken tub. Above the tub was a leadlight window that opened wide, letting the warm summer breeze float into the room.
At the foot of the tub was a gorgeous gift basket filled with a selection of products from Santa Maria Novella, a 13th century apothecary, once run by Dominican monks with a note from the film’s producers welcoming her and thanking her for taking the role in the film. The handmade basket was overflowing with vanilla bath and shower gels, pomegranate bath salts, lily and rose water, summer candles smelling of the sea and a selection of fragrances including honeysuckle, opoponax, orange blossom, tuberose, and the stunning Angels of Florence perfume – a blend of jasmine, lilac, peach, violet and white musk.
Lying next to the basket of scented items was a tower of towels, all with the Frette crest embroidered on them, an exquisitely folded ivory bathrobe, several quilted spa mitts and a pile of beautifully folded bath sheets in dusk and sandstone.
Tiredness washed over Rose and she sat on the antique armchair in the corner of the room. Lucia knocked at the open door and saw how weary Rose seemed. Clucking in Italian and bustling into the bathroom, she walked over and turned on the water in the bath. Rummaging through the basket of bath and body goodies, Lucia pulled out citrus bath oil and poured a few drops under the running water. She undid the robe and shook out the bath sheets.
‘Come, signorina. Time to bathe, very nice for you, quiet. I bring you your tea, yes?’
Rose nodded her acceptance and was actually grateful for someone taking over while she was in her jet-lagged state.
Lucia felt the temperature of the water. ‘All ready now, signorina.’ She left the bathroom and brought back a tray with a silver teapot with strainer, a bone china cup and saucer, a small matching pitcher of milk and tiny bowl of little sugar cubes, a silver spoon and a selection of Italian biscuits and left Rose alone.
Rose slowly undressed and stepped down into the tub. If this was Italy, then I never want to leave, she thought.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Lucia moaned to her husband, the gardener, about Rose. No children, too skinny, too old, should be married … the list went on of Lucia’s complaints about Rose. It wouldn’t do, said Lucia to herself, deciding then and there she would have to draw Rose’s future to her. All the women in the family had the gift and Lucia knew she had no choice but to magic a man and some children into Rose’s life. Pronto!
CHAPTER TWO
Calypso Gable woke up, fully dressed, in the biggest suite of the Hotel Brufani Palace in Perugia and checked her phone for the time. Nine o’clock in the evening. Damn, she had slept all day, she thought, exhausted from jet-lag.
She wanted to be amongst the action, not stuck in a villa in the country, playing house. Basing herself in the city of Perugia meant she could stroll the streets and explore with almost no one recognizing her. Her TV show had not been shown in Italy and her latest film had yet to be released in Europe. Besides tourists, no one knew who she was and she was looking forward to exploring the city and some of the gorgeous antique shops she had spied on the drive through the city to her hotel.
She was shocked that she had won the role. Rumour was that Jessica Biel, Carey Mulligan, and Scarlett Johansson were up for the role. Calypso only went because her manager told her she needed to be seen by a better class of directors.
Calypso hadn’t worked with the director, TG, as he was known, but she did know his ex-girlfriend, Lisa. She had always been on the make, trying to get up the next step of the career ladder, fucking and sucking her way to the top. She had made quite a few films, starring in supporting roles and then starting to get more leading roles. Labelled as the next Indie Queen, she and TG were the star couple of LA and New York.
But Calypso knew it was all bullshit. She had seen girls like her before over the years. Underneath the façade of the intellectual, art house style she displayed was just another actress desperate for the Spielberg epic and the paycheque.
Now the ex was dating a studio head, Calypso had heard. An obese, sweaty man who was notorious for his penchant for sexually deviant activities. His favourite was having his partner bite him during sex, all over, till he was black and blue; he loved it even more when they drew blood, apparently. Calypso shuddered at the thought.
The audition for The Italian Dream had been torturous. Calypso was nervous and said ‘fuck’ throughout the meeting and drank from the Coke can on the table until she realized it wasn’t hers but the director’s. He hadn’t seemed to mind and seemed to be okay as far as directors went. At least he didn’t try to hit on her but he looked at her oddly throughout the audition and she wondered of she had something in her teeth.
She knew she gave a shocking read and although she could do the part, she fucked it up and would have put money on Scarlett getting the role. But apparently the director saw something in her that she didn’t see in herself, her manager said when she rang with the news.
To celebrate, she had spent a morning at the Miu Miu store in LA, hoping to channel the Italian style she admired so much while trawling The Sartorialist. Now she looked at the piles of luggage piled in the corner of the suite and wondered if it was too much. The store on Rodeo Drive had closed for her for two hours while she tried on everything. Calypso now had in her possession bags and boxes of the latest season and even some of the upcoming season that had not yet been copied by Zara. Miu Miu’s classic, super cool look wasn’t exactly Calypso’s style – she preferred something a little more eclectic – but what the hell, she could always accessorize to make it a little more Calypso and a little less Miuccia.
Calypso had left the Miu Miu store in a carbon wool-fringed short jacket over her white American Vintage t-shirt. The jacket dressed up her black J Brand cigarette-style jeans and brought an almost European style to her California look. She had swept back her perfectly lightened blond hair – ‘Buttercup’, her colourist called it. Calypso’s hair was one of her signatures and she returned to the salon every two weeks to have her roots done. A natural redhead, with tight corkscrew curls, she now wore her hair long and straight, courtesy of the Brazilian blow waves she got every six weeks. With a tiny frame and lean muscles courtesy of a combination of yoga, Pilates and a fat-free vegetarian existence, Calypso had a pretty voice and an even prettier face.
As she lay in the hotel bed thinking of the shopping spree, she remembered the paparazzi hounding her in LA outside Miu Miu. Some actors sought that attention, even tipping them off themselves with their whereabouts. But not Calypso. The media’s intrusion was a recent problem for her. Now that she was a part of the film circus, she understood that often the film studios started the rumours and hired the photographers to drive the heat and interest for whatever vehicle they were pushing. Calypso wondered who had made the call to them. Her studio, her stylist, or was it one of the store employees? The more she thought about it, Calypso began to suspect who had tipped off the media, and it made sense the longer she considered it.
She remembered the last conversation with Leeza before she left for Italy.
‘Hi, Mom.’ Calypso had answered her cell phone impatiently; they’d only spoken an hour ago.
‘Hi, baby!’ Leeza breathed. Always so eager. ‘How was shopping?’
‘It was great, Mom. But … err … Mom …’ Calypso licked her lips nervously. Why was she always nervous when questioning her mother?
‘Mom, did you tip off the paps?’ Calypso was smart enough to know she wasn’t a big enough celebrity yet for her studio to have called in such an overwhelming number of photographers.
‘I just made one call. Were there many there?’ Leeza had sounded happy – she thought all publicity was good publicity, especially when you were an unknown.
‘Mom, it’s not good. It’s weird. It makes me look desperate and sad. Leave that shit for Miley and Lindsay. Greg will kill me when he finds out. He’s being really careful about my exposure right now. You know this already! Jesus!’
‘Have you heard from Greg or Mandy?’ asked Leeza, ignoring Calypso’s frustration.
Calypso’s hiring of a new manager, Mandy, had replaced her mother who had held the title since Calypso was six years old and in her first commercial. The decision resulted in a huge fight with Leeza who locked herself in the bathroom for six hours at Calypso’s house. She only emerged after Calypso slid a back copy of Variety, with an article on Mandy in it, under the door and was finally satisfied that Mandy might be able to do the job.
Now Calypso felt free as she lay in bed. Free from Leeza, the paparazzi and from LA. Stretching, she stepped out of bed, peeled off her Burberry silk shorts and Calvin Klein singlet and walked into the bathroom. Turning on the shower she examined herself in the mirror. Her hair looked amazing, straight and yet with body, thanks to the blow-dry she had just before she left LA. She was due to have another in six weeks but since she was on set for twelve weeks, she wondered if they had them in Italy. She reminded herself to ask Kelly, the head make-up artist on the film, although it may cost a lot here compared to US prices.
Calypso lived on a budget, despite her moderate wealth. It was too easy to overspend and she was mindful of her money, having worked so hard for so long. Besides, Leeza was always in her mind, reminding her never to stray from her budget. It wasn’t as though Calypso was tight with money, however, she was just very aware of what it was like not to have any. No one but her and Leeza and her father knew how tough things had been for them when she was trying to make it in Hollywood. All the money her father had earned had gone into nurturing Calypso’s talent. Although her father had a job, it was meagre pay and trying to make it in Hollywood was expensive. Dancing lessons, headshots, acting lessons, clothes, and flights for auditions to New York for the attempts to make it on Broadway. Her agents and lawyers both demanded a cut when she did work and it was a struggle at times. Calypso knew her parents had gone without for her. She remembered the nights without electricity; the beans on toast for dinner, or sometimes just the beans. Once she found her father in the yard, nailing the soles of his work shoes back together.
The sense of responsibility Calypso felt to ensure she was successful and to look after her parents was what drove her – and what stopped her from losing her head. Calypso had been offered drugs, sex and all the other temptations during her years growing up but she abstained, thinking of the faith her parents had placed in their only child’s talent. Whenever she was interviewed, Calypso painted the picture that she was the typical California girl, growing up in middle-class affluence and wanting for nothing. She claimed she grew up in the house she had actually bought for her parents in Brentwood, whereas in fact she and Leeza and her dad went from place to place until the money ran out. Leeza would check them into rough hotels and trailer parks when the money was really low. Sometimes they skipped paying the bill if they could, just to save a few dollars here and there.
It all changed for a while when Calypso was cast on a variety show, singing and dancing her little heart out until she grew breasts and the show was cancelled. Calypso received the news she had been let go the day before the producer found out the show had been cancelled. She never told anyone, only she and Leeza knew. That day, Leeza sent out a press release saying that Calypso was leaving to explore other opportunities. It was a smart move. She was always seen as the kid who left early and avoided being a part of an axed show. Leeza was considered an excellent manager for knowing when it was time for Calypso to move on.
The next opportunity did not come though until Calypso was nineteen. She did a few bit parts and commercials and this helped the bank balance. She urged her parents to use the money she earned from the show but her father wouldn’t hear of it, so they were back to where they were before. Scrounging and living hand to mouth, job to job.
Now she was in Italy, shooting a film with Rose Nightingale and Sapphira De Mont. She could hardly believe it. Rose Nightingale was her hero and Sapphira De Mont was the hottest star in Hollywood. Why the director, TG, had asked for her, she had no idea. She wasn’t a huge name yet, and certainly not in film, she had thought when Mandy had rung to her gauge her interest in auditioning for TG.
Against Leeza’s advice, she had knocked back the action film that was on offer and had jumped at the chance to act opposite Rose and Sapphira. This was her chance to move into the big league. No more TV, only film and opposite the best actresses in Hollywood. Convincing Leeza was a different story though.
‘But, honey, if you take the action movie, think about it. A percentage of the profits, royalties, Comic-Con appearances and your own action figure. You’ll be a movie star, honey, big time.’
‘Mom, a movie star is different to an actor. Cameron Diaz is a movie star. Meryl Streep is an actor. You can’t be both. Well, maybe if you’re Reese Witherspoon, but there aren’t many others. I want to be an actor.’
‘Being a movie star is what we always wanted,’ Leeza said, forgetting she had recently been demoted in Calypso’s life from manager to mother, as she carefully prepared the salad with no-fat dressing for a family barbeque, protecting her acrylic nails with a new French manicure.
No, Mom, it’s what you wanted, thought Calypso.
But she said nothing. Instead she signed on the next day, letting Leeza know her decision via text message. It was time she ran her own life, she thought and now that she was in Italy, she was excited.
Showered and dressed in a towel, she read the room service menu. ‘Blah,’ she said, putting it down again.
Wandering over to the window, she looked outside. She had meant to go for a run when she got back to the hotel but the tiredness from the jet-lag was still in her system and instead she fell asleep, fully dressed, until sounds from outside drifted up to her window. It was nine o’clock at night, but it seemed most people were only now going out for dinner. What the hell, she thought, I’m going out.
Opening her wardrobe, she chose a pair of black vintage cigarette silk pants and teamed them with a floaty silver Catherine Malandrino camisole and pink Costume Nationale flat sandals. The hills of Perugia would murder her heels; flats were sensible and Calypso was always sensible, particularly when it came to looking after her clothes. Leaving her hair down, she grabbed a vintage beaded clutch and skipped through the door into the bustle outside.
Wandering around the ancient city, the sound of smooth jazz came up a laneway and Calypso followed the music.
She found herself in an elegant thoroughfare filled with laughing students from the university, families with sleeping children in strollers and tourists all mingling together in the warm evening.
The cafés were filled with people who spilled out onto the stone ledges and steps, listening to the jazz. Calypso thought she knew the song from an old album her dad used to play. ‘There’s a somebody I’m longing to see, I hope that he turns out to be, someone who’ll watch over me,’ she sang quietly to herself.
An older couple walked out in front of the band and started to dance to the old Gershwin classic and Calypso felt her eyes fill with tears as she saw the tenderness on the man’s face.
It was an almost perfect moment except for the gnawing in Calypso’s stomach. I haven’t eaten in fourteen hours, she counted as she moved towards some bright lights in the side of a stone wall. SandriPasticceria it read. The window boasted some of the most delicious pastries Calypso had ever seen. Never would she allow herself something so fat-filled in LA but here, without the gaze of the paparazzi and her trainer, Calypso decided to live a little. Stepping inside the crowded shop, she was pushed forward by the crowd until she found herself at a stool at the marble bar.
A red-coated waiter placed a chocolate-filled pastry with glazed berries on top of it in front of her with a cappuccino. ‘I didn’t order this,’ she said to the waiter who had already turned his back. She sat awkwardly, unsure of what to do.
‘I would just eat it,’ said a voice next to her over the din in the bar.
Calypso turned and was faced with Eros himself. Impossibly handsome, with long, light brown hair loose and curling around his face. Smiling at Calypso, his teeth were the whitest and straightest that Calypso had ever seen, which was quite something, considering she lived in California, the state of orthodontists. ‘Ciao, bella,’ he said, his green eyes dancing as he took in her face.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ said Calypso, doing her best Barbra Streisand impersonation.
‘I know that voice, that’s Barbra, si?’
Calypso laughed, ‘Yes, that’s Barbra.’
‘Mangia,’ he said, gesturing.
Calypso paused. It did look divine and saying a little prayer to the God of Cellulite to stay away, she took a bite.
‘Oh my God, it’s amazing.’ She sputtered pastry flakes across the table, not caring to wipe the chocolate cream from her mouth.
The Italian watched her, amused. ‘You like?’
‘I like,’ said Calypso, her mouth full.
‘So, what is your name? Barbra?’
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Calypso,’ she smiled shyly.
‘Beautiful name, the nymph of the sea, si? I am Marco. Lord of the planet Mars.’
His bewitching accent and the way he looked so intently at her, as if wanting her approval was endearing. Calypso smiled. She had made her first Italian friend.
CHAPTER THREE
Sapphira De Mont arrived in Italy courtesy of the film studio’s Gulfstream. She would have liked to have flown the plane herself but her instructor said she was not yet ready for such a large aircraft, much to Sapphira’s disappointment.
She stretched her back like a cat as she unbuckled her seatbelt on the plane. Her skin across her shoulder blades was tight from the new tattoo she had recently added to her thin body as a nod to her newly gained pilot’s licence. Alis volat propri, it read in a serif script across her back. A Latin phrase, meaning ‘She flies with her own wings’.
All her life experiences were illustrated by the tattoos on her body. On her left wrist was a tiny crab – her sun sign; on her right wrist a symbol for Leo, her astrological Moon sign. On one foot was a delicate vine that wound its way around her ankle and on the outside of each ankle was a tiny fairy curtsying. On her back, underneath the new tattoos, was a tattoo of a tree, the one she dreamed of most nights. She had explained it and the tattoo artist had drawn it repeatedly until he got it right.
Sapphira’s life had been one of adventure and saying ‘yes’ to whatever came her way. Italy was like a new affair to her; she wanted to get to know the country, learn the language and understand its moods. Spending six weeks in a foreign country was exhilarating and made Sapphira feel safe.
The private plane had been an indulgence that the studio was only too happy to agree to when Sapphira’s agent requested it to get her to the film’s location. She was a big star and had taken a slight pay cut to do the movie – compared to what she had been paid after the last two action hits she had starred in. There was big money to be made with Sapphira’s name on the marquee and they knew it. The studio was only too happy to keep their bankroll comfortable. A little gift from them for her having to audition, she thought.
It was her first screen test for four years. Her agent told her she should hold out and they would come round and just give her the part. She ignored him. She ignored most advice. Instead, she arrived smoking a cigarette, and in a coffee coloured silk blouse so transparent it showed the outline of her tattoos and no bra. TG was ready to dismiss her until she did the lines of dialogue more perfectly than the writer could have wished for. She was a chameleon when she acted and he was excited to work with her. He was also smart enough to realize she would bring a new audience to this genre of film.
It was not as though the idea of flying a commercial flight was beneath Sapphira, but she had more reason than most to need the private flight.
Sapphira held her Bottega Veneta black leather tote bag close to her chest feeling the little beads of sweat form on her forehead. The door of the aircraft opened and Sapphira heard the pilot talking to the officials in Italian as he stood at the top of the steps.
‘They need to just check your details and do a quick look around,’ he said as two Italian airport officials came aboard the plane. Sapphira sat up straight and smiled her million dollar smile. The men were instantly smitten. Handing over her travel documents, Sapphira attempted to greet them in the basic Italian she had learned.
‘Ciao. Grazie per lasciarlo venire al vostro paese bella,’ she said, a little uncertainly.
The Italians looked at each other, pleased that such a big American movie star would bother to try speaking their wonderful language. They gave a cursory glance at her documents. Sapphira smiled again, this time they melted. ‘Welcome, Signora De Mont.’
‘My mother is Italian. I’m so pleased to be here in her country that she speaks so warmly about,’ Sapphira said.
She left out the fact that her mother was now in the best nursing home in LA, all bills paid for by Sapphira. The years of alcohol abuse had caught up with her and most days she didn’t even remember she had a daughter.
‘That is why you are so beautiful,’ said the older man. ‘Your father must be Italian also?’
‘No,’ said Sapphira, almost apologetically. ‘He’s French.’
And dead, she left out. A minor French aristocrat, dying from a heroin overdose when she was twelve years old and she’d been left with her mother to raise herself.
One of the men held out a small notepad and asked shyly for an autograph. Sapphira signed quickly and posed for a photo with each of them taken on their cell phones. Deciding that such a beautiful star with an Italian mother was absolutely no security risk, they waved her through Customs and soon Sapphira was in the back of her car, and heading towards her new home. Relief flowed through her as the car pulled away from the airport and towards the villa booked for her stay.
The villa, a former 12th century monastery, was not the biggest in the region but it had the most security. Surrounded by large, stone walls with locked gates, security cameras were set to capture every angle of the property and it came with a set of security guards to protect its guests.
Sapphira lit a cigarette and wound down the window. Her driver looked at her in the rear mirror. She seemed tired and unwell, he thought, as he drove through the picturesque countryside. Italy will fix anyone, he thought proudly.
The car pulled up outside a large set of iron gates. There was a scrolled crest on the gates and ivy grew on the walls on either side. With its palm trees and green lawns, the property looked like an oasis, Sapphira thought.
As the gates swung open, the car drove slowly along the gravel drive and soon the villa appeared. A tower rose from the centre of the building, with a cross on the top. Remembering it was once a monastery, Sapphira prayed it was a sign of protection while she was in Italy.
When the car pulled to a stop, a stylish young woman came out of the arched oak doorway. The woman smiled warmly. ‘Welcome, Ms De Mont, to Villa Castello Saint Carolina. I hope you enjoy your stay here.’
‘Please call me Sapphira,’ she said and indicated to the driver to take her cases and bags inside.
‘I am Giulia, TG’s assistant while he is in Italy. He requested I come and ensure you have everything you need.’
‘Thank you, Giulia. I appreciate it,’ Sapphira said, wishing she were upstairs in the privacy of a bedroom.
Giulia walked inside and stood in the magnificent foyer. High above them was a ceiling mural of Madonna and the baby Jesus, surrounded by cherubs in the Garden of Eden. It was breathtaking. Sapphira stood with her neck craned back trying to drink in the picture.
Giulia spoke again. ‘I have your set of keys and your map of the property as requested. The kitchen has been stocked to your requirements and all your other requests have been fulfilled.’
Sapphira nodded her approval.
‘The security are on site at all times and will do their best to not disturb your privacy, but please contact them or myself if you should require anything extra during your stay here. If you give me your phone I will punch my number into it so you can contact me day or night.’
Sapphira dug into her handbag, searching for her phone. Her hand ran over her secret and she felt like she might vomit. Finding her phone, she handed it to Giulia who expertly keyed in her number and name.
‘Bene,’ she said. ‘Finito.’ She handed it back.
Sapphira stood waiting. There was an awkward silence. ‘Well then, I go,’ said Giulia.
‘Thank you, Giulia,’ Sapphira said, relieved.
‘One more thing, you want me to take your bags to your room?’ asked Giulia.
‘No,’ said Sapphira a little shortly. ‘I’m fine.’
Giulia looked at her almost skeletal arms and wondered how on earth she would manage the array of cases the driver had left in the foyer up the flight of stairs.
‘The staff will come by every morning to make up your room and restock your kitchen once you are on set, as requested. They have all signed the confidentiality papers and these have been faxed to your agent.’
Sapphira nodded and Giulia walked out the door. ‘Thanks again,’ Sapphira called as Giulia climbed into her red Alfa. Sapphira closed the door behind her.
Giulia sat in the car for a moment, looking for her car keys. Sapphira’s appearance troubled her. Her demands, while not extraordinary compared to some stars, still seemed covert and secretive when she had received them from Sapphira’s agent. She required no one to look after her in the villa, didn’t want a tour of the vast property, only a map to be left for her in Italian. She asked for two cartons of Marlboro Light cigarettes and an espresso maker with the best local coffee blend. Seeing her in person, she seemed edgy and anxious, and clearly could not wait for Giulia to leave. Giulia knew it was more than tiredness; she had seen it in her brother years before when he had come home from living in Rome. She picked up her mobile phone. ‘Hello, TG? It’s Giulia.’
‘Hey, how’s our star Sapphira?’ he asked as he jumped out of the shower.
‘Okay, all settled. She seems fine.’ She paused. ‘She’s a little, how you say, preoccupato. Worried. Anxious, you know?’
TG laughed. ‘That’s Hollywood stars for you, Giulia. They’re all a little crazy, although she is supposed to be great on set, so don’t worry about it, she’s fine. Kelly said so and she’s worked with her plenty of times.’
‘Okay then, I will not worry. You all okay for tonight?’ she asked as she turned on the car engine.
‘Fine, it all looks great, Giulia. Thank you, you are a star! Arrivederci.’
‘Arrivederci,’ Giulia replied and drove off down the driveway, the huge gates closing behind her.
Sapphira watched Giulia on the phone in her driveway from the upstairs window. ‘Go,’ she said as she willed her away from her house.
Finally the red car disappeared and the gates closed in the distance. Walking over to the bed, she emptied her bag out onto the crisp white bedspread.
Opening a small Comme des Garçons bag, she took out her instruments and prepared her hit.
Thankfully her tattoos were placed all over her body and so she was always accustomed to covering them up. If she knew she would be showing a lot of flesh then she shot up between her toes. Citing privacy, she always dressed herself and never allowed herself to be partially dressed in front of the costume or make-up crew. Living with her addiction for the last ten years had taught Sapphira a thing or two about secrets and how to hide them. A few of her lovers had been addicts as well, sharing her bed and her smack till she got sick of them. She had tried to get off it, taking OxyContin, which her LA doctor had only been too happy to supply. But there was nothing like pure snow, she thought.
Sapphira was a big enough star not have to go through the medical tests for insurance. Her record on set was flawless, she was a hard worker and big money earner; as far as the studio could see, there was no problem.
Coming to Italy was not a problem on the private jet, once she had been waived through Customs. She had enough to get her through the next eight weeks and then she would have to sort out her next supply. No problem, she thought. Rome is filled with drugs, I’ll send someone off to score. Who that might be, she was not sure, but there was always someone to help Sapphira De Mont, she figured.
She took an alcohol swab out of the bag. Getting her spoon, she wiped it down with the swab and placed the chunk on it. Filling the syringe with water, she squirted it onto the spoon and lit the tea light candle she carried in her kit. Melting down the smack, she rubbed her fingers with another swab and then placed a small piece of cloth on the spoon. Rubbing between her toes with the alcohol swab, she drew the shot up into the syringe and looked for a vein. Finding one between her little toe and the one next to it, she put the needle in, withdrawing it slightly to ensure she had it in the vein. Seeing a small prick of blood come out, she injected herself.
The OxyContin worked when she was doing the action movies, as she had to be fit and trained everyday. But the hit from heroin lasted longer and so she was back on it whenever she could get away with it. When she took it she felt like nothing would ever go wrong in her world again. She stopped injecting once, a long time ago but then started again after her hopes and dreams had been shattered. That was too much for anyone to handle, she had justified at the time.
As soon as the needle touched her skin she lay on the bed and felt the relaxation drape over her like a blanket. She breathed in and out, listening to the sound of herself in the silence, thinking about the first time she took heroin.
What was the guy’s name? she wondered. They had met at a party for someone whose name they didn’t even know, and the attraction between them was instant. The knowledge that Sapphira had with her a bag of coke, twelve joints pre-rolled in her father’s Cartier diamond Art Deco cigarette case was also appealing. They blew her bag of coke together in the bathroom, smoked three joints in the spa and then fucked at her apartment.
She tried heroin because she could. There was no thought that she would be hooked, no thought of her father’s addiction. She was attached to nothing and addicted to no one but the drug had other ideas. The first time she was sick. The second time she thought she was kissing God. And now all she did was shoot up trying to chase that feeling.
The sex with the guy on smack was beyond anything she had ever felt before. It lasted for hours and Sapphira recalled a continual searching for something elusive, not finding it, yet still being incredibly satisfied.
‘Ethan,’ she said out loud. ‘That was his name. Ethan.’
She felt strong enough to rise up from the bed and finally explore her surroundings. Walking downstairs, she took in the frescos on the wall, depicting magnificent gardens and angelic characters. Grabbing the map and the large set of keys from the hall table, she stood in the foyer and tried to get her bearings. Sapphira loved this part best: being in the mystery, finding her way. Wandering from room to room, map in one hand and lit cigarette in the other she was almost happy.
Where the church had originally sat in the centre of the monastery had been transformed into the most amazing sitting room. The pews were now around the outside of the walls; the vaulted ceiling had angels and demons carved into the ancient stone. While the space was awe-inspiring, however, it was not really to Sapphira’s taste. A little too overdone and European, reminding her of her father’s house in LA, filled to overflowing with his family’s heirlooms.
Looking at the map, she took in the pool, the pool house, the kitchen, the bedrooms and the bathrooms. She noticed a smaller room on the other side of the property; biblioteca, it read on the map. Padding barefoot through the villa, Sapphira felt at home. She had an almost chameleon-like ability to feel instantly at ease wherever she was, one of the few benefits that came from her gypsy-like childhood. Touching the silk tapestries that covered the walls, she headed down the hallway and checked the map of the villa. The biblioteca should be here, she thought, as she stood in the huge passageway. She could not see a door anywhere. Stopping, she tried to get her bearings. Yes, there was the room there on the map. So where was the freaking door, she wondered, loving the mystery unfolding before her.
Standing in front of the huge tapestry where the door should have been, her eyes squinted at the needlework of knights and maidens in front of a doorway. In the doorway was an angel, holding what seemed to be the Holy Grail and a book. Sapphira stood and looked and then got the message. Knowledge is God.
Pulling back the heavy tapestry, she found the doorway to the room behind the image. The door was heavily carved in Latin, but Sapphira didn’t know what any of it meant. She tried the brass handle but the door was locked. She grabbed the set of keys from her pocket and looked for the oldest one. There were three. She tried the first one but it did not turn; the next one didn’t work either. Finally, she heard the click of the lock as it opened for the third key.
Filled from ceiling to floor with books of all shapes and sizes, it was the most beautiful room she had ever seen. There was a long sofa, as wide as a double bed, filled with cushions and covered with blankets and quilts. The room was long and had thin tall windows along the top of the walls. Running across the centre was a table, similar to one in a royal dining room, but this had Tiffany lamps on it for the readers who sat at it, poring over whatever tome they were interested in. Wooden ladders on wheels leaned against brass rods that ran around the walls of the room to enable its climbers to visit the highest realms of knowledge. Sapphira looked up at the ceiling, which was covered in a painting of the nine muses dancing under the moonlight. A bit racy for the old monks, she thought, noticing the exposed breasts of some of the dancers.
A small, single-arched doorway seemed almost hidden among the books and wooden panelled walls. Sapphira walked over and discovered an exquisite small bathroom, with a shower and walls of azure mosaic tiles. This is perfect, she thought. I can live in here, surrounded by books and I will have no one looking in on me!
She had found her secret hiding place. Her dream come true. She used to hide in the tower of her father’s house when he had his infamous parties, escaping the noise and the endless parade of people who used her father for drugs. The hidden library made her feel safe. It was comforting to be surrounded by all the knowledge. She wished she had more schooling, even though she knew she was smarter than most actresses around her. She could learn anything if she was shown a few times, she thought defiantly.
Looking at the many books, she was pleased to see some were in English, and she clapped her hands in joy and ran out along the hallway and dragged her bags into the room. Scrabbling through a suitcase, she found her iPod and Bose portable speakers. Plugging them in, Billie Holiday filled the room singing ‘Strange Fruit’ and Sapphira sang along.
Looking around the library, her eyes searched out the perfect hiding spot. Crawling under the long table with the Comme des Garçons zippered purse, she felt along the underside and sought out the ledge she instinctively knew was there. Placing the purse on it, she clambered out and stood in the centre of the room. She was safe.
PART TWO
CHAPTER FOUR
Sometimes film sets can be magical places. When everyone comes together with the same goal, and egos stay off the set, great films are made.
TG thought that hosting a dinner at his villa with the female actors in attendance would create a connection between everyone. Giulia, his Italian assistant, had been working for the last two weeks with Italy’s premier party planner to create the perfect welcoming event. Lanterns had been strung across the vast courtyard in the centre of the villa. Candles were all around the outside, giving the place a ceremonial feel. There were two long tables running down the centre to seat the sixty guests and armfuls of sunflowers had been placed in tall vases with lengths of grapevine laced between every place setting. The soft orange linens lay on the table with an array of glasses in different sizes and shapes.
Local chefs were to provide a Tuscan feast for the crew. When asking for the dietary requirements of the leading stars, Giulia was relieved to find that there were not too many quirks to cope with. Calypso was a vegetarian, so Giulia ensured that there were delectable pastas that would appeal to her as well as salads and breads. The thought quickly passed through her mind that maybe this American actress was ‘carbophobic’, but she pushed it away again. Who doesn’t love pasta, she mused as she moved the chairs around the tables.
Upstairs, TG was being interviewed on the phone by a Variety reporter about The Italian Dream.
‘Tell me about the film, it seems very different than your other films, more of a chick flick,’ said the reporter.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said TG, trying to keep the exasperation from his voice. Why wouldn’t Hollywood ever allow you to change, he wondered. ‘But, yeah, it is, very different,’ said TG. ‘It’s a story about three women in Italy all at a crisis in their life. Sapphira De Mont plays the role of the woman mourning the loss of her husband and trying to renovate a villa so she can sell it to return to the US. Rose Nightingale’s character plays a woman discovering herself after leaving her husband who cheated on her and Calypso Gable is a young backpacker who finds love in Italy. It’s an ensemble piece and I’m really excited about working with such great women,’ said TG. He was actually terrified of fucking it up but he didn’t say such a thing. Variety wanted to hear about the biggest film to be released next year, destined to be a critical and commercial success, provided TG could pull it off.
‘Your last film had the most expensive car chase ever filmed. How are you going to go from filming such high-impact scenes to filming women talking about their feelings?’ laughed the reporter.
TG paused. He asked himself the same thing every night since he had agreed to direct the film. ‘Telling the story is what I do. So whether it’s a car chase or an interchange between two actors, I do my best to get the story across.’
As the interview finished, TG hung up the phone and ran his hands through his hair and walked over to the large window in the study, staring at the amazing view in front of him. The hills of Umbria rolled out in front of him, the violet skies signalled twilight and TG knew the party was soon to start. He sent a small wish out as he saw the first star start to twinkle. Please let the shoot go well, he thought and laughed to himself, wondering what the Variety reporter would think of him, if he knew he was wishing on a star.
TG walked downstairs and looked at the party Giulia and her party planner had organized. It was a sight to behold: the lanterns and candles were lit, citronella was in the air and, as dusk fell, the courtyard was heavy with atmosphere and romance. The waiters stood by waiting for guests and ready to ply them with Prosecco and wine. The chefs were busy in the huge kitchen, applying the finishing touches to the feast. All they needed now were the guests.
The lower members of the crew arrived first, then the producers and finally the stars. Calypso arrived, always punctual, as taught by Leeza. She glowed in the courtyard like a firefly, stunning in a One Vintage gold lamé dress from the 1920s that had been reworked for her. The beaded appliqué around the low neckline shimmered and a tulle detail around the skirt edged up over one side to reveal just the right amount of thigh. Worn with a pair of patent leather Christian Louboutin black slingbacks and her new evening bag from the Perugia flea market, Calypso shone in the dark. Gratefully accepting a glass of champagne from a waiter, she took a sip to relieve her nerves.
The start of any job, big or small, made her nervous. Self-doubt and worry stayed with her till her director made her comfortable. Working with TG, she hoped, would be easy and he would be helpful. Calypso relied heavily on her director for both moral and directorial support. While she was a good actor, with sound comedic timing reminiscent of a young Ginger Rogers, she lacked the self-confidence and maturity to truly explore the options for the character. The last film she had done had really just required her to say her lines, look gorgeous and do her perfect laugh several times – the laugh which made audiences fall in love with her. This shoot was going to be different; she was really going to have to act, particularly in the scenes with Sapphira and Rose. Christ, she thought, I hope I can cut it.
She felt a little sick. Looking around for a familiar face, she spotted Kelly talking to two men, with their backs to Calypso. She walked over towards them, aware all eyes in the room were on her, except for TG in a navy blue velvet jacket and worn jeans laughing with Kelly. He whispered something in Kelly’s ear and she looked over to Calypso and smiled, waving her over.
‘Hi, doll, you look divine. God, what a dress! Calypso, this is my husband Chris, who is also the DOP. And I presume you already know TG,’ she said warmly, motioning towards the man in the blue jacket.
TG turned and looked at Calypso. Jesus fucking Christ, he thought, she is stunning. When she had walked into the audition back in LA he was instantly attracted to her but he had sworn off actresses and especially ones in his own films.
‘Yes, yes, hi again,’ he heard himself saying. He remembered Calypso was gorgeous but had no idea how beautiful she really was till he saw her dressed in gold and so luminous. The light of the candles lit the shadows under her cheekbones and made her hazel eyes almost seem yellow in the light. He felt a chill run down his spine.
Calypso smiled and took a sip from her glass and remained silent. When she was nervous she said too much, and right now, she was really, really nervous. Any minute he’ll find out I’m an imposter, she thought.
‘How’s things, Cal?’ asked Kelly. ‘How’re you settling into bella Italia?’
‘Great. I slept for nearly eighteen hours, I think, then woke up and went to dinner and ate the most amazing pastry and met a boy.’ Calypso stopped, aware she had just run on and then swore in front of her director again, just like in the audition. I must look like a kid to them, she thought as she felt them staring at her.
There was no judgement from her audience though. Chris was thinking: I can’t wait to shoot her. She is gorgeous.
Kelly was thinking several things: She met a boy? Already? Well played, Calypso. And then looking at Calypso’s slender figure, she thought incredulously, she ate carbs!
TG didn’t hear a word Calypso said. He just watched her mouth move and the way the light flickered over her face and shoulders. He felt himself mesmerized and tried to pull himself together.
A boy? he wondered. Man, she was fast. Lucky bastard, he thought. Shit, TG, you just broke up with an actress. You know what they’re like! The last thing you need is a distraction. Get your head in the game, boy, he admonished himself. Smiling thinly at Calypso, he turned his back on her and walked towards the bar.
Calypso felt her cheeks flush with shame. He thinks I’m an idiot, a silly little girl, she thought as she watched him walk away.
The inadequacies she felt always came back, leaving her feeling stupid and uneducated. She watched TG as he chatted to someone by the bar. He was probably one of those uptight intellectual New Yorkers, she thought and immediately decided to hate him. Partly because this was her normal reaction to someone when she felt less than them, but also because it protected her. Leeza had drummed into her: ‘If they don’t like you, then fuck them, you didn’t like them first.’
For all the self-help and self-improvement books she had read over the years, when Calypso felt threatened, everything she thought she had learned went out the window and she returned to being Leeza’s daughter again, defensive when doubted or questioned.
Kelly watched TG’s reaction and Calypso’s response to him carefully. Knowing TG as she did, he was clearly attracted to her. Yet this is what he always did, she thought. He runs away, afraid of his feelings, and the woman always has to chase him. Looking at the young girl in front of her, she reached out and touched her arm, her skin soft beneath her hand. ‘He’s a little wound up, always like this before a shoot. He really is a great guy, you’ll see.’
‘Whatever, it’s cool,’ Calypso said to Kelly but inside she was fuming.
Looking around for any other faces she knew, she saw Rose Nightingale had arrived. She hadn’t seen her come in but couldn’t miss her now. Tall and slender in a peach georgette chiffon, halter-neck Chloé gown, Rose was beautiful. Her shoulders and arms were lily white, and she wore a gold Etruscan cuff on one arm and matching gold hoop earrings, which showed off her long neck.
Her brunette hair was swept up into a ponytail and she had applied her make-up in such a way that it looked as if she had barely any on but her features were perfect. Calypso knew this kind of make-up took over an hour to apply and she was a little star-struck. Rose was an icon and had the power and respect in the industry that Calypso hoped to one day have herself.
Seeing the girl in the gold dress staring at her, Rose made a beeline to her. ‘Hello, I’m Rose,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m thrilled to be working with you. I saw your film on the plane on the way over. You were great, well done.’
Rose had a way of instantly putting people at ease. After her experience at drama school in London, she worked hard to make women at ease with her. Her warmth and kindness, just when Calypso felt so vulnerable, was exactly what was needed.
‘You’re very funny, it’s so hard to be funny. I can’t ever do it. It’s easy to cry on set, just think of your dog dying or something and then the waterworks start. But to make people laugh, well, that’s hard.’
Rose was so sincere and earnest that Calypso believed her immediately and decided to like her straightaway. Seeing her relax in her presence, Rose touched her arm. ‘Let’s sit together at dinner, shall we? I want to hear all about you.’
Calypso nodded eagerly. Rose’s motherly instinct was exactly what Calypso needed at that moment.
TG walked over and kissed Rose on both cheeks. They had known each other through the industry A-list parties and events and Rose was thrilled to be finally working with him.
‘Well, hello there,’ he said. ‘I see you’ve met Calypso.’
Calypso glared at him. If Rose noticed any tension she didn’t let on, instead she talked about how happy she was to be in Italy and how she hoped her family would come and visit her here.
While she spoke, TG did not look at Calypso once, even though Rose included her in the conversation several times. Calypso was becoming more and more incensed. This guy is an asshole, she thought, wishing she had taken the action film instead.
TG was aware of Calypso next to him though. Her presence was electric and whatever perfume she was wearing was driving him crazy. He knew if he turned to face her he would want to touch her face, her hair, her body. Oh my God, he thought, as Rose kept talking, I’m insane. I’m tragic. What kind of a guy falls for a woman he has just met? This isn’t right. It must be the candles and the fact that I haven’t had sex for five months.
Gun-shy from his experience with the ambitious starlet, he made a vow he would never date an actress again – until he met Calypso. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and saw her looking at Rose as she spoke. She seemed tense; maybe she was nervous. Perhaps he should say something to relax her, he thought.
Racking his brain he said the first thing that popped into his head. ‘Calypso ate a pastry.’ The shock of this sentence ran through his body and he felt himself cringing.
Calypso shot a deathly stare at him. Was he worried she was going to get fat in Italy? Was he making fun of her? I’ll have to ring my trainer and get her to send me a DVD tomorrow to do while I’m here, she thought. Fuck, what the hell does that comment mean?
Rose clapped her hands, her gold cuff catching the light. ‘Oh God, the food here is wonderful. I plan to get really fat after filming! I want my family to come over and we’ll go on a gastronomic tour of the region. What sort of pastry did you have?’ she asked.
Calypso’s mouth was set in a straight line. ‘Berries, chocolate.’ she answered through gritted teeth.
TG saw her face set and knew she thought he was a dick. Oh well, at least I won’t have to worry about my crush if she hates me, he thought.
Giulia walked over and suggested to TG it was time to sit down for the dinner as the chefs were getting worried their feast would be spoiled.
‘Is Sapphira here yet?’
‘No, not yet but she’s on her way. I rang her driver,’ Giulia replied.
‘Great, we’ll start to get everyone to the table and begin without her.’
‘Excuse me,’ he said to Rose and Calypso, and walked towards a group of people, gesturing at the table.
Rose and Calypso wandered over, setting down their glasses. Rose pulled out her chair and sat down before the waiter standing behind her had time. Patting the chair next to her, she looked up at Calypso, who was debating whether to run away. ‘Come on, sit next to me. This’ll be fun.’
Rose’s enthusiasm was infectious and Calypso decided things would be all right if she stuck with her for the shoot. The party sat down, and TG stood and tapped his champagne glass with his fork. As he did, Sapphira arrived and the whole table fell silent. She stood in the doorway of the courtyard, wearing a white leather Pucci mini dress, with a huge silver and black eagle on the front looking as if it were about to land on its prey. She wore no jewellery and long black hair hung loosely down her back. Her legs seemed to stretch forever, ending in a pair of Balmain suede calf-high boots, with five silver buckles up each side. Her entrance stunned the room; it was dramatic and powerful, not unlike Sapphira herself.
TG spoke, breaking the moment. ‘Well, I was about to make a speech but one of our stars took the words right out of my mouth,’ he said, laughing.
The table joined in his laughter and Sapphira smiled at the group, getting the joke. She felt good tonight; she had slept this afternoon and had a gorgeous swim in the pool. She had lain in the sun and was instantly sun kissed. She looked great and she knew it. Looking along the table, she recognized Rose. Everyone knew Rose, but she didn’t know the young girl sitting next to her looking anxious. Sapphira didn’t watch television or films, preferring books and providing her own entertainment. The industry did not interest her but the craft of acting did, so she tried to read and experience as much as she could so she would have emotions to draw on when she was working.
Rose waved at her and smiled. They had met at a few Women in Hollywood functions and while it was only small talk, they had found each other pleasant. Sapphira didn’t have girlfriends. In fact, she didn’t have any friends; she only had lovers or ex-lovers.
Friendship was not something she’d had growing up. Her mother hadn’t had friends and her father only had people who used him for drugs and parties at his house. The pack she ran with in her teenage years had not stayed together; drug overdoses, rehab and prison time had split the group up and then Sapphira became a star. It was problematic enough trying to maintain a steady sexual relationship, let alone an emotional one.
Walking towards Rose, Sapphira hoped she would be easy to work with and not get too close. People always tried to be her friend but she would have none of it. Besides, she didn’t want people to know her secret. Better she spent her time alone. It had worked for her fine, so far.
‘Hello there,’ said Rose. ‘You look amazing! Well done, you. That dress looks as though it was made for you.’
‘It was,’ said Sapphira, without any arrogance. Designers made her outfits all the time and she chose the ones she could wear, instead of the dress wearing her. She had seen too many celebrities on red carpets overdressed and struggling with their trains and fussing over a lost Harry Winston earring on loan for the night.
‘This is Calypso Gable, our other actress. We’re the three amigos, I guess,’ laughed Rose.
‘Hi,’ said Sapphira.
‘Hello,’ answered Calypso, intimidated by Sapphira’s sexual presence and beauty.
‘Calypso has just made a big impact in her new hit film. Have you seen it?’
‘No,’ said Sapphira, sitting down. ‘I don’t watch films or television,’ she shrugged unapologetically.
‘Not at all?’ asked Rose.
‘Nope, I prefer to read,’ she answered.
‘Well, good for you. Although if people didn’t watch anything then we would be out of jobs, I suppose,’ she said, laughing at her own joke.
The fog of worry began to envelop Calypso again. She was not of this calibre, she thought. Rose, the greatest actress of this generation; Sapphira, an intellectual and sexual powerhouse. And her, little Miss Hollywood. She pulled out her phone and began to text her mother, then took a big swig of the red wine that the waiter had put in front of her.
TG tapped his glass again. ‘Thank you, everyone. If I can have a moment … Sapphira, is that okay with you?’
The table laughed again and Sapphira nodded majestically towards him, as if allowing him his time in her spotlight.
‘This is a big thrill for me, having such a great team to do justice to this wonderful script. For those I’ve worked with before, thanks for helping me out again. For those I’ve not yet worked with, I look forward to building a great relationship.’
As he said these last words, he felt his eyes drawn to Calypso. She was looking at her mobile phone, not listening to him at all. Probably texting her boyfriend, he thought. Maybe Kelly was wrong; maybe she is just a spoilt little brat.
He paused. Hearing the silence Calypso looked up at him. He felt a shock run through his body. ‘So, thank you. I’m available for any of you night or day. Please let me know if you need anything – and here’s to a great shoot.’ He raised his glass as did everyone else at the table. ‘Salut!’ he cried.
‘Salut!’ the table cried in unison.
‘Let’s eat!’ Rose called out.
The dinner was a great success, the food amazing. Bruschetta, fresh asparagus, seven types of pasta dish, some with the black truffles of the region grated over them, fennel and orange salad, duck breast with cabbage and glazed vegetables, three cheeses from the region. The Umbrian red and white wine flowed all night and they finished with chocolate and crema di fragola, with fresh strawberries on the side.
It was a decadent feast, with Rose the only one allowing herself to try several of the pastas. Calypso, still smarting from TG’s comment, stuck to the salad and vegetables and some cheese. Sapphira took some duck and salad but pushed it around the plate. She did eat the chocolate, however, allowing herself to indulge as her body always craved sugar.
None of the male co-stars were on set yet. TG wanted to shoot all the collective scenes with the women first, then he would shoot their individual scenes later.
Rose was working hard to draw more information out of Sapphira, as she seemed a little glazed. Probably just jet-lag, thought Rose.
‘How’s your villa?’ Rose asked. ‘Mine’s lovely.’
‘It’s okay. I haven’t really looked around much,’ Sapphira said vacantly.
‘Oh,’ said Rose surprised. Once she had awoken from her sleep, exploring the house and the garden was the first thing she did. ‘Well, plenty of time for that, I’m sure.’
‘How about you, Calypso? How’s your villa? The views from mine are amazing.’
‘Um, I’m staying in a hotel,’ she said, instantly regretting her reply. Now I look like the child in the hotel and not grown-up enough to have a house, she thought. ‘I was offered a villa,’ she added quickly. ‘But I wanted to be in the city.’
‘Yeah, I get it,’ said Rose. ‘That’s where Kelly and I were when we were young. Any good shops I should visit?’
‘Did you know Kelly before LA?’ asked Calypso.
‘Yeah, we went to school together, best friends since we were fourteen,’ laughed Rose.
‘How great, and now you are here together,’ marvelled Calypso. She would have done anything for a best friend from school.
‘I know, amazing, really,’ said Rose, looking fondly at her best friend telling TG off for something.
TG came over and pulled up a chair opposite the women. ‘Hello, ladies,’ he said, in his smoothest professional lounge voice. ‘We’re all getting to know each other?’
Calypso and Sapphira were silent, so Rose spoke. ‘Yes, it’s lovely, we’re all becoming fast friends now, I think?’ She looked to the other women; Sapphira and Calypso smiled.
‘Thank you for this, TG. I’m really excited to explore my character with you,’ said Sapphira.
There was an open invitation in her voice and Calypso was startled. Jesus, the eagle on her dress wasn’t just for show! She was a hunter and TG was her prey.
TG smiled. ‘Sure, I think we’ll all do great work on this. Please speak to me about any ideas you may have on the character or the scenes and we can work through it all together.’
Calypso noticed that he didn’t seem to take Sapphira up on her offer; instead he kept his professional mask on. Probably didn’t want to mix business and pleasure, she thought, although Sapphira was incredible in her beauty and presence.
TG was called by Giulia and Calypso watched him walk away. ‘Is he gay?’ Sapphira asked.
‘No, no, he just broke up with someone in LA, I think,’ Rose answered vaguely.
Sapphira watched him walk away. A shame, she thought. Might have been some fun while in Italy. Oh well, there’s always my co-star.
Sapphira’s ego was large enough not to take TG’s snub as insulting. She factored it down to him being broken-hearted – something she could have fixed, but she wasn’t going to chase after him. She stood up, smoothed her dress, drained her wine glass and set it on the table.
‘Rose, Calypso, I look forward to working with you both. Goodnight.’ Then she turned and walked out to her driver and car.
Rose and Calypso sat staring after her. ‘Well, that’s lovely,’ said Rose unconvincingly.
‘She’s weird,’ Calypso replied and Rose couldn’t disagree with Calypso’s assessment.
Sapphira was certainly more than unusual, thought Rose, but it was more than being eccentric. Rose understood eccentric, she was friends with Kelly after all. No, Sapphira was troubled, Rose was sure of it. Behind the façade of fabulous was fear.
Rose wondered what on earth Sapphira had to fear. The girl had everything.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘What do you mean they can’t find the time?’ Rose barked down the phone to Lauren as Lucia placed a bowl of apples in front of the apricots on the table.
‘Well, I tried to tee it up but they’re really busy, and it’s the wrong time of the year for some of them with school and work,’ said Lauren.
‘Bloody hell. Now I have this fucking giant villa filled with stuff and no one to use it. No wonder the housekeeper thinks I’m mad. She keeps mumbling “ghost children” at me in Italian and now it makes sense,’ said Rose, biting into the crisp fruit.
Lauren laughed, ‘That’s too funny!’
‘Really? You think?’ rebutted Rose.
‘I know you’re sad but your family have lives also, Rose. I know you may think I’m out of line but you can’t expect them to drop everything just because you have a villa and a box of Snakes and Ladders.’
‘I know that. It’s just I never see them. My niece and nephew never see me anymore except in Hello! magazine,’ said Rose sadly.
‘Well, maybe you can head over there before you start shooting the next film and spend some time with your family. I can move a few things and make some more room in your schedule.’
Rose could hear Lauren tapping at the keyboard. ‘Maybe, we’ll see,’ said Rose.
It was irritating that her family never met her halfway when she asked them. They had no understanding of her fame or if they did, they were unaffected by it. In fact, Rose was certain her parents had not even seen her last two films. Rose had offered them premiere tickets but they declined, saying they had promised to babysit for Rose’s brother and look after the grandchildren.
Rose had yelled at her mother down the phone from her hotel suite, claiming she didn’t care, which her mother gently pushed back onto Rose. ‘Rosie,’ she had said, ‘I had promised Martin I would help him and Fiona months ago. I cannot drop everything just because your face is on the trams. First in, best dressed,’ her mother had explained in her usual unemotional way.
Rose had begrudgingly apologized to her mother and later, with her therapist, had acknowledged that her parents’ refusal to be spellbound by her job and instead retain equal relationships with their children was to be commended. Sometimes though, Rose felt a little left out, being so far away from England and with no grandchildren for her mother to babysit.
Rose’s temper was legendary in her family. If anyone threw a tantrum, they called it ‘doing a Rose’. It was something she was able to keep a lid on when she worked, but privately she could rage and rage. It never had any effect on Paul; in fact, it became worse when she was married to him. She would yell and throw things just to be heard but he just ignored her. His cruelty was astounding, something she did not realize he had in him till it was too late. His favourite way to punish her was to ignore her; he would literally cast her out of his life till he decided to forgive her. She never knew when this would be. He would eat at the same table, sleep in the spare room but he would not answer her, not even flinch when at times she slapped him. If he had a message for her, he would leave it with their bewildered Mexican housekeeper. Once, her parents came to visit in the middle of one of these episodes. Whenever they were around he would act as if they didn’t have a care in the world. The minute they were out of the room, he started ignoring her again.
Her ex-husband, Paul Ross, had been a teen heartthrob and had become a household name, loved by critics and the public alike. After seeing Rose in a small independent film that she had made when she was first in LA, Paul had pursued Rose relentlessly.
Rose, at twenty-two and fresh out of acting school had been entranced by his fame, good looks and energy. But the more Rose learned about Paul after the ring was on her finger, the more she realized he was unhinged. Taking huge doses of vitamins and prescription and non-prescription drugs, convinced that they would help him stay young. Drinking a bottle of tomato ketchup every day to prevent prostate cancer. His obsession with immortality even went to the extreme of his forging an obsessive relationship with a South American plastic surgeon, whom Rose secretly called Doctor Dorian Gray.
Rose and Paul’s sex life was uninspiring but a sexually inexperienced Rose hadn’t known any better. They tried for a baby – well, Rose did – but it’s hard to make a child when your husband won’t even talk to you, let alone have sex with you.
After ten years of marriage, Rose was no closer to having a baby and no closer to fulfilling the talent and potential that she had shown in her first film.
The treatment ate away at Rose’s self-esteem. She started to see a therapist and while she told him of her marriage problems she never told the whole truth about the way Paul rejected her.
‘You need to talk more, you and Paul. Communication is the answer,’ advised the therapist.
Rose nodded and smiled. She had finally communicated her frustration by running into a wall with a small kitchen knife to her chest. Not that anyone besides Paul, her agent and her mother knew this – and her trusted doctors, of course. After intensive therapy and a five-week stay in hospital, Rose slowly revealed the years of Paul’s mental torture. She still remembered the look on her doctor’s face when he spoke to Rose. ‘He’s a bully. Anyone who treats another person like this is in pain. They hate themselves and they hate everyone else. He feels better when you feel bad. It gives him power. It’s abuse, Rose.’
What he said was the truth, as Rose knew in her heart, but to leave Paul was the biggest decision she would ever have to make. The suicide attempt had actually saved her, as had the film in Europe. Maybe this was why she worked so much. When she worked she was safe and busy and did not have time to think about what her life lacked or the choices she had made.
Had she been serious about wanting to die, Rose often wondered. Was she trying to get Paul to notice her? Or did she just want to feel something, prove she existed? Thankfully, her agent, Randy, had arrived in time to get her help and cover up everything so it didn’t end up in the tabloids. But not once did Paul visit her in hospital, not even a card or a phone call.
Lauren’s voice pulled Rose out of her dark memories. ‘You have dresses from Oscar De La Renta, Zac Posen, Dior, Elie Saab and Chanel for the Cannes Film Festival opening. I can send you images via email or FedEx them over if you like.’
‘Send over the images and I’ll have a look.’
‘Maybe you can wear one of them there. You sure you don’t want me to send them over?’ asked Lauren, looking at the divine dresses hanging in the office.
‘Nah, I’ve nowhere to wear them. All I do is try not to eat the entire contents of this house,’ Rose sulked. ‘The housekeeper feeds me every five minutes, I swear. I’m going to be too huge for the dresses anyway. Call Weight Watchers, they just got themselves a new spokesperson.’
Lauren knew this voice. Rose was feeling sorry for herself. ‘What about Sapphira or Calypso? What are they doing?’ she said, ignoring Rose’s self pity.
‘Ha!’ said Rose. ‘You’ve got to be joking. Sapphira is as odd as a box of frogs and Calypso is so young, it makes me feel old just looking at her. Maybe you can come over and play Snakes and Ladders with me,’ Rose laughed. ‘I could throw a fit and send a private plane for you, courtesy of the studio and you can come and visit with me.’
Lauren was silent on the phone.
‘Lauren, are you there?’ asked Rose.
‘Yep, sorry, I’m here, just distracted,’ came back Lauren’s tight voice.
‘Did I say something to upset you?’ asked Rose, confused.
‘No, no. Not at all. I would love to come, of course, but I’ve lots to do here, you know that,’ said Lauren, and the ease between them closed over and Lauren was back as an employee.
Rose shook off her concern and put Lauren’s reaction down to her being over-friendly. She had to remember to put up professional boundaries, her therapist said. But boundaries were not Rose’s strong point; she barged in and tried to fix everything in everyone’s lives. Choosing not to explore Lauren’s reaction to her invitation in the name of boundaries, she and Lauren then chatted about the emails Lauren was forwarding her and then she rang off.
Hanging up from Lauren, she walked around the grand salon. She didn’t want to watch TV; Italian TV was odd, filled with semi-nude women and dancing – and that was just the nightly news report, she thought. Lucia had left her a delicious looking frittata and salad. She had asked for no more carbs, like pasta. Lucia mumbled to her husband that Rose was ‘too thin, needed feeding’.
She walked down to the study and stood looking at the Wii machine. Wondering how it worked she opened the manual and, following the prompts, played around with the buttons until it sprang into life on the screen. What did she want to play? Tennis? Baseball? Basketball? Bowling?
I was always good at tennis, she thought, remembering her days back on the school team. Playing through the demonstration, Rose found it easier than she expected. Next thing she knew, she was playing the machine and laughing and cheering herself on. An hour later, she was in a lather of perspiration and her serving arm was quite sore. Who needs a trainer, she thought as she drank from a bottle of water she grabbed from the large kitchen.
Opening the fridge, she cut herself a large slice of frittata and put some salad on the plate. Wandering into the lounge, she turned on the TV. Flicking through the channels, she saw a film that Paul had made during the time of their divorce. He seemed so beautiful onscreen, untouched by the drama in their personal lives. Paul had dealt with the breakup by dating a new starlet from Romania, tipped to be the new Bond girl. Rose knew she was with Paul’s agent, so didn’t believe the relationship; the agency manufactured relationships between their stars all the time. For years the rumours about her and Paul’s marriage was that it was a business deal. Perhaps it was to Paul but to Rose it was a real marriage and even though she was happy to be free, all the same she grieved for what life might have been like.
The last time Rose and Paul had faced each other was with their lawyers at her lawyer’s plush offices to sign the papers and work out a satisfactory financial deal. Paul had been charming to Rose, friendly and caring, claiming he wanted the best for her and mostly for her to be happy. Rose had sat waiting for the change in him to manifest but Paul kept up the act until the lawyers left them for a moment in the large boardroom.
As the door closed behind them, Paul had leaned over the table and hissed, ‘You will get nothing, you slut. Nothing, you hear me. I am gonna bury you. That affair with that asshole was the final straw. I always knew you couldn’t keep your legs shut.’
Rose sat silently, relieved to see the Paul she knew come back. His act in front of the lawyers was disarming; this Paul she felt she had finally learned to handle.
‘Be very careful, Paul,’ she said, doing her best Judi Dench impersonation. He was always intimidated by her English accent. ‘I happen to know about you and your South American surgeon, or should I say lover. I had my lawyers look into it with a private detective and if I were you, I would stay tuned to Inside Edition to see the highlights of the tape I have in my possession.’
Rose took a punt and it worked. He was shocked and his face visibly paled in front of her. This time Rose hissed across the table. ‘I want only what I deserve after putting up with ten years of your lies, abuse and bullshit. You’re the asshole. You didn’t even come and see me in hospital, you prick!’ She spat out the words.
Paul sat stunned and Rose felt a tiny bit sorry for him. ‘Paul, if you’re gay then just come out. You don’t need any more money. You are beyond wealthy. You are living a lie and you and I know it. If you care about your doctor then tell him, be with him.’
Paul looked up at her, his eyes filled with tears and Rose finally understood why he was like he was, always trying to push down his sexual urges, trying to control what he couldn’t when what he wanted to control was his attraction to men.
‘Rose, you know …’ His voice was soft, real almost, and then the door opened to the boardroom and the lawyers walked back in. Paul straightened his posture. ‘Whatever Rose wants, guys. She was a good wife and I’m sorry it didn’t work out.’
And with that he grabbed the divorce papers on the desk, signed them with his Visconti pen, stood up, walked around to Rose, kissed her cheek softly and left the room. It was the most tender moment of their marriage that she could remember.
Rose pushed the thoughts away and changed the channel on the TV remote. Satellite had been installed and there were more channels than back in LA. Flicking over, she saw something she recognized. ‘Yay!’ she squealed and sat down with her dinner on her lap and watched an episode of The Bill, alone but content.
In the kitchen, Lucia was less than content with Rose being alone. Apples were a start, she thought, apples would draw a lover to her but it was apple with cinnamon that would bring the man faster to the woman.
Lucia busied herself in the kitchen. Mele speziate con sultanine, she thought. Spiced apple with sultanas. No one could resist Lucia’s cooking, it was magic, everyone said so. Lucia sang as she worked. If only they knew, she thought.
CHAPTER SIX
There was no rehearsal time for The Italian Dream. TG wanted the actors to be ready to film once they came on set. The affable guy who had greeted the women at the dinner party the previous night had disappeared and in his place was a man focused on his task.
‘I’m going to try and shoot as much as I can in order for your sake and the DOP. Chris and I have worked out some shots which won’t require long set-up times but some may take a while, so please be patient,’ said TG as he addressed the women in the make-up trailer, who had already been in hair and make-up for the past two hours, before walking back to the dilapidated villa where the shoot was taking place.
‘He seems stressed,’ said Calypso to Kelly, worried about the day ahead.
‘Nah, he’s not stressed, just focused. He’s pretty single minded when he wants to be,’ said Kelly as she moved about the trailer lining up make-up brushes. ‘He’s a funny one, all soft on the outside but if anyone fucks with him or people he loves he gets all Tony Soprano on their ass.’
Calypso watched TG as he and Chris stood talking as she walked over for her call in wardrobe.
They were discussing the first scene where Rose and Sapphira’s characters arrive at Rose’s character’s villa looking for a place to stay.
TG walked across to wardrobe, where Calypso was about to be dressed by the costume crew. Her character was a young backpacker who had just finished university, so they had pulled together jeans and cut-off shorts, t-shirts, singlets and sandals, as well as a few pretty dresses and shirts. It was casual and homespun; the kind of clothes Calypso felt the most comfortable in. Walking into the dressing room trailer, TG found her standing in a tiny Calvin Klein pink polka dotted bra and pants. With a full face of make-up and her hair in loose plaits, courtesy of the hair department, she looked like a young Brigitte Bardot. She took TG’s breath away, not because she was so incredibly sexy but because she looked so innocent. Her figure was insane, he thought. He could see her tiny waist and pert breasts, her toned legs and gorgeous ass in the mirror behind her.
He felt his cock start to move. Nooooo, he thought, barking at her to cover his embarrassment. ‘Hurry up, you ready yet? We’re waiting.’
Calypso looked at Helen, the costume head, who shook her head slightly as if to say, I don’t know what bug got up his ass.
Calypso slipped on denim shorts and a pink singlet, and sliding into her sandals, she stomped out of the trailer. ‘Isn’t it kinda hard to be behind when you haven’t started shooting yet?’ she retorted to TG.
This was going to be a nightmare, she thought as she walked towards the set.
TG wanted to kick himself. He knew he was being an asshole; he was always an asshole when he was nervous. Walking towards the set, he headed towards Calypso, wanting to apologize, but she was deep in conversation with Kelly. No doubt telling her what a prick he was, he thought, as he saw Kelly turn and throw a death stare in his direction. Fuck, now he was going to face the wrath of ‘Kali’, as she called herself when she got mad.
Rose and Sapphira came on set, perfect in their costume and make-up. He called the women over. ‘So, this is where we meet you all. Sapphira, your character is already at the villa. Calypso, you have just turned up, with no idea where you are, lost and looking for help. Rose, you know what you are doing?’
Rose nodded.
‘Let’s run it a few times and get the feel,’ TG said.
While the actors walked through the lines and found their marks, the crew were busy, fixing the lighting and the sound. Props were moving items to work with the actors’ marks, and make-up stood by waiting to do touch-ups if needed.
The actors had a natural chemistry and looked like a dream through the camera. TG felt they were ready to shoot. Four takes later and they had it in the can. There’d been a spark as soon as TG yelled ‘action’ and each of them brought their own specialness to the roles. Calypso was perfect, her flustered comedic timing brought lightness to the sadness of Rose’s character who was mourning her husband. And Sapphira brought the right amount of enigmatic pathos to her role, balancing out the others perfectly.
‘Fucking excellent!’ yelled TG as he watched the playbacks. The crew all clapped, as was the ritual when the first shot was done on the shoot.
The morning went like a dream, all of the actors being pleasant and professional. Rose and Calypso instantly bonded and even Sapphira was seen joking with some of the guys in the crew. The assistant director called ‘lunch’ and the actors and crew walked over to catering. Every imaginable sort of food was laid out in front of them. American, Italian and even some French. TG grabbed a tray and stood while Kelly helped herself to salad, cheeses and bread. Without looking up at him, she asked, ‘Why are you being a dick to Calypso?’
‘I didn’t think I was,’ he said, knowing it was an outright lie.
‘Well, you are, and it’s stressing her out. She thinks you think she’s fat and stupid. What the hell did you say to her?’
‘Nothing. Oh you know, I said something and it came out wrong and then every time I see her I say something even more stupid than the last time. It’s like I’ve got Tourette’s or something. I’ll apologize.’
‘You better, ’cause the acting you just saw was bloody good from her and the more relaxed she is the better she performs. I worked with her on the Bazaar shoot and when she’s chilled she is a dream,’ she said, waving the salad tongs at him.
TG put down his tray and walked towards Calypso’s trailer. Rose and Sapphira were eating with the crew, but Calypso had headed off for time by herself – never a good sign. This film was only going to work if the crew became like a family and right now he had a problem. He saw her door was open, and as he climbed the step he heard her talking.
‘He is so mean to me, Mom. He yells at me and I swear he thinks I’m fat. I said I ate a pastry and then he saw me in costume today and looked at me like I was a freaking elephant.’
She paused. ‘Mom, it was one pastry! I know, I know, I’ll go for a run. Yes. No, I don’t want you to come over. I’m fine. Rose is nice and Kelly is sweet to me. I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl now. I just hate him. I hate him all the time!’
Calypso sounded like a small child and TG felt awful. Now was not the right time to see her; he would wait and try to make it up to her on set that afternoon.
The afternoon shooting went better but Calypso didn’t speak to TG unless he spoke to her first. Any questions she had about her character she ran by Sapphira and Rose, who were really helpful and ran lines with her off set. Rose was great at helping Calypso dissect the script to find the hidden clues about the character, and Sapphira offered different ways to say the lines, which Calypso found inspiring.
‘There is no one way. I think finding the right reaction is a process. There is no immediate right response. You can explore and then if you want to use the original choice, then great, but it’s worth finding out,’ Sapphira explained as she and Calypso sat in Calypso’s trailer talking.
‘You’re so smart. How do you know all this?’ asked Calypso admiringly. Sapphira was not quite as weird as she had first thought. Calypso had broken through Sapphira’s defensive attitude with sheer persistence and by the end of the first day Calypso hugged her. ‘You’re a saint, Sapphira. I would have been lost today without you and Rose.’
‘You’ll be fine, sweetie. You just gotta believe it,’ Sapphira said with a casual wave as she walked to her car.
TG was so busy he didn’t have time to speak to Calypso and before he knew it they had wrapped for the day and the crew had packed up.
Kelly and Chris walked over. ‘Dinner at yours tonight?’ asked Chris.
‘Sure, sure, make it a bit later though. I have to go through today’s rushes and call LA.’
Kelly glared at him; he was not looking forward to tonight’s date. He watched Calypso walk over to her car. She turned and looked at him; he felt sick in his stomach. ‘Don’t hate me,’ he said under his breath. He smiled and waved goodbye at her.
Calypso looked at him blankly, and then slipped in the back seat and the car drove off. On the drive to her hotel, she was confused. Maybe he was one of those uptight directors who was a tyrant on set and a teddy bear off. Too hard, she thought, as the car sped along the dusty roads towards the main highway. He wasn’t worth thinking about, she thought. Closing her eyes, she let the day and TG slip from her mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Calypso waited in Sapphira’s trailer while the set was readied for their scene. Sapphira had asked her to run lines, which Calypso was grateful for, although she thought that Sapphira had the lines down fine. It was Calypso who needed the practice. Marco was taking up most of her time outside of filming and yesterday TG had yelled at her when she flubbed a few lines.
Sapphira had watched with interest. There was no doubt TG had a crush on Calypso but he decided to play the school-yard card and treat her unfairly, thought Sapphira. He was so conscious of not playing favourites that Calypso was being bullied in a way.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Sapphira quietly as the focus puller measured them for the next shot. ‘He’s just a bit uptight, big pressure on him from the studio, no doubt. But I’ve worked with worse directors, at least he’s not Jerry Hyman, what a cunt.’
‘That’s terrible word,’ she said shocked.
‘What, hyman?’ asked Sapphira, being deliberately ignorant.
‘No, the other one, the C word.’
‘The C word, Jesus, you’re uptight,’ laughed Sapphira and Calypso felt very unsophisticated and young.
‘TG is so weird around me,’ whispered Calypso. ‘The other day he saw me in costume in my bra and panties and he yelled at me.’
Sapphira made a face.
‘What?’ asked Calypso at the sight of Sapphira’s face.
‘Let’s make a deal, you don’t say the word panties and I won’t say the word cunt. They’re both equally offensive in my book,’ Sapphira stated.
Calypso laughed. ‘What’s wrong with panties?’
Sapphira shuddered, ‘Horrible word.’
‘So is the C word.’
Sapphira sighed, and Calypso changed the subject.
‘I shouldn’t have done this film, I was offered an action movie for much more money. I wish I’d done it.’ Calypso sounded forlorn and Sapphira felt sorry for her.
Sapphira laughed quietly. ‘Been there, done that. It’s all bullshit, babe, don’t get stuck in that genre, so hard to break out of.’
Calypso said nothing as Chris came and checked the measurements of his assistant and then went back behind the camera.
‘You know why I think he’s being a fuckwit?’ asked Sapphira.
‘Why?’ said Calypso grumpily.
‘I think he’s got a crush on you,’ she said as Kelly walked onto the set to adjust Sapphira’s powdered face. ‘That’s why he yelled at you in your underwear,’ she said, emphasizing the last word.
‘No way!’ Calypso shrieked. ‘He hates me. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m Malibu Barbie. I’m surprised I haven’t been replaced yet.’
‘He’s got a crush on you, he likes you,’ Sapphira found herself singing softly in Calypso’s ear to try make her laugh.
Kelly laughed conspiratorially with the girls. ‘Yeah, I reckon he’s got a massive keeny,’ she said.
‘A keeny?’ asked Calypso. ‘Gross.’
‘A keeny, he’s keen on you. A crush,’ said Kelly.
‘No way. Anyway, I’ve got Marco,’ said Calypso defiantly.
‘Marco Schmarco,’ Sapphira said.
‘You gonna come and do a reading after?’ Kelly asked Calypso as she adjusted her hair.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ said Calypso.
‘What reading?’ asked Sapphira, feeling left out for the first time in her life.
‘Kel’s teaching me to read tarot,’ said Calypso.
‘When you gonna give me a reading?’ she asked lazily, as though not caring.
Calypso perked up. ‘Really? That’s so exciting! You want one from me? I mean, Kelly will be there to interpret as well ’cause I’m just learning,’ Calypso said, her words tumbling over each other. ‘Is that okay, Kel?’
Kelly smiled. ‘Of course.’ She watched Sapphira as she stood still, perfect but soulless somehow, as though a piece of her was missing. She would have loved to read her cards and this opportunity, although through the innocent Calypso, was too good to pass up. ‘Maybe later we can come to your trailer?’
‘Great, don’t forget your magic wand and broomstick,’ laughed Sapphira as the assistant director called places for shooting.
During the lunch break, Kelly and Calypso descended on Sapphira’s trailer with tarot cards in hand. Calypso took her role as tarot reader very seriously and was almost ceremonial about the cards, which were wrapped in a purple Pucci silk scarf.
‘Okay, so shuffle and think about what you want to ask and then pull cards till I ask you to stop,’ Calypso instructed intently.
‘You’re not serious about this, are you?’ laughed Sapphira as she shuffled the cards like a Vegas croupier.
‘We are,’ said Calypso, looking to Kelly for agreement.
Kelly laughed. ‘Ah, Little Grasshopper takes things very seriously.’
Calypso was looking at Sapphira’s hands flying over the cards. ‘Okay, so now you just spread them in a line and pull them out.’
Sapphira started to pull the cards as Calypso ordered them into a cross formation in front of her on the round table, Kelly helping her.
Calypso stared at the cards. ‘Okay,’ she started. ‘This formation here is the issues your life is centred around at the moment. Is that right, Kelly?’
‘Yep,’ said Kelly nodding encouragingly.
‘Justice and the Knave of Cups. This is the card of …’ Calypso took the book she had brought with her and started to leaf through the pages to get to the right section.
Kelly looked at the two cards. The cards of dependence, she thought. Sapphira seemed not to depend on anyone, she imagined.
Calypso found the right page. ‘You need to stop smoking, Sapphira,’ she said, looking with disgust at her cigarette smouldering in the ashtray. ‘Justice is the card of dependence. Whatever you are doing to your body is bad. This card is about coming out of a bad place and trying to find balance in your life, health, mind, body, spirit. I’ve got some books I could recommend,’ she said earnestly.
Sapphira defiantly picked up the cigarette and took a long drag. ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ she said good-naturedly.
‘The card which covers it is the Knave of Cups. Maybe you are thinking about a baby? Maybe you want to be pregnant?’ asked Calypso, confused. Sapphira appeared to be the least nurturing person she knew. Not mean, but not at all motherly.
Calypso looked to Kelly for guidance. Kelly looked at Sapphira. ‘The Knave of Cups is a child, a child of psychic means. Perhaps in the spirit world.’ Kelly looked at Sapphira’s face for any sign of recognition. It remained impassive but Kelly saw the tiniest twitch of her left eye.
Calypso spoke quickly, thinking she was off the track. ‘Anyway, this next card is the card of unconscious – the Knave of Swords.’
Sapphira sat, her eyes smiling at Calypso’s absolute conviction.
‘The card of unconscious suggests you’re playing tricks with yourself. Using your sword unwisely. You fly planes, don’t you? You should be careful,’ she said, her voice filled with concern.
Kelly looked at the card – the Knave of Swords was about safety. Sapphira lived as though she was a cat with nine lives; that was something everybody knew, but Kelly intuitively knew it was more than just planes. She wondered what Sapphira was playing with which threatened her safety.
Still Sapphira said nothing, so Calypso continued. ‘The past card is the death card – someone has died who had a huge impact on you. This could be one of your parents, perhaps?’ She looked to Sapphira for affirmation but Sapphira was smoking another cigarette and shrugged.
Kelly spoke up. ‘The death card does not mean that it’s bad, though. This card suggests the person who died has travelled and has transformed. Reincarnated, if you like. When this person died, something else changed in your life. I don’t know what that is, only you do, but it influences everything you do now, good and bad.’
Calypso looked at Kelly and then at Sapphira. ‘How is she? Crazy, huh? She’s so wise!’
Kelly laughed out loud. ‘Easy there, grasshopper, don’t worship me. I’m as human as the next person.’
Calypso looked at the next card and opened her book again to the correct page. ‘This is the card of the future. The Ace of Cups. A baby perhaps!’
She seemed relieved finally to have something good and tangible for Sapphira’s future.
Kelly looked at Sapphira’s face, which appeared as though a shadow had crossed it.
Calypso looked at Sapphira excitedly. ‘Perhaps you’ll find a new lover.’ Calypso was unsure whether Sapphira was straight so thought it best to remain gender neutral.
‘Perhaps,’ said Sapphira noncommittally.
Calypso continued, slightly self-important in her role as esoteric messenger. ‘The card of work is the Eight of Cups, which indicates a break from work for a while. Yes, Kelly?’
Kelly nodded.
‘Perhaps you’ll take a break after this film?’ offered Calypso.
Sapphira shrugged again, thinking of the projects slated for her for the next two years. ‘Maybe.’
Calypso thought she was boring Sapphira, so hurried through the rest of the cards. ‘The card of home and family is the Seven of Swords. This card indicates deception and betrayal from an unreliable person in your life. Someone with a careful plan.’ Calypso rushed over this card, not sure what it meant, but Kelly looked at it with interest. Whatever Sapphira was about to face she needed some damned good protection.
‘The card of how you expect things to turn out is the Hanged Man – this is seeing things from a new perspective. Clearer and changing your mind.’
Kelly interrupted. ‘It’s also about dreams, dreams of the future which indicate you will be released from what keeps you in suspended time.’
Sapphira sat still, saying nothing.
Calypso looked at the last card. ‘This is the card of how things will actually work out. The Queen of Coins. This is you. This is the card of the mother, someone who is generous to others. It also tells of charity and aid to those who cannot help themselves. Using your energy for the greater good.’
Sapphira butted out the cigarette.
‘Did it make sense? The reading?’ Calypso asked, her eyes wide.
Sapphira looked as though she was about to speak but stopped herself. Finally she smiled. ‘Spot on.’
Calypso breathed a sigh of relief. Sapphira seemed unimpressed but Kelly pondered the cards. Whatever was in Sapphira’s past, present and future was murky and painful and made her feel uneasy. Calypso was called to the set for a close-up and Kelly and Sapphira sat in the trailer.
‘Is there anything you need to talk to me about, Sapphira? I know we’re not close but I worry about you sometimes,’ said Kelly, kindness radiating out of her.
Sapphira sat debating whether to share her secrets with Kelly and then quickly put her mask back up. ‘I’m not sure I get the tarot, no disrespect meant,’ she said in a low voice.
‘Nah, that’s fine,’ said Kelly, getting the message that Sapphira was as guarded as she ever was.
‘Just know I’m always around, here or in America, if you need me,’ said Kelly getting to her feet.
Sapphira grabbed her arm lightly as Kelly went to walk past her and out of the trailer. ‘The card about deception …’
‘The Seven of Swords.’
‘Yes, that one. What does it mean exactly?’
Kelly spoke slowly. She knew there was something Sapphira was hiding but she wasn’t sure what it was; it was up to Sapphira to explore and confront what the card meant. ‘It’s a fear card. It can mean there is something you fear, someone or something.’
Kelly placed her hands on Sapphira’s thin shoulders. The energy from Kelly’s body resonated through Sapphira and she felt herself involuntarily shudder.
‘Good to know,’ she said laughing as Kelly walked to the trailer door.
‘Be safe, okay?’ Kelly said as she left the trailer.
Sapphira nodded and smiled. She was trying, God knows she was trying.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Hey Slapper, you want to come over and play?’ asked Rose down the phone.
‘Who is this?’ asked Kelly.
‘Haha, funny,’ said Rose. ‘Really, entertain me, let’s go out.’
‘I can’t, I feel so sick,’ said Kelly. ‘In bed, sorry, and then I have to shoot the night scenes with Calypso tonight,’ she moaned.
‘You’re a shit friend,’ said Rose.
‘I know. I aim to disappoint.’
‘You’re succeeding,’ said Rose sulkily.
‘Go out and do something, you loser,’ said Kelly.
‘I know. I will, later,’ lied Rose as she hung up.
Opening the refrigerator, she picked at the leftover spiced apple and cream but it didn’t make her feel better. Instead, she felt restless. Slumping into a kitchen chair, she decided to ‘take charge’, as her therapist said, and head into town to see what entertainment could be found there. Pulling the Frommers Guidebook to Italy from her handbag, put there by Lauren and which had remained unopened so far, she looked up Perugia. Leafing through, she spotted the Galleria Nazionale, the home of the finest collection of Umbrian art in the world. Why not, she thought and rang her driver and asked him to be ready for her in 30 minutes.
Climbing upstairs, she had a shower and dressed in a black linen Phillip Lim sundress and a pair of black and white Chanel ballet flats. Pulling her hair back into a low bun, she applied tinted moisturizer with SPF 20 and sun block on her arms and legs. Running downstairs, she threw on her Fendi sunglasses and her panama hat, grabbed her green Lavin tote bag and jumped in her car.
Driving through the countryside, Rose was enthralled by the timeless quality to the houses, olive groves and vineyards. She waved at an elderly man pushing a wheelbarrow down the road. He tipped his cloth cap at her as she sailed past in the Mercedes.
Pulling up the Corso Vanucci, the car stopped and the driver told Rose she would have to walk the rest of the way on foot, as there were no cars allowed on the old roads and pathways. Entering the Galleria, Rose was soothed by the quietness and the coolness of the building. Taking a map from a sleepy guard, who did not seem to recognize her, she stood and decided what route to take.
As she stood assessing the map, she heard voices in the quiet space and looked up to see a man with three little boys trailing after him. Rose smiled as she watched the smallest one with a blue drink bottle in his hand stop and touch a marble statue in the entranceway. She watched his small hands feeling the cold stone as she looked up at the statue of a woman on her knees. The boy’s father and brothers walked away but the small boy stayed at the side of the statue. Rose walked over to him.
‘Do you like the feel of the marble?’ she asked him in a gentle voice.
‘It’s cold,’ said the boy, looking at her, and Rose felt her heart open at the sight of his little face, so earnest and trusting.
‘Yes,’ said Rose, reaching out to touch the woman.
‘Why is she so sad?’ asked the boy.
Rose read the description of the statue. ‘Assetata,’ she said aloud. ‘She’s thirsty,’ she explained.
‘She needs a drink,’ said the boy, looking at the drink bottle in his hand.
‘She does,’ said Rose gravely.
‘Milo, hurry up.’ Rose turned to see the boy’s father in the distance of the gallery standing impatiently.
Milo ran towards his father and Rose watched him run, carefully hanging onto his drink. Rose walked in the other direction of the family, wondering where the mother was. Hopefully getting some much needed rest from the challenge of three boys and a grumpy father, she laughed to herself as she wandered the rooms.
In Room Three, the earliest paintings and artifacts were housed, showing the start of 13th century Perugian art. Wandering through the rooms, drinking in the history and creativity was Rose’s idea of heaven. Her knowledge of European art was extensive, but not Italian art and certainly not as far back as the 13th century.
Facing Duccio di Buoninsegna’s depiction of the Madonna and Child, with the six tiny angels watching them from above, Rose wondered if she would ever have a child of her own. She was aware time was running out for her on the fertility front. It didn’t matter what medicine did to stop the aging process, the plain fact was that if you wanted to get pregnant naturally then you had to do it when you were young. Facing her fortieth birthday in six months, Rose was keenly aware of her biological clock ticking like a time bomb inside her.
As she turned to walk into the next room, she heard the sound of running feet. Milo ran into the room, his little round face streaming with tears. As he ran towards her, he tripped on his shoelace and went sprawling in front of Rose onto his face, landing at her feet.
‘Oh dear, what a big fall! Come on, let’s get up.’
The child was sobbing quietly, a sound Rose recognized from her niece and nephew, one that a child makes when they have really hurt themselves.
‘Ups a daisy. Come on now.’ Rose sat on the wooden bench in the centre of the room and lifted the child onto her lap. ‘Come on, let’s have a look at you then.’
Assessing the child, she saw he had blood coming out of his mouth. Opening his mouth gently she saw he had bitten his tongue but no teeth seemed to be damaged. Rose waited for his parents to arrive, assuming they would be chasing after him, but the room stayed silent. The child nestled his head into her neck and she heard his breathing slow down and his sobs quietly ease away.
‘There you are, getting better? I have just the pill to make you tip-top in no time,’ she said, remembering the packet of barley sugar she had in her bag that she had brought to suck on when her plane took off. Taking out a piece she unwrapped it. ‘Open wide,’ she said and the child obediently did so.
Popping the sweet into his mouth, he put his head back on her chest and sucked contentedly. Looking up at the Madonna and Child hanging on the wall in front of her, she sent a little prayer up to the Patron Saint of Mothers to send her own little child to her one day.
‘Milo, bloody hell, we have been looking for you everywhere. You’re bloody hopeless, I’m very cross with you.’ A man came into the room, followed by two older boys, about six and eight.
Hearing his father’s voice, Milo started to cry again and clung to Rose.
‘I just wanted to give her a drink,’ he whispered in Rose’s ear.
Rose was unsure what he was saying and was about to ask him when the child’s father interrupted again.
‘You cannot run away from me, do you understand, do you?’ the father said, tearing the child away from Rose’s body and standing in front of him. Towering over the child, the man’s face was flushed. The two other boys looked at the floor.
‘Dominic and Jasper have been searching everywhere, as have I. Not good enough, Milo, really! Hopeless, hopeless, and where’s your drink bottle? You’ve lost that also, I see,’ said the man.
The small child stood frightened and shaking. ‘And now you’ve bloody wet yourself. Jesus Christ, Milo! Can’t you do anything right? When we get home, you will spend the rest of the day in your room. Do you understand me?’
Rising from the bench, Rose stood in front of the man. ‘Excuse me …’ she began.
The man snapped his head around to look at her. ‘Yes?’ he said, his voice slightly menacing. Rose recognized an English accent and thought she knew him from somewhere but wasn’t sure. Was he an actor? A politician? She stopped trying to place him when she looked at the small child’s face in front of her.
‘It’s not his fault he wet himself …’ Rose smiled at the child who was clearly traumatized.
‘Really? Well, if he had listened to me when I said he needed to go to the toilet then he wouldn’t be here all wet and embarrassing himself, would he?’
Rose tried again, ‘Well, accidents happen, nothing that can’t be fixed.’
‘Are you going to fix it? No? No. I’ll have to fucking fix it, as I always have to fix everything. Always up to me, and what do I get from them? Nothing. Just more fucking jobs to do and nothing in return. Christ! You’re all bloody useless.’ He directed this to not only the children, but also Rose.
Where her rage came from, Rose wasn’t sure. Was it because he had blasphemed in front of the Madonna and Child, or was it because she felt so motherly towards this little boy? Or was it that his words reminded her of Paul, yelling at her, telling her she was hopeless and then ignoring her as this man wanted to do to the small child?
‘You’re a bully. No wonder he ran away from you. I don’t blame him. I’d want to run away from you, too. And as for wetting his pants, well …’ She looked down at Milo and held his hand.
‘I would have wet myself too, if you had yelled at me that way, and I’m a lot older than him. You should be ashamed of yourself!’ she shouted. ‘I’m sure their mother would be shocked if she saw the way you speak to them. I think I should meet her or at least discuss your bullying of these kids or is she just like you also?’ Rose challenged.
‘Well, good luck, because she’s dead!’ the man shouted back at her.
Rose saw the middle child start to cry now. She felt awful but this man was too much for anyone to bear. She composed herself and put on her sunglasses. ‘Well, I suggest you get some therapy, for you first and then for the children just so they can have some strategies to learn to live with you.’
Bending down, she took Milo’s face in her hands. ‘Don’t worry about anything. Your tongue will heal and you will have an excellent excuse to eat yummy Italian gelato now. Never mind about wetting yourself. I wet myself all the time till I was seven. No shame in it, many clever people wet their pants,’ she said confidently and Milo looked up at her, his eyes wide.
Milo smiled shyly and Rose stood up. ‘Goodbye, boys,’ she directed at the children as she walked out of the room.
The man picked up the little boy and hugging him close, he cried, ‘I am so sorry, Milo Schmilo. I’m so sorry. Don’t run away again, okay? Daddy promises to be nicer, I just get a bit sad and angry sometimes.’
Milo nodded and put his arms around his neck. ‘She smelt nice, Daddy.’
He looked at the door she had just exited through. This was going to be complicated, he thought.
Rose, still shaking, headed down to the bathroom in the entrance of the gallery. Composing herself in front of the mirror, Rose was surprised at the venom in her outburst to the man. She did feel awful mentioning their mother but she justified it to herself when she remembered the trauma on Milo’s face.
As she walked out of the bathroom, she glanced at the sculpture where she had first spoken to Milo and saw a flash of blue she hadn’t seen before. At the woman’s feet was Milo’s drink bottle that he had carefully carried before.
Rose felt like crying. Bless him, she thought, the little man had given the thirsty woman his drink. She closed her eyes for a moment to control the tears that threatened and picked up the drink bottle and put it into her bag.
Driving back to her villa, she was shocked at how angry she still felt, but realized she was happy to have not had children with Paul. No doubt that’s how he would have spoken to their child if she had let him. She could still feel the warmth of the little boy’s body on her lap. ‘He smelt nice,’ she said to no one in particular and she took the drink bottle out of her bag and placed it in the cupholder of the car. It looked right, she thought, the clash of the cheap plastic against the luxury of the car. God, how she wanted her own child’s drink bottle in her life, she thought. More than anything else in the world.
CHAPTER NINE
Calypso was having trouble keeping her co-star’s hands off her while filming and she figured if anyone had advice, it would be Sapphira.
Calypso sat on her sofa in the trailer drinking her spirulina shake.
‘Hmm, smells like toxic waste to me,’ said Sapphira, waving away the drink Calypso offered her.
‘He’s gross,’ said Calypso, sipping her drink, which left a faint green moustache on her top lip. ‘I swear he had a hard-on today when we were shooting and I’m pretty sure he wanted me to know it.’
‘Got waste?’ she asked, in reference to the famous milk ads showing stars with milk on their upper lip. Sapphira had shot one years ago and it still made her laugh when she thought about the shoot, trying to get the paste which supposedly resembled milk onto her lip.
‘What?’ asked Calypso, confused.
‘Your lip, babe. It’s green,’ said Sapphira, lighting another cigarette with the one she was smoking.
Calypso, embarrassed, rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand. Sapphira was like the cool older sister she never had and spending time with her had made her realize how much she wished she had siblings to deflect Leeza’s focus and to share things with.
‘Raphael’s a fucking asshole,’ said Sapphira, frowning. ‘I met him at Cannes last year. He was promoting some movie but it was more like he was promoting himself.’
‘I know a lot of actors like that,’ laughed Calypso.
Sapphira paused. ‘Listen, I’m not one for gossip and I hate to be indiscreet, but he is bad news. I’m surprised TG cast him. He’s seriously fucked up,’ she said as she checked the text message that rang through on her cell phone.
‘Now you have to tell me,’ said Calypso, her eyes widening. Sapphira shook her head. ‘Come on, just give me something so I know what I’m up against.’
Sapphira put down her phone and thought for a moment. ‘Just watch him, okay? Don’t get caught up in the charm. He’s a snake.’
Calypso heeded Sapphira’s warning and was careful around Raphael. Whatever Sapphira had intimated was enough for Calypso to be aloof on set and keep him at arm’s length, which was no easy feat. He flirted constantly with her. She tried to be pleasant but he was wearing and trying her patience.
The chemistry between them was not evident on the shoot and TG was at a loss to understand why Calypso was being almost rude to Raphael, who seemed to be trying hard to win her over. This shoot was harder than he had thought. Shooting on location, they were at the mercy of the weather, the planes flying overhead and the ants that crawled up the actors’ legs and bit them.
That morning on set, Calypso was constantly slapping her legs, as the ants seemed immune to insect repellant. In fact, she thought they preferred it.
TG walked over to her. ‘Calypso, you have to stop slapping your legs. All I can see is red hand marks up and down your thighs. It looks like you’ve been beaten up.’
‘I can’t help it, it’s these fucking ants,’ she said, slapping her leg again.
‘Okay, let me deal with it.’ He called out to the second assistant director. ‘Can you find the fucking ants’ nest and pour coffee down it, please? Do something about the ants!’
The assistant director, who was Italian, laughed outrageously. ‘You not get rid of the ants, TG. Impossible.’ He kept laughing like TG had just told the funniest joke in the world.
TG stomped back to his chair. Calypso tried in vain not to slap her leg. Standing with a grimace, TG looked up, and walked back over to her. He looked at her legs, reached down and flicked the soft white skin inside her thigh. ‘Ow!’ she yelled.
‘Maybe you should flick them off instead of slapping, okay?’
‘Jesus, ow, okay, that hurt,’ she said, rubbing her leg.
‘Sorry,’ said TG, not really meaning it. He didn’t know why he was angry with Calypso. Because she largely ignored him, was rude to Raphael. Always running off set as soon as filming started to be with that Italian he had seen on set occasionally.
He walked back to his chair again. He could still feel her soft skin on his fingertips.
Calypso stood confused. Was he physically abusing her now? What an asshole, she thought.
The day’s shoot was tense, to say the least, and Calypso was happy when it was finished. As she walked over to her car, Raphael ran up to her. ‘Tonight I come to town, you show me a good time.’
‘Ah no, I have plans,’ said Calypso wearily. She wished he would return to his villa or Rome, whichever was easier.
‘What are your plans? I can come,’ he said as though his presence was a gift.
Inwardly Calypso groaned. The last thing she needed was this guy sharing her car and trying to hit on her all the way back to the hotel. ‘Umm … I’m seeing my boyfriend.’ she started.
‘You have a boyfriend? Ah, I want to meet the man who vies for my love,’ he said dramatically, jumping in the front next to the driver.
Calypso got in the back, relieved she wouldn’t have his roaming hands all over her. Surprisingly, he didn’t speak to her at all on the way back, talking in rapid-fire Italian to her driver, and her driver talking just as fast back and gesticulating wildly. Calypso prayed he would keep his hands on the wheel and get her back to Marco alive.
Calypso’s relationship with Marco was all the talk of the set. He visited her and brought her flowers, much to TG’s chagrin, hanging about and talking to the Italian crew. He and Calypso went out with his friends almost every night and even spent time with his parents on their farm, looking for white truffles in the woods, with no success. What had been successful was the sex they had on the floor of the woods, with Calypso never having felt as free before in the open air, abandoning herself to Marco and the nature all around her. None of the boys back home had been so passionate and intense as him. He was insatiable; he wanted her constantly and made her feel incredible.
After he’d asked her so many questions about America one night as they lay in her hotel bed, she suggested he move there to find out for himself what America was like.
‘No, no,’ he said as he kissed the tip of her nose. ‘I will never leave Italy. This is my home. Perhaps I will visit.’
Inside Calypso was disappointed; she knew he wouldn’t want to move there. But in her fantasy, she imagined him being a hotshot LA lawyer, her being a successful actress and presenting the Best Foreign Film nominations at the Oscars and being able to say the Italian nomination flawlessly.
Listening to the hysterical laughter of her co-star and the driver, she wondered what they were laughing so hard at. What could be that funny?
The car pulled up in front of the hotel and the doorman opened the door for Calypso. She saw Marco waiting for her, leaning against the front wall. ‘Ciao, bella,’ he said sexily. Calypso felt her insides melting, perhaps she loved him, she thought.
The doorman opened up the front passenger door and Raphael jumped out. Seeing Raphael, Marco was instantly star-stuck. Rushing over and shaking his hand and talking in Italian, he gesticulated and pointed to Calypso.
‘I didn’t know that Raphael Perini was in this movie. He is my favourite actor. I love him,’ he said earnestly to her.
Calypso smiled thinly. Perhaps if he knew what an utter dick Raphael was, then he wouldn’t be so in love, she thought.
Raphael, always ready to greet a fan, grabbed Calypso around the shoulders. ‘It is decided then, we shall break bread together tonight.’
Calypso frowned. She wanted Marco all to herself, not to share him with this self-lover of the highest order.
That night they all ate together at a local bar. Every ten minutes someone came to the table to say hello or get an autograph from Raphael. He was like a god and the Italians were his worshippers. Marco and Raphael spoke Italian most of the night and occasionally interpreted for Calypso, when they remembered she was there.
Towards the end of the dinner, Marco pulled out his phone, rang two numbers and spoke fast down the phone. Calypso looked at him, questioning him with her eyes. ‘I’ve rung some friends. They will come and meet us and then we will drink, si?’
‘Not for me. I’ve gotta shoot tomorrow and we have to be on set at 6.30 am,’ she said, looking at Raphael.
‘Si si, but one drink. Come on, bella.’
She looked at Marco. He was not paying any attention to her, just looking at Raphael in adoration. Calypso sighed. ‘Well, I’m going back to the hotel. Good night.’
She left the bar, expecting Marco to come after her but deep down knowing he wouldn’t. She had been usurped by Raphael and she was pissed off. Heading back down the road to her hotel, Calypso was surprised how she felt. She really liked Marco; in fact, she thought she could even love him. His parents loved her and, let’s face it, the sex was incredible. Now he seemed like a fawning loser. Fuck it, she thought as she went up to her hotel room. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.
After taking a long bath and drinking a chamomile tea, Calypso hopped into bed. It seems too big without Marco, she thought drowsily, as she dropped off to sleep.
She was woken by a loud knocking at the door. She opened her eyes and looked at the clock next to her bedside – 1.00 am. ‘Fuck!’ she said as she went to the door. ‘Who is it?’ she called, not fully awake.
‘Ciao, bella,’ she heard.
Marco! Padding over in the dark, she stubbed her toe on a chair. ‘Oww,’ she cried, hopping on one foot. Opening the door, her foot throbbing in pain, she hobbled back to the bed and jumped under the covers, lying on her stomach. ‘It’s late, don’t talk to me. I have to be up in three hours,’ she said as she started to drop off to sleep again.
She heard him undressing and felt the covers pull back and him start to caress her back. ‘Hmm, that’s nice, but I’m really tired, baby.’
He continued, rubbing her back and buttocks. She felt her legs spread open involuntarily. He placed his fingers down between her thighs and started to feel her. She was wet and ready. Climbing on top of her, he entered her from behind, slowly thrusting and grinding. ‘Mmmmm,’ she said sexily.
He pulled her up onto her knees and then leant down and held her breasts, fucking her harder and harder until Calypso felt uncomfortable. He started to slap her ass and pulled back on her hair. ‘Yeah, puttana, you like it!’ he cried.
And then he came. Calypso turned around, shocked. In the darkness, she could just make out that it was not Marco who had just fucked her but Raphael. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ she screamed. ‘Oh my God!’ She started to cry, pulling the bed sheet up around her.
Raphael got up off the bed, the semen dripping from his cock. ‘What do you mean? You knew it was me when you opened the door naked.’
‘I thought you were Marco,’ she said, crying on the bed.
‘Well, Marco said you were a great fuck and he was right. He said the American puttana will do anything. I like American girls.’
‘Get out, get out! I’m calling the police, get out!’
Raphael picked up his clothes. ‘You liked it,’ he said arrogantly.
‘Get out!’ she yelled again and threw him out into the hallway naked.
She sat back on the bed, sobbing. She knew she should call the police but she could not deal with the intrusion. Once the press got wind of this in America she would be exposed as a slut and her career ruined. She started to shake, uncontrollably. Who could she ring? Not her mother. Maybe Rose or Kelly?
The thought of being on set with him in the morning made her start to vomit. She rushed to the bathroom but didn’t make it, throwing up all over the floor next to the bed. Picking up her phone, she dialled the one number she knew would answer.
‘Hello? TG? I need you.’
CHAPTER TEN
Aware she had spent much of her time in Italy by herself, Sapphira was looking forward to meeting her co-star. Jack Reynolds was a big star. He was a renowned bachelor who spent part of the year in LA and part in Italy. Speaking flawless Italian, he was a spokesperson for Brioni suits and Longines watches, and had been voted Sexiest Man of the Year for the past three years. Jack was the male equivalent of Sapphira, according to one of the biggest gossip magazines back in the States. He worked only when he wanted to and chose his projects carefully. The role TG had offered him was perfect – a script which promised to create celluloid history, acting opposite one of the biggest female stars of the time and shooting in his beloved adopted country was an offer Jack could not pass up.
His affairs always made the news and he had dated many beautiful young women from all over the world, always brunettes and never for longer than a year. He never spoke about his love life, instead making witty and occasionally ironic comments about the celebrity fascination and culture. He was due on set that morning. Jack arrived on time and chatted freely with the crew, switching from Italian to English effortlessly. Sapphira came on to the set, walking like a panther and as if Jack was her prey.
‘Hello, I’m Sapphira De Mont. I’m surprised we haven’t yet worked together.’
‘Jack, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Sapphira.’ He looked at her bemused, and stuck out his hand for her to shake it.
She leaned over and kissed each cheek while pressing herself against him. He stood, his head cocked to one side, his greying temples glinting in the sun.
‘Well, let’s get to work,’ he said and turned on his heel and walked to TG, where he proceeded to spend the next thirty minutes discussing character and plot.
For all his playboy reputation, Jack was a professional in every sense of the word, and when Sapphira sat in the make-up chair, she wondered about his reaction to her.
‘Is Jack dating anyone?’ she asked Kelly as she dabbed on her pancake base.
‘Nope, just broke up with a Swiss TV presenter. No word from her yet. I thought she may sell her story to National Enquirer and the like, but I haven’t heard a thing.’
Sapphira’s reputation preceded her, and Kelly and Chris had a bet on to see how long before Sapphira and Jack were an item, at least for the remaining duration of the shoot.
Sapphira wondered if perhaps Jack was heartbroken. Not fucking likely, she thought.
Walking into the trailer, Jack kissed Kelly, whom he had worked with before and sat next to Sapphira. She knew she looked good in the chair, make-up flawless and artfully applied. Her hair was long and out. She was wearing a strapless black dress, showing off her tattoos and her tanned skin. She was the kind of woman who knew what she wanted and Jack was in her sights. She smiled at him in the mirror. He smiled back and pulled out a copy of the local newspaper, La Nazione and started to read it, much to Sapphira’s shock.
The assistant director knocked on the door. ‘All ready, Sapphira? TG wants to do your close-up, then Jack’s. We’ll be ready for you.’
‘See you then,’ said Jack from the depths of his paper.
Sapphira stood up, unnerved. Heading onto the set, she went through the motions of the close-up, standing patiently while they sorted out the angles and focus measurements for the camera. I’ll just have to work harder, she thought, having never yet given up on a challenge. This is what she felt the best at, luring her man in on her long line.
TG came on set soon after with Jack and talked them through their first scene. They were inside the Villa and in the kitchen set. ‘Ok, so I need you, Sapphira, to have your bare feet up on the table and Jack, you come in. Sapphira, your eyes are shut for this scene. You are worn out from working on the Villa all day. Jack, you rub her shoulders and then you say the lines. Want to rehearse it first for marks?’
‘Nope,’ said Jack. ‘I think we are good.’ He smiled at Sapphira, who responded to him with one of her million-dollar laughs.
‘Whatever you want, Jacky boy.’
‘Action.’ Called TG from off set.
Jack came through the door and saw Sapphira with her feet on the table but instead of walking around behind her he sat down at her feet, saying his lines. he started to give her foot a rub.
Sapphira stayed in character and kept her eyes shut while Jack rubbed her feet. He said his lines and she responded.
‘Cut,’ yelled TG.
Jack stood up. ‘I just felt he would rub her feet since it’s the first thing he sees when he walks into the room.’
‘Yeah fine, worked well from our angle. Let’s do it again for different shots, ok?’
Sapphira was panicking. Had he noticed her feet? She had tried hard to cover the track marks but did he know what they were?
She looked at him. He seemed not to notice anything unusual about her feet. They waited for the camera to move. ‘Sorry about my disgusting feet,’ she said arching her long foot. ‘They are covered in ant bites,’ she explained, laughing.
Jack didn’t look at her. ‘You take care of yourself Sapphira, ok?’
‘Of course, I always do, Jacky boy.’ She threw her head back again and laughed. This is what she felt the best at, luring her man in on her long line.
When her close-up had been shot, and Jack had come on set for his, she sauntered towards him. ‘Why don’t we meet tonight, Jack? I can come to your place and we can discuss characters, trade war stories, whatever …’ The open invitation hung heavily in the air.
‘I don’t think so. I don’t play with the talent.’ This was true, Jack always played with talent lower than him on the celebrity radar; he was always the racehorse and his new girlfriend was always the donkey. Of course, this wasn’t disrespectful but Jack’s ego and celebrity were too big for two stars, and Sapphira would be too huge a star to orbit. The pressure of them pairing up might bring the kind of publicity that opened closet doors and let the skeletons out, and this was the last thing Jack wanted.
‘That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. You are breaking my heart, Mr Reynolds.’
‘I’m sure it will mend, Ms De Mont,’ he said, laughing.
Sapphira felt herself relax. She refused to see not seducing Jack as failure. Instead, she understood his rules. She had her own set of rules she conducted her life by; there was a part of her which respected him.
‘Thanks for being honest, I guess.’ There was something genuine and honourable about Jack; she felt she could trust him.
‘Friends?’ asked Jack.
‘I guess, I don’t really have men as friends.’
‘What? Just for breakfast?’ Jack laughed at his own joke and Sapphira joined in.
Sapphira was quiet. ‘You want to know something?’
‘Sure,’ said Jack not looking up.
‘Today is my birthday. Please don’t say anything to anyone. I just wanted you to know.’ She stared into the distance, her face expressionless.
‘I am assuming then, there won’t be a party,’ Jack said, picking up on the change in Sapphira’s mood. ‘Well, have you heard from anyone? Family? Agent, at least? They’re always good for a useless gift and a sycophantic card.’
‘My father’s dead. My mother might as well be, we haven’t spoken in about eight years. As for my agent, he will ring tomorrow no doubt, being ignorant of the time delay.’
Staring out at the crew busying themselves, a warm breeze blew over them and took Sapphira’s mood with it. ‘Doesn’t matter, age is just a state of mind anyway.’
‘Do you worry about being older?’ asked Jack.
‘Never. I suppose I think about everything I want to do and I panic, as there’s never enough time. There’s so much to learn, to see, to experience.’
‘Amelia Earhart, look out, huh? Next thing you will need to learn is how to fly and you can see the world at your own leisure.’
‘I already know how to fly. I learned at the start of this year.’
‘Of course you did, why am I not surprised?’ he said as he crossed his legs. ‘I tell you what, I’m gonna break my own rule. I will throw you birthday dinner. I’ll send my car to pick you up at 6.00 pm. We finish early today, which will give us plenty of time.’
‘Six? I thought everyone ate later in Italy.’
‘Well, I want to take you somewhere special,’ he answered enigmatically. ‘A surprise, stay tuned, Amelia.’
Sapphira thought of another night in her library, reading and smoking and then thought of an evening with Jack. ‘It’s a date!’
‘Friends, remember?’
‘I remember,’ said Sapphira. ‘You have nothing to worry about. Your virtue is safe with me, Mr Reynolds.’ And she stood up and went to the set for her next close-up.
That evening, she was dressed for sex. She wore a Blumarine leopard print silk strapless dress, with huge Moroccan wooden bangles she had picked up on her last shoot in Marrakesh and a pair of Yves Saint Laurent black suede ankle boots. Her hair was swept back into a bun, high on her head, and she wore minimal make-up and a liberal amount of her customized Lyn Harris perfume, leaving a trail of amber, musk and jasmine.
The helicopter that picked her up in Perugia landed at Nicelli Airport at 7.10 pm and Sapphira was whisked straight into a waiting water limousine and taken through the canals towards Jack. Venice was spectacular. The sun was still up and the canals were busy. The white, navy trimmed leather seats and the mahogany panelled walls and tinted windows gave her complete privacy to watch Venice without any interruption or distraction. It truly was an amazing city, she thought, as they sailed down the Grand Canal.
There was a bottle of French Champagne on the small mahogany table with a note written by Jack – Happy birthday, Amelia, enjoy the ride.
Pouring herself a glass, she sat forward on her chair and enjoyed the view. The buildings and people floated past her and Sapphira imagined for a moment she was in a magical land filled with the most wonderful buildings the human mind could create, all floating and rocking their inhabitants to sleep each night.
Soon, they turned off the canal and the boat came to a stop. Sapphira heard the captain speaking Italian and then the door opened. She alighted and was standing on the edge of the canal in front of huge carved wooden doors, which opened. Jack stood with his arms open. ‘Happy birthday, kid!’
Sapphira walked into them and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Howdy, Jack. Look at this place.’
The palazzo was impressive. Built in the 15th century, it was one of the largest private residences in Venice. Spread over five floors, the palazzo had a perfect view of the Bridge of Sighs and a roof garden for the summer.
Jack was dressed in white linen pants, a black t-shirt and barefoot. His ease in his own home made him all the more attractive to Sapphira. He led her into the huge sitting room, with its high ceilings and three Murano glass chandeliers. The room was filled with antique and contemporary furniture and art. It was Jack in every way – elegant, stylish and urbane.
‘Venetian?’ said Jack as he opened up an art deco cabinet to reveal a fully stocked bar with every possible bottle of liquor imaginable.
‘I’m assuming that’s a drink,’ asked Sapphira, as she prowled the room studying its contents.
‘Yep. Campari, gin, vermouth, amaretto and a twist of lemon.’
‘I thought the Bellini was the Venetian cocktail of choice?’ said Sapphira as she stood back from a large Francis Bacon painting.
‘The Bellini is the choice of tourists, although it is a lovely drink on a hot night on the roof, but not too often.’
‘Are you a snob, Mr Reynolds? Are you not a tourist in this lovely country?’ Sapphira flirted with him as she crossed the floor to accept the drink he was bringing to her.
‘I may be a tourist to the Italians, but it feels like home to me. I love this place more than America, though I would never say so in an interview. The people, the history, the contradictions are what appeal to me. I like being so close to Europe and I like being out of the craziness of the US. Here, a celebrity is someone on TV or a politician or a model. Some American movie star means nothing to them and I’m just fine with that.’
Sapphira looked at his ease and relaxed demeanour and thought he had never looked more attractive. It was as though he was a drug and she wanted more of it, his contentment and satisfaction with life almost an elixir. Sapphira was hooked.
‘Grab your drink and I’ll give you a tour,’ he said.
Leading the way, he walked Sapphira through each level, with a story to tell about his art and furniture, the parties he had thrown there and the peace he felt when he heard the water at night. Finishing on the roof, Sapphira was entranced by the view and the sounds below of the water city.
‘Your life is very agreeable, sir,’ she said, sipping her drink. ‘You live how you want and you do what you want. I admire you.’
‘Let’s go back down now and talk shit, then we will eat, yes? Then later we can go out for a twilight tour of the canals. It’s amazing, it never stops.’
Sapphira smiled, but she knew she was ready for another hit. ‘It sounds wonderful. I might just use your bathroom, if you don’t mind.’
‘No problem, use the one downstairs I just showed you and then I will meet you back down where you originally came in. If you get lost, just holler and I’ll come with a search party.’
Walking with Sapphira down the stairs, he left her at the bathroom and then went down to fix more drinks.
Sapphira entered the bathroom and noticed there was no lock on the door. Fuck, she thought. Opening her bag, she pulled out her works and set up. She had been craving more than usual; this happened sometimes but she was careful, writing down in her little notebook when and what she had taken last.
Checking her book, she fixed up the hit and hitching up her dress, injected herself into her groin. The hit was instant; she felt the rush as she sat on the toilet. Maybe she had taken a little more than last time, she wondered, as she felt her legs heavy. She tried to get up but couldn’t stand. I’ll wait for a while and then I’ll go down, she thought. Sitting on the toilet with her head on her chest, the sleepiness was too much to bear and she gave in.
‘Sapphira, Sapphira, you need to walk, you need to walk. Come on, baby.’
She heard the voice in the distance but he seemed so far away. She shook her head; whoever it was speaking was annoying her. Come on. She felt herself moving. How? Did she have wings? Laughing to herself, she heard the voice again. ‘It’s not funny. Come on, goddammit, walk.’
He walked her around the room, up and down, up and down, until her head began to clear a little and she became more conscious of her surroundings. ‘Jack?’
‘Who the fuck else would it be?’
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Kate Forster
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: As you prepare to hit the sunshine with your e-book device, make sure you have the ultimate book in your catalogue. The Perfect Location is the definitive guilty pleasure and all you’ll need to wile away the hours.Join three Hollywood actresses as they set upon The Perfect Location to create a film that will change each of their lives forever. The question is, can you guess which real life star each of these characters is based upon?Calypso arrived to the party first. She glowed in the courtyard like a firefly, stunning in a One Vintage gold lamé dress from the 1920s that had been reworked for her. The beaded appliqué around the low neckline shimmered and a tulle detail around the skirt edged up over one side to reveal just the right amount of thigh. Worn with a pair of patent leather Christian Louboutin black slingbacks and her new evening bag from the Perugia flea market, Calypso shone in the dark.Next came Rose: tall and slender in a peach georgette chiffon, halter-neck Chloé gown, she was beautiful. Her shoulders and arms were lily white, and she wore a gold Etruscan cuff on one arm and matching gold hoop earrings, which showed off her long neck. Her brunette hair was swept up into a ponytail and she had applied her makeup in such a way that it looked as if she had barely any on but her features were perfect. Rose was an icon and had the power and had real respect within the industry.And finally Sapphira arrived and the whole table fell silent. She stood in the doorway of the courtyard, wearing a white leather Pucci mini dress, with a huge silver and black eagle on the front looking as if it were about to land on its prey. She wore no jewellery and long black hair hung loosely down her back. Her legs seemed to stretch forever, ending in a pair of Balmain suede calf-high boots, with five silver buckles up each side. Her entrance stunned the room; it was dramatic and powerful, not unlike Sapphira herself.An intricate web of passionate pasts, addictions, lovers and secrets, perfect for fans of Jennifer Weiner and Adriana Trigiani.