Authors: Anita Hughes
The dining room of the Grand Hotel has crystal chandeliers and red velvet carpet and a wide marble staircase. It was like being in the first-class salon of a cruise ship, but with a view of the Roman Forum and the Colosseum. James ordered fettuccine Alfredo and rack of lamb and some terribly expensive French wine.
“Mother spoke to Father Percy and Saint Stephen’s is available on September twenty-first. We’ll have a six
P.M.
ceremony followed by a reception in the garden,” James said, buttering a baguette. “It will be tented of course, with a ten-piece orchestra. There’ll be a sit-down dinner for five hundred.”
“Five hundred people?” I dropped my fork so loudly I was afraid the maître d’ would ask us to leave.
“My parents have lived in Yorkshire for forty years,” James replied. “We can’t afford to offend anyone.”
“But filming doesn’t end until September eighteenth and rehearsals for
Gigi
start on October first.” I bit my lip. “That doesn’t leave time to plan the wedding or have a honeymoon.”
“We’ll steal a few days in Cannes and have a proper honeymoon in the New Year.” James squeezed my hand. “You don’t need to worry about the planning. Mother has it under control. I always say she missed her calling, she should have been a general.”
I spent a long time cutting my leg of lamb so I didn’t say the wrong thing.
“I don’t want to wedge my wedding into the only free week of the year,” I fumed. “Let’s get married at Christmas or next spring.”
“Saint Stephen’s is booked until next October.” James frowned.
“Then we’ll get married in London and have a reception at the Savoy. Or we can wait till we get to New York and get married in a registrar’s office and have dinner at the Four Seasons.”
“You know we have to get married at Saint Stephen’s,” James replied, looking like a schoolboy deprived of his pudding.
I stared at the Dresden white china plate and wanted to burst into tears. I dreamed of getting married in a tiny stone church surrounded by my dearest friends. I’d wear a short white dress and we’d have a simple luncheon of steak and roasted potatoes.
But, Kitty, isn’t marriage all about compromise? James doesn’t say a word about my acting and I’d be lost without it. I can spend one day wearing a Givenchy lace gown and shaking hands if it makes him happy.
The rest of the evening was wonderful. We danced and laughed and drank a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. I’ve never been good at having fun. I worry about staying up too late or eating an extra bite of chocolate cake. With James I forget all that and feel young and happy.
On Saturday he decided to call a press conference. Apparently I’ve become quite popular in England and he thought it would be good for business to announce he was engaged to a movie star.
I protested I’d rather spend the day strolling through the Borghese Gardens or having a picnic in Tuscany but Mr. Wyler agreed it would be good publicity so I could hardly say no. I wore my red Yves Saint Laurent dress and Ferragamo pumps and a diamond brooch. James looked so handsome in a navy sport jacket and striped tie and beige silk slacks.
“Mr. Hanson, isn’t the engagement sudden? You’ve only known each other six months.”
“When you meet the right person there’s no reason to wait.” James squeezed my hand. “If you see the perfect Jaguar you don’t wait till next season to buy it, you snap it up right away.”
“Are you comparing Miss Hepburn to a car?” a female reporter cut in.
“What’s wrong with that?” James’s eyes sparkled. “Everyone knows men love their cars more than their wives.”
“When’s the wedding date?” another reporter asked when everyone stopped laughing.
“If we told you that, all you nice folks would attend.” James smiled. “Don’t worry, we’ll give you a full report.”
“Miss Hepburn, there are rumors that you’ve become intimate with your costar on the set.”
I sucked in my breath and glowered at the journalist with red hair and freckles. “There was the time Mr. Peck gathered me in his arms and kissed me hard on the mouth.” I paused. “Then the director yelled cut and everyone clapped.”
“I think he means off camera,” another reporter interrupted.
“I know what he meant,” I replied. “And I assure you off camera Mr. Peck and I are not even on a first-name basis.”
“And what does Lady Carrow think of your engagement? You were spotted having lunch with her at Claridge’s last Wednesday.”
James went very quiet and his cheeks were pale. I waited for him to answer, a lump forming in my throat.
“I’ve been lunching with Lady Carrow since we shared bread-and-butter sandwiches in the nursery,” James replied. “But I don’t know what she thinks of my engagement because I didn’t ask her. The only person’s opinion I value is the one standing beside me. I think I may speak for my fiancée, we are both delighted.”
The rest of the day we spent traipsing around the Roman Forum but James was very quiet. I finally asked him what was wrong and he said he thought it was odd I hadn’t introduced him to Gregory Peck. Oh, Kitty, he was jealous! I assured him Mr. Peck was married and almost old enough to be my father. But James wouldn’t stop until I promised I’d arrange dinner.
I wanted to ask him about Amanda Carrow but I know it’s just those horrid journalists creating a story. James and Amanda have been friends since they were children. The next time someone asks me to speak to the press, I’m going to claim I have laryngitis!
Audrey
June 11, 1952
Dear Kitty,
Oh, Kitty, I had the most tiresome day. James arrived at my suite this morning to say good-bye and we were both quite irritable. I know he was smarting about Gregory Peck and all night I kept picturing Amanda Carrow. I’m sure she’s one of those horsey English beauties with blond hair and long legs and lavender eyes.
I spent the morning rehearsing a difficult scene and by lunchtime I was starving. I stood at the food service table making a sandwich when a beautiful young woman approached me.
I knew she was French before she opened her mouth, she had brown eyes and thick eyelashes and full pink lips. She wore a perfectly cut blue Dior dress and soft leather pumps. Her auburn hair fell to her shoulders and she wore a silver Cartier watch.
“Miss Hepburn, it’s a pleasure to see you.”
“Have we met?” I asked, trying to swallow a mouthful of American cheese.
“Veronique Passani,” she held out her hand. “I’m a reporter for
Paris Soir
.”
“Excuse me but Mr. Wyler only gives us fifteen minutes for lunch and if I don’t eat I get a headache,” I replied.
“I don’t mind if you eat while we talk.” Veronique smiled. She gazed at the selection of processed ham and yellow cheese and wilted lettuce and made a face. “If I was you I’d insist Mr. Wyler order pizza margherita and fresh peaches and apricots.”
“That would be heavenly but the unions won’t allow it.” I put the sandwich on a plate. “What do we have to talk about?”
“Paramount wants
Paris Soir
to run interviews of the principal actors.” Veronique sat on a folding chair and crossed her legs. She had beautiful legs with slender ankles like a dancer.
“I’m not very interesting.” I waved my hand. “Interview Gregory Peck, he’s a real movie star.”
“I interviewed him last winter in Paris.” Veronique took a pen and pad of paper from her purse. “It must be difficult to have a career and plan a wedding at the same time. Don’t you worry about your fiancé being on the other side of the English Channel?”
“Worry about him?” I asked, feeling a lump form in my throat.
“James Hanson is a very eligible bachelor.” Veronique peeled a green grape. “Aren’t you concerned he’ll get lonely and take up with an old flame?”
“If you’re talking about his lunch with Amanda Carrow, they’ve been neighbors since they were in jumpers. James wouldn’t wait until he was engaged to have a fling with her.”
I looked at Veronique scribbling furiously and realized what I’d done. My cheeks turned pink and my stomach turned.
“She’s quite beautiful in a Katharine Hepburn kind of a way,” Veronique mused. “I read they had five courses and a bottle of Dom Pérignon.”
“Where did you read that?” I asked, trying to stop my hands from shaking.
“It was on page three of the
Daily Sun.
” Veronique popped the grape in her mouth. “I suppose you don’t get the British papers in Rome.”
“Miss Passani, as a journalist I’m sure you know reporters make up things to sell newspapers.”
“On the contrary.” Veronique raised her eyebrow. “In my experience, journalists only tell the truth. If they didn’t, they’d be fired.”
I stood up and smoothed my skirt. I took a deep breath and smiled. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.”
She flipped the page of her notepad and started writing. “So do I.”
Oh, Kitty, I’m going to call the concierge and cancel my newspapers. I’m going to run a bath and soak in lavender bubbles. Then I’m going to slip on a silk Hassler robe and climb into bed and eat two delicious chocolate truffles.
Audrey
Amelia put the letters on the glass coffee table and walked to the window. The rain had stopped and a rainbow spread across the sky. Amelia stepped onto the balcony and inhaled the scent of roses and chrysanthemums. She gazed down at the street and saw businessmen folding umbrellas and children shedding raincoats.
She walked back inside and saw Philip’s letter on the desk. She picked up the concert tickets and examined the date. She thought about Audrey Hepburn trying to appease the press and frowned.
She was tired of sitting in her suite, sipping tea with honey. She would go to the concert with Sophie and they’d eat pizza margherita and drink bottles of limoncello. She flashed on Philip thinking she was a hotel maid and flinched. Philip was away and he said she didn’t have to thank him. He would never have to know.
Amelia stood in front of her closet and selected tan cigarette pants and a beige cashmere sweater. She fastened her hair with a gold clip and put on Whit’s diamond teardrop earrings. She slipped on suede loafers and grabbed a light wool jacket.
Sophie was meeting her in the lobby and they were going to the concert at Hadrian’s Villa. The concierge had warned her it got chilly at night when the fog rolled in from the Sabine Hills. Amelia was excited to get out of the city, to breathe fresh clean air and see fields of white and purple daisies.
Her phone rang and she picked it up.
“There’s been an accident and we’re stuck in Casperia,” Sophie’s voice came over the line. “The road is closed in both directions.”
“I didn’t know you went to the orphanage.” Amelia glanced at her watch. Hadrian’s Villa was forty minutes away and the concert started in an hour.
“Theo had to deliver some aspirin and he asked me to come,” Sophie explained. “I thought it would only take a minute and I could stop and get a picnic.”
“If you can’t make it, we can do it another time.” Amelia felt her shoulders deflate.
“I’ll have Theo drop me off at the concert,” Sophie replied. “I already bought sausages and feta cheese and green olives. We’re going to have a feast.”
Amelia hung up and took the elevator to the lobby. She crossed the marble floor and walked through the revolving glass doors. She glanced at the sky and saw thick clouds hanging over the rooftops.
“I need a taxi to Tivoli please,” she said to the valet.
“Miss Tate looks very beautiful tonight, are you meeting some lucky man?”
“Thank you, Marco.” Amelia blushed, glancing at his name tag. “I’m going to a concert with a friend.”
“I will ask it not to rain.” Marco grinned, flagging a yellow taxi. “We can’t have our favorite movie star getting wet.”
Amelia sat in the back of the taxi and watched the lights of Rome disappear. It was almost sunset and the fields were gray and pink and purple. She saw green hills and clusters of clay-colored villages. She opened the window and breathed cut grass and peonies and geraniums.
The taxi pulled down a long gravel drive and Amelia sucked in her breath. Hadrian’s Villa was a patchwork of fields scattered with crumbling ruins. Amelia saw stone arches and marble statues and a lake surrounded by olive trees. She saw marble fountains and the remains of ancient buildings.
“The Emperor Hadrian built the villa in
A.D.
133; he borrowed the architecture style from the Greeks and Egyptians. It had a theater and libraries and banquet halls.” The taxi driver pulled up on the side of the road. “He invited friends from all over the Roman Empire and they played games and had feasts and went swimming.”
“How do you know so much history?” Amelia asked.
“Romans are proud of their ancestors, plus the tourists tip well.” The taxi driver grinned. “If you like, I can give you a tour of the ruins.”
“That’s very kind but I’m meeting a friend.” Amelia leaned forward and handed him a wad of euros.
“Thank you, signorita.” The taxi driver jumped out and opened her door. “Have a wonderful evening.”
Amelia stepped out of the taxi and saw a stage draped with gold velvet curtains. It was strung with silver and gold lights and filled with glittering instruments. She saw musicians in black tuxedos and heard the sounds of violins and cellos.
“Wait, signorita,” the taxi driver called. “Do you have an umbrella?”