Authors: Anita Hughes
“It’s nine
A.M.
in Los Angeles,” Marjorie replied. “Mr. Henigson wanted to tell you Paramount would like to give your entire wardrobe as a wedding present.”
“My wardrobe?” I frowned, glancing at the antique armoire in the bedroom.
“All the clothes and accessories you wore on
Roman Holiday,
” Marjorie explained. “Four Givenchy evening dresses, two Dior ball gowns, three Chanel suits, a selection of Ferragamo shoes and Manbocher hats, and one evening gown designed by Edith Head herself.”
“That’s very kind,” I replied. “But how did Harry know I was getting married?”
“Mr. Hanson called yesterday and said the ceremony was on September twenty-first in Yorkshire.” Marjorie paused as if consulting her notes. “He requested you be let out of your contract if shooting continues past September eighteenth.”
“He did what?” I jumped out of bed. My heart was pounding and I could barely breathe. “Let me speak to Harry.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Henigson is at his house in Santa Barbara,” Marjorie replied. “He won’t be in the office until Monday.”
I tried calling James but he was on his way to Toronto. I was so angry; I tossed and turned all night. Finally I saw the sun rise behind the Pantheon and slipped on a dress and sandals and ran to the set.
“You’re here early.” Veronique Passani approached me. It was barely eight o’clock but she looked like she was dressed for a cocktail party. She wore a blue Lanvin dress and beige pumps. Her auburn hair fell smoothly to her shoulders and she wore emerald earrings and a Cartier watch.
“I need to speak to Mr. Wyler,” I replied.
“He’s not here yet.” Veronique extracted a cigarette from a pearl cigarette case and looked at me curiously. “You look like you just rolled out of bed.”
“James told Harry Henigson that the wedding is on September twenty-first,” I blurted out. “He said if shooting is delayed I want to be released from my contract.”
“He didn’t just tell Harry.” Veronique blew a thin line of smoke. “Let’s go somewhere private.”
We walked to my dressing room and she handed me a copy of the
Observer.
I flipped to the front page of the Style section and read out loud:
“International shipping scion James Hanson announced his upcoming nuptials to Audrey Hepburn. Miss Hepburn is a stage actress and the star of the much anticipated American film,
Roman Holiday
.
“The press conference was held in the Savoy and Mr. Hanson told reporters the ceremony will take place on September twenty-first in Yorkshire, followed by a sit-down dinner at the family home.
“When asked if the date was scheduled so soon as a result of the recent photos of Mr. Hanson squiring various models around London, he bristled and replied:
“‘Audrey and I are getting married because we love each other and want to spend our lives together. Any other hypothesis is invented purely to sell newspapers.’
“One reporter asked about the rumor that shooting of
Roman Holiday
was behind schedule and would not be completed by the wedding date. Mr. Hanson reflected:
“‘That doesn’t surprise me, I visited the set and it is run with the discipline of a kindergarten class room. Paramount is aware of the date and is prepared to release her from her contract. If I can speak for Miss Hepburn, acting is wonderful fun, but there is no greater role than being my wife.’
“I would never break my contract.” I crumpled the newspaper. “How could he say such things without asking me?”
“Men don’t change from the time they are babies and latch onto their mother’s breast,” Veronique mused. “They always want to come first.”
“But he’s been so supportive of my acting,” I protested. “He bought me wonderful presents and took me to dinner and told everyone I’m going to be a big star.”
“It’s one thing to have a glamorous fiancée.” She stubbed her cigarette in the glass ashtray. “It’s another to be dating a girl who’d rather be on a movie set than walking down the aisle of the parish church.”
“What am I going to do?” I collapsed into the chair.
“Why don’t you take the day off?” Veronique suggested. “I’ll tell Willy you have feminine problems and you can go home and take a bath.”
“I can’t disappoint him.” I shook my head. “I’m going to sit here for a while.”
I waited until Veronique left and then I threw myself on the sofa. I thought about Greg making sure my name was above the title and Mr. Wyler applauding my acting and the endless bottles of Coca Cola. I remembered learning how to ride a Vespa and getting soaked in the Trevi Fountain and not being able to cry on cue.
I brushed my hair and powdered my cheeks and smoothed my dress. Then I walked onto the set and found Veronique drinking a cup of espresso. I said:
“You need to do something for me.”
On Monday I woke up and had a slice of toast and a glass of orange juice. I put on my favorite Chanel dress and white gloves and a wide straw hat. I slipped on Ferragamo pumps and hurried to the set.
The minute I arrived everyone grew quiet. Oh, Kitty, they looked at me as if someone died. I glanced at my canvas chair and saw the
Sunday Times
with my picture in the Style section. I picked it up and read:
Audrey Hepburn announced that her engagement to British shipping magnate James Hanson has ended. Miss Hepburn, daughter of Baroness Ella Van Heemstra and a rising star in Hollywood, was scheduled to wed Mr. Hanson in an elaborate ceremony in Yorkshire in September.
“When I get married, I want to be the best wife in the world,” she commented. “At this time, my commitments in film and on the stage make that impossible. James and I have the utmost respect for each other and will remain dear friends for life.”
I put the paper down and saw Gregory Peck looking at me. He walked over and put his hand on my arm. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m wonderful, though it’s much too hot for these gloves.” I stripped off my gloves and tossed them on the chair. I took off my sunglasses and gave him my most dazzling smile.
I glanced up and saw Veronique standing on the edge of the piazza. She had a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She wore a two-piece red linen suit and white pumps.
“How did I do?” she asked.
“It’s worded perfectly.” I nodded, putting on my sunglasses so she couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.
Everyone was so kind and Mr. Wyler even broke for lunch before six o’clock. But I picture James’s blue eyes and floppy blond hair and don’t feel very brave. I have to be a good actress because now that’s all I am, and that’s all I may ever be.
Audrey
August 17, 1952
Dear Kitty,
Today I slept until noon and stayed in a silk robe all day. It was glorious to have nothing to do except read
Vogue
and
Bazaar
and
Paris Match
. I even swore I wouldn’t practice my lines; I wanted one lazy Saturday of sitting on the balcony, enjoying the view and eating white chocolate truffles.
The phone rang and I ran inside to pick it up.
“A gentleman is here to see you,” the concierge said.
“Did he give his name?” I asked.
“No, Miss Hepburn, but he said you would be happy to see him.”
I quickly put on a floral dress and smoothed my hair. I rubbed my lips with lipstick and coated my eyes with mascara. For a moment I thought it was James, I hadn’t heard from him except for a terse note to return his grandmother’s diamond ring. I did see his picture in the
Sunday Times
. He was entering Convent Garden with a blonde in a silver Dior gown.
There was a knock at the door and I crossed the marble entry to open it.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d be in on a Saturday afternoon.” Gregory Peck stood at the door. He wore a white shirt and tan slacks. His hair was brushed over his forehead and his cheeks glistened with aftershave. “I was downstairs at the barber and thought I’d look you up.”
“Why didn’t you give your name to the concierge?” I asked, ushering him into the living room.
“And have the newspapers report ‘Gregory Peck visited Audrey Hepburn’s suite’?” He chuckled.
He gazed at the plush silk sofas and ivory damask curtains and crystal vases filled with pink and white roses and whistled. “Harry is treating you well.”
“James paid for the suite.” I blushed, sinking onto a blue satin love seat. “I’ll probably have to move to a room next to the laundry.”
“I’ll fix it up with Harry.” He glanced at the photo of James in the
Sunday Times
. “I see James hasn’t been wasting any time.”
“He probably had tickets to
Swan Lake
he didn’t want to waste.” I picked up the newspaper and tossed it in the garbage.
“I feel a bit responsible.” Greg slipped his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think your fiancé liked me.”
“He didn’t like me either,” I mused. “He loved the fashionable actress in kitten heels and pearls, but he didn’t like the girl who sleeps with an eye mask and would rather eat sausages for dinner.”
“Do you really sleep with an eye mask?” Greg raised his eyebrow.
“I’m very sensitive to light,” I murmured.
“One day you’ll meet the man who makes you want to give all this up,” Greg said slowly. “Until then acting is a better gig than accounting.”
“I could never be an accountant, I’m terrible with numbers,” I replied.
“I’ve got a horse and buggy downstairs, would you like to come for a ride?”
“Horse and buggies are for tourists,” I teased.
“Publicity sent it over this morning for a few stills,” he explained. “It’s such a lovely afternoon I thought I’d keep it and explore the city.”
“Why not?” I grabbed my purse. “I’ve read every page of French
Vogue
and I’m not that interested in the new collections.”
We took the elevator to the lobby and walked through the gold revolving doors. I saw a red buggy and two magnificent black horses.
“There you are. Gregory said you’d be home.” Veronique Passani sat in the backseat. She wore a lime green Chanel suit and beige leather pumps. She wore a green felt hat and had a crocodile bag tucked under her arm.
“It’s wonderful to see you.” I stumbled, looking at the pavement so she didn’t see me blush.
“Mel is joining us, too.” Greg pointed to a man standing at the corner, smoking a cigarette.
I glanced up and saw Mel Ferrer walking toward me. He wore a gray suit and a white shirt and a narrow black tie. He tossed his cigarette onto the road and took my hand.
“I asked your agent how to convince you to do
War and Peace
and he said I must use my charm.” He smiled.
We climbed into the buggy and the driver set off down the street. Oh, Kitty, how silly I was to imagine that Gregory Peck wanted to take me on a horse and buggy ride through Rome! He’s married and is a decade older but he does have the kindest eyes and when he dropped me off he held my hand just a little too long.
Audrey
Amelia put the letters on the bedside table and heard the bells chime twelve o’clock. She pictured Audrey Hepburn with her pixie smile and large brown eyes ending her engagement. She imagined her sitting next to Gregory Peck in a carriage, slowly falling in love.
She remembered when Whit left and she told Sophie she couldn’t live without love. She pictured Philip’s dark eyes and the way his face lit up when he smiled. She tied a silk scarf around her head and slipped on her sunglasses. She was meeting Philip for lunch and didn’t want to keep him waiting.
Amelia sat at an outdoor table at Rosati and stirred sugar into creamy espresso. She nibbled a piece of biscotti and searched the piazza for Philip.
Rosati had become their favorite place; they loved the wooden tables and the glass cases filled with profiteroles and chocolate tortes.
Amelia usually arrived first and got a table next to the door. She loved having a few moments to herself after a long day on the set. She finally understood how Italians could sit at cafés all morning and return for a glass of Chianti at night. The whole world seemed to pass in front of her.
After they shared plates of grilled scampi and risotto they sauntered along the Via Veneto. Sometimes they climbed to the top of the Colosseum and kissed against a stone wall. Amelia felt Philip’s hand creep up her skirt and longed for his fingers to slide inside her. She wanted him to stroke her breasts and take her over the edge.
But if they made love she’d have to tell him the truth and the relationship would be over. He asked her to come to his apartment but she laughed and said she’d slept there enough. He begged her to let him take her home but she insisted it was out of his way.
Sometimes she pretended she had to work late and let him walk with her to the Hassler. They stood at the kitchen entrance and she wished she could bring him to her suite. She wanted to sleep together in the four-poster bed and eat scrambled eggs and bacon at the glass dining table.
She opened a copy of
Inside Rome
and read Philip’s feature on the Pope’s summer residence at Castel Gandolfo. She turned the page and saw a photo of a blond woman wearing a wide straw hat and white sunglasses. She was standing in the Campo de Fiori clutching a basket of strawberries. She wore a white lace dress and leather sandals.