Authors: Anita Hughes
She loved visiting San Francisco. She loved the steep hills and the white houses and the wide views of the bay. She loved the outdoor markets in Chinatown and the vintage clothing stores in the Haight. But if she was going to be an actress she should live in Hollywood, where producers could bump into her at Coffee Bean & Tea.
“I’ll fly up every weekend.” Amelia blinked away sudden tears. “We’ll go wine tasting in Napa and eat at Chez Panisse in Berkeley. We’ll spend Sundays in bed with the
New York Times
and mugs of Peet’s coffee.”
The first few months were one long honeymoon. They flew kites on Crissy Field and hiked to the top of Mount Diablo. They ate at trendy new restaurants on Union Street and in the Castro. But then Whit started working longer hours and complained he was tired of playing tourist. He wanted to curl up with Amelia in front of the television and eat pizza and watch
CSI
.
* * *
“The lead in
Roman Holiday
is the chance of a lifetime.” Amelia brushed her brown hair behind her ears. She wore a green cotton sweater and beige capris and flat Tory Burch pumps. Her face was free of makeup except for mascara and a hint of clear lip gloss. “After the movie wraps I’ll take a month off. We’ll drive up the coast and stay in a bed and breakfast in Mendocino.”
“I’m proud of what you do.” Whit cut beef tendons with white truffles. “I just wished we didn’t live five hundred miles apart and the paparazzi didn’t write down our orders at Starbucks.”
“They’ll find some new ingenue.” Amelia nibbled shishito peppers with anchovy salt. “Soon I’ll be newspaper wrapping for old fish.”
They drank vodka gimlets and listened to soft jazz and Amelia turned the conversation to Whit’s new prototype.
“I think it’s ready for the road.” Whit stirred melting ice cubes. “We’re going to drive from San Francisco to Santa Barbara without recharging.”
Amelia gazed at Whit’s bright eyes and hard cheekbones and thought he was lit by some inner fire. She sipped the bitter vodka, feeling his fingers press into her shoulder, and wished he understood how much she loved acting.
They paid the check and walked onto the sidewalk. They passed sushi restaurants and smoothie cafés and oyster bars. Amelia felt Whit’s hand on her back and suddenly wished she wasn’t going to Rome. She wanted to spend every weekend at dark restaurants sharing plates of baked fries. She wanted to listen to Whit’s dreams of a whole fleet of electric cars.
They drove Whit’s Prius to the underground garage and took the elevator to his apartment. Whit opened the door and Amelia saw her Coach luggage stacked neatly in the entry. She saw her light winter coat and her Burberry umbrella and her carry-on packed with an Italian dictionary and a stack of magazines. She gazed into the small living room and saw a ceramic vase filled with pink roses. She saw a bottle of champagne and two crystal champagne flutes and a silver tray of chocolate truffles.
“What’s this?” Amelia asked.
“You didn’t think your last dinner would be beef tendons and vodka gimlets in a smoky bar?” Whit drew a black velvet box out of his pocket. “This is for you.”
Amelia sat on the navy Pottery Barn sofa and snapped open the box. She saw sparkling diamond teardrop earrings and her eyes misted over. “They’re beautiful! But you can’t afford this, they must cost a fortune.”
“We got our second round of funding.” Whit poured champagne into chilled champagne flutes. “You’re going to be playing a princess, you have to look like one.”
Amelia felt Whit’s lips on hers and her shoulders relaxed. She reached for Whit’s shirt and slowly undid the buttons. He kissed her harder, biting her lower lip and tracing her mouth with his fingers.
Amelia leaned against the cushions and felt Whit’s mouth on her breasts. She unzipped her capris and let them slip to the floor. She sucked in her breath, guiding Whit’s hands between her thighs. She slid off his shirt and buried her face in his chest.
Whit put one hand under her panties and slid his fingers inside her. He pushed his fingers in deeper, sending shivers down her spine. Amelia strained toward him, rubbing his chest with her palm. She gripped his shoulders, feeling the deep throbbing and the long, infinite release.
Whit took her hand and led her to the bedroom. He unzipped his slacks and slipped off his socks. He pulled Amelia’s sweater over her head and unsnapped her bra. He turned down the white cotton sheets and lay down on the bed.
Amelia kissed him on the lips, tasting champagne and chocolate. She wrapped her arms around him and drew him on top of her. She dug her fingers into his back, catching his rhythm, feeling the slow build, the delicious pause and then the final bolt of pleasure.
Amelia tucked herself against his chest and thought about the brochure of the Hassler Hotel. She pictured the Villa Medici Suite with its marble bathtub and gold brocade curtains and wide stone balcony. She heard Whit’s soft breathing and closed her eyes, wishing they were lying in the four-poster bed with the windows open and the sound of music and laughter floating up from the piazza.
* * *
Amelia felt a raindrop on her forehead and shivered. She had been walking for an hour and didn’t recognize any street signs. She wanted to ask directions to the Spanish Steps but suddenly the rain fell harder and the sidewalks were deserted.
She hurried to a taxi stand and stood next to a man wearing a trench coat and holding a large black umbrella. She searched for her purse and realized she left it in the laundry bag with her evening gown and her jeweled Prada sandals.
“You take the cab,” the man said when a yellow taxi pulled up and the driver honked impatiently.
“I don’t have any money.” Amelia bit her lip. “I forgot my purse.”
The man shrugged and got into the cab. The driver was about to pull away when the man put his hand on the driver’s shoulder. The taxi skidded to a stop and the man opened the door.
“You look like a drowned rat. We’ll share the cab, you can pay me later.”
Amelia climbed into the back and smelled wet vinyl and stale cigarettes. Suddenly she felt sheepish for running away. She should be relaxing in her suite at the Hassler, wearing a silk robe and drinking hot tea and eating scones with butter and strawberry jam.
“Where are you going?” the man asked. He was in his early thirties, with dark brown hair and a slightly crooked nose. He carried a black briefcase and had an American accent.
Amelia gazed at the damp maid’s uniform and frowned. She could try to slip in the kitchen door but someone might see her. She imagined her picture plastered over tomorrow’s papers and shuddered.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where you live?” The man wrinkled his brow.
“I don’t know where I left my purse,” Amelia hesitated. “Could we drive around until I remember?”
The man shrugged and said something to the driver in Italian. The driver mumbled under his breath and slammed on the accelerator.
Amelia shut her eyes, suddenly woozy from the champagne and jet lag. She pictured Sheldon and the throng of journalists waiting for her at the Hassler. She felt a great weight pushing her down, like a strong current carrying her out to sea. She fell sideways and everything went black.
Amelia opened her eyes and tried to sit up. She saw a rectangular room with a tile floor and a bright red rug. There was a round glass table and a brown sofa and a tall wooden bookshelf. She glanced around and saw a trench coat hanging on a peg and a black umbrella resting against the door.
“Oh, my God.” She instinctively pulled the sheets around her. “Where am I?”
“You’re awake.” A man crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tan slacks.
“I remember you.” She wrinkled her brow. “You let me share your cab.”
“You wouldn’t tell me where you wanted to go,” the man explained. “The meter was running up higher than a month’s rent so I brought you to my apartment. You’ve been asleep for ten hours.”
“I’m so sorry.” Amelia bit her lip. Her head ached and her eyes watered and her skin felt like sandpaper. “I had too much to drink and not enough to eat. I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with champagne.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” The man grinned. “Though you were pretty insistent that you sleep in the bed and I got the sofa. Something about being fired if you didn’t get your beauty sleep.”
Amelia blinked and looked down at the wooden bed frame and blue cotton sheets. “Did we…” she asked, her cheeks turning pink.
“Nothing happened, we didn’t even exchange names.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Philip Hamilton, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Amelia touched his hand and froze. If she told him her name he might leak it to the press. She imagined the headlines: “Amelia Tate spends the night with a mysterious stranger.”
“Ann,” she replied, searching her brain for a last name. “Ann Prentiss. I’m so sorry I caused you trouble.”
“No trouble.” Philip shrugged. He stood up and his head almost touched the ceiling. He went to the window and opened the shutters, letting in the mid-morning sun. “Your clothes should be dry in a few minutes.”
“My clothes?” Amelia glanced down and saw she was wearing a man’s shirt. She peered under the sheets and saw white tube socks with yellow stripes.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t look,” Philip replied. “Though you did say you were voted best legs in high school.”
“I said that?” Amelia blushed.
“Among other things.” Philip nodded. “Something about fettuccine Alfredo and vanilla custard.”
“When I’m hungry I dream about food,” Amelia groaned.
“Then you’ll join me for breakfast,” Philip replied. He walked to the narrow counter and put two pieces of bread in a silver toaster. “I’m making my specialty: pigs in a blanket with poached eggs and a side of bacon. Breakfast is what I miss most about America. Italians think you can start the day with espresso and a pastry. I need eggs and sausage and lots and lots of bacon.”
“I’m late, I really have to go.” She tried to stand up, but her knees buckled and she sunk onto the bed. Her stomach felt as if it had been carved out with a knife and she was desperate for a glass of water.
“Where ever you have to go, it won’t help if you faint when you get there.” Philip’s eyes narrowed. “Have a piece of toast and a cup of coffee. You’ll feel like a new woman.”
Amelia walked unsteadily to the glass table and sat on a wooden chair. She resolved to gulp a quick coffee but when she saw the bowls of muesli and fresh fruit, the platters of poached eggs and sausages and crisp, juicy bacon, her resolve weakened.
She poured milk into a bowl of muesli and added strawberries and sliced banana. She took a bite and tasted nuts and oats and cinnamon. She didn’t look up until she finished the bowl and washed it down with a cup of milky coffee.
“I’m glad to know your appetite wasn’t affected by the rain.” Philip drizzled ketchup on his eggs. He buttered a slice of toast and poured sugar into black coffee.
“I haven’t eaten in…” Amelia stopped. She couldn’t mention the terrible jet lag or the elaborate gala, or being afraid to eat in the pink Balenciaga gown. “In a long time. This is delicious. Do you make breakfast like this every day?”
“Food in Rome is so expensive.” Philip ate sausage wrapped in flaky pastry. “On Mondays and Tuesdays I eat breakfast, on Wednesdays and Thursdays I eat lunch, and on Fridays and Saturdays I eat dinner.”
“And Sundays?” Amelia asked curiously.
“On Sundays I sit at Canova and dream about roast beef sandwiches on dark rye with dill pickles and a side of sauerkraut. God, what I’d give for a root beer float and a slice of New York cheesecake.”
“You’re from New York?” Amelia asked, nibbling a slice of toast.
“The East Village.” Philip nodded. “I’ve been in Rome for three years. I’ve learned Italians are great at napping but terrible at working, they like their coffee strong enough to glue wallpaper.…” He stopped and looked at Amelia. “And have more than their share of beautiful women.”
Amelia looked down at her plate and blushed. “I’m American.”
“I thought the dark hair, the brown eyes, the maid’s uniform…” Philip stumbled.
“I came to Rome to study Italian.” Amelia crossed her fingers behind her back. “It’s so expensive, I took a job as a maid.”
“I can’t walk down the street without feeling like I’ve been pickpocketed,” Philip agreed. “Ten euros for a cup of coffee. I pay more for this place than a one bedroom with a roof garden in the East Village.”
“Why are you here?” Amelia asked.
“Why are we anywhere? Work.” Philip’s eyes darkened and he snapped a piece of bacon in half. “Why don’t we work off this meal with a stroll around the neighborhood? If we’re lucky we might hear Signora Griselda singing in the shower.”
Amelia spilled hot coffee on her saucer and jumped. She should be on the set ready for her first day of shooting. But she had been so hungry and the muesli and fresh fruit were so delicious. She would call Sheldon as soon as she got back to the Hassler and tell him she was terribly sorry and it would never happen again.
“I really have to go.” Amelia stood up and walked to the door. “Thank you for everything. If you write down your address I’ll send you some money for the taxi.”
“You might want to change first.” Philip grinned. He walked to the balcony and brought in the black maid’s uniform and white apron. “You can dress in the bathroom.” He pointed to a door. “The door has a lock, it’s perfectly safe.”
Amelia carried the clothes into the bathroom and leaned against the sink. What was she doing eating breakfast with a strange man in his studio apartment in Rome? She pulled the shirt over her head and thought it had been nice to talk to someone who didn’t want to know her favorite brand of lipstick or if she really met Tom Cruise and was he taller in person? Maybe Whit was right, they’d be happier if she worked fifteen-hour days at a hospital. Then she imagined the crowded movie set: the big cameras, the noisy technicians, the moment when the director yelled action and she felt as if she were walking on air.