Authors: Anita Hughes
“Marriage is much more sensible as a business arrangement.” Sophie nodded, folding her napkin into precise squares and placing it on her plate.
“I couldn’t live without love.” Amelia gazed at a young couple sharing a bowl of hazelnut gelato. They fed each other small spoonfuls, laughing and chattering in Italian. Amelia remembered strolling along Union Street with Whit and eating Tutti Frutti frozen yogurt. She pictured Whit taking off his jacket and draping it around her shoulders to protect her from the evening fog.
“I should go.” Amelia pushed back her chair. “I’m still on California time and I’m exhausted.”
“I’ll walk with you. My head is beginning to feel like it’s been split open with a hammer.”
They left a wad of euros on the table and walked into the street. It was late afternoon and tourists strolled along the sidewalk, licking cones of spumoni. Amelia saw children playing next to the Trevi Fountain and a boy strumming a guitar on the Spanish Steps.
* * *
“Here’s my room number.” Sophie stopped in the lobby and scribbled on a piece of paper. “I owe you dinner for helping me to the clinic, that was very kind of you.”
“I’ll be working fourteen hours a day, but if I get a moment I’d love to.” Amelia slipped the paper into her purse.
Amelia took the elevator to the seventh floor and opened the door to her suite. She put her purse on the pink marble end table and sat on the beige silk sofa. She gazed at the vase of purple irises, the minibar stocked with French champagne, the sketch by Tintoretto hanging over the fireplace.
She pictured Audrey Hepburn sitting in the same spot, and wondered if she ever felt lonely. On the screen she was always perfectly composed but she must have had difficult love affairs, disapproving parents, brushes with the press.
Amelia pictured Whit’s curly dark hair and blue eyes. She saw him fastening the diamond teardrop earrings in her ears and suddenly felt cold and tired. She drew a cashmere blanket over her shoulders, curled up on the sofa, and fell asleep.
Philip opened his laptop and scrolled through his e-mails. He ran his hands through his hair and poured another cup of black coffee. If he didn’t get another freelance job soon he’d have to tell Signora Griselda he was late with the rent. He gazed at the wooden bedside table, wondering if she would accept his leather watch or a few American sport coats.
When he moved to Rome, Adam promised him the title of news editor and his own corner office. They had been friends at Columbia Journalism School and Adam started a newspaper in Rome for American expats.
“It won’t have the usual baseball scores and Hollywood gossip you get in foreign newspapers,” Adam said, pacing around the living room of Philip’s East Village walk-up. “It will be about Rome: the local politics, the best restaurants, the latest exhibits. And it won’t be written by Italians trying to promote their favorite tourist traps. I’ll hire journalists who have their finger on the pulse of the city.”
Philip loved crossing the Piazza di Trevi and climbing four flights of stairs to the newspaper’s cramped headquarters. He didn’t mind sharing his office with the fax machine and the microwave and the coffeemaker. He enjoyed putting dinners at Alfredo’s on his expense account and writing about the Tintoretto exhibit at the National Museum.
But Adam discovered that American expats weren’t interested in Rome, they only cared about news from America. The minute they touched down at Rome Airport and rented an apartment in Trastevere, they wanted to know if the Yankees were winning or which actor was entering rehab.
The glossy weekly edition became a two-color bimonthly and Philip became the style editor and the sports columnist. He watched Adam pour over the monthly ledgers, chewing packets of TUMS and drinking bottles of Coca Cola.
Philip started looking for freelance work at
La Repubblica
and
La Messengeria
and
Le Tempo
. But every college kid who spent the summer abroad decided to try their hand at writing. Philip saw them loitering in the reception area in their pressed blue jeans and collared shirts. They were happy to work for the price of a plate of linguini and a glass of Chianti.
Philip skimmed through his e-mails, wishing he could approach the Rome office of the
Wall Street Journal
or the
New York Times
. But after three years he didn’t know if his name rang a bell and if the editor in chief knew he had been fired.
He pictured his old cubicle at the
New York Times
with the quote by Edward Morrow above his desk. He remembered the constant smell of cigarette smoke and sweat. He imagined his byline on the financial page and felt like he had been punched in the stomach. He closed his laptop and poured the remains of his coffee in the sink.
“It smells like bacon,” a male voice said. “I haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast and I’m starving.”
“Help yourself.” Philip pointed to a plate of half-eaten bacon on the kitchen counter. “The coffee is cold but there’s toast and orange juice.”
“The countess’s chef made egg white omelets with prosciutto and porcini mushrooms.” Max pulled out a chair. He had wavy blond hair and blue eyes like a young Robert Redford. He wore blue jeans and a yellow shirt and white sneakers. “We sipped Bellinis on the balcony and listened to Verdi and Puccini.”
“No thanks.” Philip wiped plates with a cotton cloth. “I’d rather eat dry toast than sleep with an aging countess.”
“Mirabella Tozzi is a European woman of a certain age, there’s a difference.” Max buttered a slice of toast. “I enjoy a lot more about her than her chef’s cooking.”
“That’s because you’re young and think happiness lies between the sheets,” Philip sighed. “Wait until your heart gets trampled or your wallet is emptied.”
“I’m like the Tin Man, I don’t have a heart.” Max poured a glass of orange juice. “And I don’t have enough money to buy a woman a steak dinner.”
Max bent down and picked a white silk ribbon off the floor. He glanced at the rumpled bed and whistled.
“It looks like you had company.”
“It’s not what you think.” Philip draped the dishcloth over his shoulder. “I met a girl at the taxi stand, she was sopping wet so I offered to share my cab. She forgot where she left her purse and asked if we could drive around, the next thing I knew she fell asleep on my shoulder.”
“So you brought her here?” Max spluttered.
“What was I supposed to do?” Philip demanded. “I let her sleep in my bed and I camped on the sofa. It was the most uncomfortable night I’ve had in weeks.”
“Was she pretty?” Max asked.
“Her wet hair stuck to her head, and her cheeks were smudged with mascara,” Philip mused, eating a slice of bacon. “But she had beautiful brown eyes and the sexiest knees I’ve ever seen.”
“You saw her knees?” Max raised his eyebrow.
“Her uniform was soaked so I lent her a shirt,” Philip explained. “She’s a maid at the Hassler.”
Philip tossed the last piece of bacon in the garbage and put the orange juice in the fridge. “Nothing happened and I’ll probably never see her again.”
“Adam sent me to photograph the press conference at the Hassler. There were fifty female journalists and a buffet of oysters and lobster ravioli and lamb medallions.” Max reached for his camera and clicked through the photos. “Look at that ice sculpture and see the woman behind it. She’s a reporter for
Paris Match
. Five foot eight inches of blond hair and long legs and pouty lips. I tried to get her phone number but she said something rude in French.”
Philip glanced at the photo and saw a familiar figure in the background. She had glossy brown hair and large brown eyes and wore a diamond pendant around her neck.
“Give me that.” Philip took the camera and studied it carefully.
“You can’t have Francoise,” Max replied. “But I met a cute redheaded reporter from London.”
“That’s her.” Philip pointed to the screen. “That’s the girl in the taxi.”
Max peered at the camera and frowned. “That’s Amelia Tate, the star of
Roman Holiday
. She’s the new It girl, the press conference was in her honor.”
“I’d recognize those eyes anywhere,” Philip insisted. “They belong on a young deer.”
Max took the camera and grinned. “Maybe you fell harder for the maid than you think but that’s definitely not her. She wore a pink satin ball gown and a diamond pendant that cost more than a Fiat.”
Philip shrugged and walked to his laptop. He stared at his empty inbox and rubbed his forehead.
“We’re having a poker game tonight at Canova.” Max stood up. “You should join us.”
“I don’t have any money.” Philip shook his head.
“I’ll lend you ten euros.” Max reached into his pocket and handed him a ten-euro note.
“Why would you lend me money to play poker?” Philip asked.
“Because you’re the only person broker than I am.” Max grinned, walking to the door. “It makes me feel better to see you lose.”
* * *
Philip looked around the lobby of the Grand Hotel, feeling as nervous as a schoolboy. He glanced in the gilt mirror and straightened his tie and smoothed his hair. He crossed the black and white marble and approached a man with gray hair and an angular nose.
“Nice suit, Dad.” He held out his hand. “It matches your eyes.”
John Hamilton brushed the jacket of his gray herringbone suit. He shook Philip’s hand and motioned him to sit in a red velvet chair.
“I stopped in London to see my tailor.” John placed his glass on a cocktail napkin. “Will you join me in a dry martini? The Grand makes the best martinis, with just the right amount of vermouth.”
“No thanks, I can’t afford to drink before six
P.M.
,” Philip gazed at the crystal chandeliers and plush velvet furniture. The walls were covered with ornate tapestries and the ceiling was inlaid with gold mosaic. A harp stood in the corner and crystal vases were filled with white and yellow tulips. “So what brings you to Rome?”
“I came to see you.” John scooped a handful of macadamia nuts from the silver dish. He had steel gray hair and gray eyes and a cleft on his chin. He wore a white silk shirt and a yellow tie and black tasseled shoes.
“I thought maybe you were here to add to your Renaissance art collection.” Philip shrugged, feeling suddenly hot under his blue blazer.
“I’ve chosen your secretary,” John mused. “Edna is retiring but she recommended her niece. I thought you could have the office on the seventeenth floor. It’s not the biggest space but it has the best view of Wall Street.”
Philip looked at his father’s narrow cheeks and fine mouth and resisted the urge to punch him in the jaw.
“I’m not coming to work for you.”
“We made an agreement.” John stirred his drink. “And Hamilton men keep their word.”
“I don’t know anything about being a stockbroker,” Philip protested. “Why would you want me to work in the firm?”
“Because the plaque on the building says Hamilton and Sons.” John tapped his fingers on the table. “Your mother wants grandchildren, how is she going to get them if you can’t afford a cocktail?”
Philip leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie. He remembered the week before his graduation from Yale when he told his father he wasn’t joining the family firm. He paced around the foyer of his parents’ Central Park duplex, trying to stop his heart from racing. Finally he crossed the pink and white marble floor and knocked on the door of his father’s study.
“Come in,” John beamed. He wore a white silk shirt and gray slacks. A gold Patek Philippe dangled at his wrist and he wore black Ferragamo shoes.
Philip entered the room and gazed at the Titian on the wall. There was a Rembrandt sketch above the marble fireplace and a Botticelli painting of a young woman holding a vase.
“You’ve moved things around.” Philip glanced at the wide cherry desk and the deep leather chairs. A white wool rug covered the polished wood floor and a round glass table held a crystal decanter and an ivory chess set.
“Your mother loves to redecorate.” John smiled. “As long as she doesn’t touch my Botticelli she can do what she likes.”
“I want to talk to you about my plans after graduation,” Philip began. He had arrived from Yale early in the morning and drank three cups of black coffee. Now his hands shook and his shirt collar was drenched with sweat.
“We thought we’d hold a dinner at the Knickerbocker Club,” John interrupted. “And then you can take a few weeks’ vacation, sit on a sandy beach and drink Bloody Marys and read the latest Clive Cussler. Your mother and I are going to Bermuda for August, you can start the first week of September.”
“I got accepted to Columbia Journalism School,” Philip blurted out. “Classes begin the last week of August.”
John’s eyes darkened and he sat very still. He picked up the ivory paper opener and tapped it on the desk.
“You did a great job on the
Yale Daily News,
they were lucky to have you. But journalism isn’t a career, there are hardly any newspapers left. How are you going to afford a family on a reporter’s salary?”
“I don’t need a Jaguar and a house in East Hampton and a month every summer in Bermuda,” Philip replied. “But I need to do what I love and I’ve wanted to be a journalist since I was twelve years old.”
“Have you talked to Daphne about this?” John asked.
Philip flinched and his cheeks turned red. He pictured Daphne with her silky blond hair and graceful neck and long French nails.
“Daphne is going to Columbia to get her MBA.”
John stood up and gazed at the Botticelli. He studied the girl’s glossy brown hair and hazel eyes and alabaster cheeks.
“Then you owe me two hundred thousand dollars.”
“I beg your pardon,” Philip spluttered.
“I sent you to Yale so you could take over your grandfather’s business,” John replied. “I’ll give you ten years to make it as a journalist, then you have to pay me back.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Philip demanded.
“You can make fifty-thousand-dollar installments, starting in the summer of 2015.” John turned and looked at Philip. “If you default you have to join Hamilton and Sons.”