The Perfect Location (28 page)

Giulia’s efficiency and chicness always made Sapphira feel a little bit dowdy, particularly since she had been in Jack’s house. Giulia had the effortless ability of Italian women to wear her clothes and not have them wear her. Today she was in a caramel cashmere sweater tunic with black tights and the most gorgeous long black flat-heeled boots Sapphira had ever seen. Her short hair was tucked behind her ears and she wore gold hoops and a single gold bangle.

Sapphira became aware of her jeans and Jack’s sweatshirt she was wearing, her feet in socks and her long dirty hair messily put up on top of her unmade-up face.

‘Yeah, I’m good, thanks for everything you’ve organized. I really like yoga now. I might continue it forever. It’s quite addictive,’ she said.

‘Well, that’s a good addiction to have,’ laughed Giulia kindly.

‘Yes, although the Chinese teas I can do without. No chance of getting hooked on them,’ said Sapphira, screwing up her nose.

‘Anyway,’ she continued self-consciously, ‘I’m trying to find some information and I’m a little unsure if I’m on the right track. Do you have time to help me? It’s fine if you don’t, though. I know you’re busy.’

‘Of course. What do you need?’

‘I want to help a charity but I don’t know where to start and what to choose. It’s a little disconcerting with how much crap there is in the world,’ she said, sighing heavily.

‘Okay, well, I do this with Jack all the time and I head up his foundation here in Italy. So, I know all the ins and outs and how to go about it. What are the causes you’re interested in?’

Sapphira paused. She had spent all night thinking about what resonated with her, as Alex had advised, going over the significant moments in her life. ‘I want to help women in Third World countries whose babies are unwell or deformed in some way. Or maybe the mothers are unwell after the birth and cannot access the types of healthcare and choices we have in Western countries.’

Giulia took down notes as Sapphira spoke. ‘Do you want to just give money or do you want to get involved a little more? I’m sure with your level of profile that you could be as involved as much or as little as you want.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if they would want me to be a part of it. I mean, I don’t have children, so it might seem a little weird,’ she said worriedly.

‘That doesn’t matter. We can work out a press release explaining your passion for women to receive decent healthcare. Come at it from a woman’s angle,’ said Giulia, not prying into the reasons for Sapphira’s choice.

‘Yes, that’s great,’ said Sapphira excitedly. ‘The problem is I can’t find who the right group is, there are so many issues and causes.’

‘Leave it with me. I will find a few I think are what you are looking for and then you can tell me if I am on the right path or not.
Si
?’

‘
Si
,’ said Sapphira, noticing Giulia’s shining hair as it fell over her smooth forehead. ‘One more thing, Giulia.’

‘Yes?’ said Giulia, looking up expectantly.

‘I need a haircut. Can you recommend a good hairdresser here in Venice?’

Giulia smiled widely; this was her domain and she was exactly the right person to ask. ‘
Assolutamente
,’ she said and picked up the phone.

Sapphira sat in the chair in her bedroom that afternoon. Stefano had instructed wet hair to Giulia, since she would not be going to his salon on the Grand Canal. Sapphira had had her hair trimmed over the years but it was long and annoying now. It didn’t feel like her hairstyle anymore.

Stefano was Giulia’s hairdresser, Jack’s hairdresser too, and some of the most notable women in Italy flew to get their hair cut and styled by him. He came into the room, speaking Italian to Giulia who walked behind him. Small, wiry and completely fabulous, he clapped his hands when he saw Sapphira. Speaking rapid Italian to her, Giulia interjected, ‘His English is not very good, so he only wants to speak Italian, as he wants to concentrate on your hair,’ she explained.

Stefano kept speaking over the top of Giulia.

‘He says he has wanted to cut your hair for many years and has a style in mind. Is this okay?’ she asked, worried Sapphira would want just the ends of her long hair trimmed.

Sapphira nodded. ‘Okay, I trust him. I don’t like it this long anymore. It just hangs. I need a cut but which I can still pull back. Something with shape,’ she told Giulia.

Giulia translated this back to Stefano who looked very serious. Undoing the bag he brought with him, he put a cape around Sapphira with a flourish. As he combed out her hair, Sapphira sat still. He lifted and separated the hair, cutting bits and smoothing it out again. He combed it over her face and then chopped over her nose, talking to her the whole time in Italian. She didn’t answer him as her translator Giulia had left the room. Just smiling nervously, she hoped she was giving him the right reactions.

Stefano stood back. He pulled out a large hairdryer and plugged it into the power point beside them. Taking out a bottle of liquid, he put a small bit into his hands and then rubbed it through her hair. Turning on the dryer, he then blew her hair from every direction, motioning her to tip forward in her chair to put her head over her knees so her hair fell forward. Then he pulled her back again, as though she was made of clay and took a large round brush and blew it again, winding the hair about the brush under the hot air.

Finally he was done. He stood in front of her surveying his work. ‘
Stupendo
!’ he exclaimed. ‘Giulia, Giulia,’ he called.

Giulia walked into the room. ‘Ahhh,’ she said smiling.

Sapphira stood and shook the hair from her lap. Looking down at the ground she saw a large amount of her hair and became nervous. Stefano undid the cape and she walked over to the mirror in the bathroom. Stefano had cut her hair into a long layer style. It sat just below her collarbones and feathered gently around her face, softening her features. There was a slight fringe that swept over one eye and showed off her large eyes. Her chin seemed less pointed and the feathers on the side of her hair fell gently, accentuating her cheekbones. She looked younger but more stylish. It was the hair of a woman, no longer a girl.

‘I love it,’ she said. ‘It’s perfect.’

Stefano knew enough English to understand her pleasure. ‘
Bella
,’ he said and packed up his things.

Kissing her on both cheeks, he said something again in Italian, very seriously to Sapphira. Giulia translated. ‘He says he is pleased to cut your hair. This is the hair of a woman in control of her life but who knows how to have fun. You will find great things with this hairstyle. He will cut it for you again anytime.’

Sapphira tried not to laugh, Stefano loved his job a little too much, she thought, but turning back to the mirror, she noticed she did feel different, more in charge than she had felt in a very long time.

Rose fell into her mother’s arms at her childhood home. ‘Rosie, what are you doing here?’ she asked, concerned. ‘What’s happened, darling?’

Being pulled into the warm and comfortable home, Rose felt peaceful again. Wiping her eyes, she calmed down and spoke. ‘Oh Mum, I’ve made a complete fuck up of things and I don’t know what to do.’

‘First a cup of tea and then a chat. Your father’s out at the library and so I’ve got you all to myself,’ her mother said, briskly.

For Rose it felt as if time had stopped. Since his retirement her father would go to the London Library in the city each morning and read the papers from around the world. It didn’t matter that Rose’s brother had set him up with a computer and explained the miracle of Google; Rose’s father was a creature of habit and he claimed being surrounded by papers and books helped him think but Rose thought it was to escape her mother sometimes.

Rose had not been home in a long time. She visited London but it was always fleeting, for a film publicity tour or for the BAFTA Awards. And she always stayed at The Dorchester, preferring the luxury of a suite and the comfort of being able to do what she wanted.

She owned a stunning apartment in London but never stayed there and refused to rent it out for privacy reasons but the paparazzi stalked it relentlessly, so she had let it sit, unused and unfurnished.

Wendy switched on the kettle and set about getting the mugs and spoons. She placed some ginger and orange biscuits on a plate and put them in front of Rose. Pouring her tea into the old blue and white Spode cups Rose loved so much, she sat at the worn pine table. Rose put her feet on the rail that sat below the table and warmed her hands on the cup.

‘I should have told you I was coming,’ she said apologetically.

‘Rosie, you are a grown woman, nearly forty, as I remember. You don’t need to tell me your whereabouts all the time.’

‘I know, I just feel awful showing up in tears and all that,’ Rose said, embarrassed.

‘Never mind that. Now, what’s going on? Tell all, no details left out, please.’

So for the next two hours and several cups of tea, Rose told Wendy everything. About Max and Italy, the boys, the distant phone calls and the house cleaning, and then about Alice and the dreams Max was having. Wendy sat and asked a few questions but not many, she just let Rose speak. When Rose was finished, she considered her words carefully.

‘Rosie, when you married Paul, I didn’t think it would last. Don’t look shocked, no one thought it would go as long as it did. The only person that man loved was himself. You were the reason that marriage survived for ten years but you can’t love enough for two, Rose, remember where that landed you.’

‘I know,’ said Rose sadly.

‘Rosie, ever since you were a little girl you have loved with your heart and soul. You want people to be happy so much, you will give up yourself to be able to give this to them.’

Rose was silent. She and her mother had not talked properly since she left for the US after her debut film premiered to great accolades. Even after Rose had tried to kill herself, she avoided any deep conversations with her parents; having to deal with her own grief was task enough without having to talk to her parents about what her life had been like while married to the controlling Paul. Rose had avoided any conversations with anyone, except her therapist in LA.

Now, she sat at the kitchen table where she had done her homework as a child, a thirty-nine-year-old woman weeping to her mother about a man. It felt good to be home.

Wendy continued, ‘If this man loves his wife and his children so much, then he is a good man. I’m happy, you deserve a good man.’

‘But he won’t be with me because of his wife, even though she’s dead,’ cried Rose loudly.

‘What I mean is, he puts other people’s feelings before his own,’ Wendy said. ‘His children and the idea of what he thinks his wife wants from beyond the grave. Which is total rubbish, of course. All women want their partners to go on without them; women understand the cycle of life. If you ask me, he is just racked with guilt. He was probably in a quite comfortable rut with his grief and then you came along and shattered his illusion about what his life was going to look like for the rest of his life.’

‘I’m so stupid. I thought I could come over here and clean up his life, kiss his wounds and we would live happily ever after. I think I’ve been in films for too long. There are no happy endings,’ said Rose dramatically.

‘Oh Rose, knock off the melodramatics. I’m not saying you haven’t been through the wringer, but give the man time to get over what he’s lost before he starts looking into a very different future. Coming back from Italy would have been a shock for the poor bloke, back to life again, without you, without his wife.’ Wendy looked thoughtful.

Wendy got up to look in the fridge. ‘Your father will be back soon. You staying for dinner?’

‘Of course,’ said Rose.

‘It’s just a fry-up. I’m afraid I’ve left it too late to prepare anything.’

‘Sounds lovely, Mum,’ said Rose, stretching. ‘Mum?’

‘Yes, love,’ said her mother’s bottom, sticking out of the fridge.

‘Can I stay here for a while?’

‘At home?’ asked Wendy, turning around surprised.

‘Yes, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course, Rosie,’ said Wendy, cracking eggs into a bowl and hiding the tears in her eyes.

Rose stayed with her parents for ten days. Sleeping in her old room, in the single bed, under the cotton sheets of her youth, she felt comforted again. Max did not try to contact her at all and she did not call him. Instead she revelled in being with her family again, seeing her nieces and nephews, laughing with her father in front of terrible British soaps at night.

She went walking with her mother each morning around Hyde Park and shopping at Brown’s and Liberty’s and some of the newer stores.

The Christmas decorations were starting to come out and Rose was nostalgic for a white Christmas again after years of sunny Christmases spent in LA with friends. ‘I wish I could come back for Christmas but I have to shoot in New York. I don’t get any time off really besides Christmas Day and Boxing Day,’ she said to her mother when she went to see her off at the airport.

‘Don’t worry, your father and I are going to Spain on Boxing Day anyway. We’ve had a lovely time with you this week, Rose.’

‘I have too, Mum. It’s been good, just what I needed. I’m sorry I’ve been so wrapped up in myself. I love you and Dad. Thank you.’ Rose paused. ‘I think I’m going to come back to London for a while when I finish filming and decorate my apartment.’

‘Will you come back for Max or for yourself?’ asked Wendy wisely.

‘For me, Mum. I have a home here, I just forgot for a while. I really love you, Mum.’

‘Now don’t get all LA on me,’ said Wendy, wrinkling her nose.

‘Too late, Mum, too late.’ And she grabbed her mother and gave her a big hug, much to Wendy’s joy and embarrassment.

Rose flew straight from London to New York to start the shoot on the next film. Walking on set for rehearsals, she was overjoyed to see Kelly. ‘Kel, I didn’t know you were on this?’

‘I wasn’t, but Liz, who was on it, broke her arm skiing last week in Aspen, so here I am. I thought I would surprise you.’