Authors: Anita Hughes
“It’s a present from my fiancé.” I touched my neck.
For some reason Veronique makes me nervous. She has long eyelashes and sharp brown eyes like a cat.
“It’s quite striking, I saw one just like it.” She unfolded her newspaper and pointed to a photograph of a blond woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat and narrow heels. She had emerald earrings in her ears and an emerald and gold pendant around her neck.
I scanned the caption and read: “Lady Amanda Carrow makes an entrance at Convent Gardens in a cream Pierre Balmain dress and Mainbocher hat.”
“What an interesting coincidence.” I held the newspaper closely so they couldn’t see my cheeks. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go.”
Oh, Kitty, I ran to my dressing room and slammed the door. I tore the necklace off and tossed it on the desk. I lay on the bed and burst into tears.
Audrey
June 30, 1952
Dear Kitty,
Tonight, I opened the door of my suite and couldn’t believe my eyes. There were boxes piled on the glass dining room table and the black and white marble floor. I ripped them open and discovered evening gowns by Balenciaga and Dior and Jacques Fath. There was a black velvet Balmain stole and half a dozen shoes by Roger Vivier.
The phone rang and I sifted through tissue paper to answer it.
“Did they arrive?” James’s voice came down the line.
“It must have taken the concierge three trips in the elevator.” I laughed. “What have you done?”
“I stopped in Paris on the way here. I couldn’t resist picking up a few things.”
“Where will I wear any of it?” I picked up a green silk taffeta dress. “I spend all day on the set.”
“I’m taking you to dinner at the Hotel Quirinale,” James insisted. “Wear the pink Jacques Fath, it will make your skin look like alabaster.”
I spent an hour in the bathtub, soaking in lavender bubbles. I spritzed my wrists with L’air Du Temps and stepped into the pink silk dress. I paired it with gold Vivier pumps and white silk gloves.
I fastened the diamond and emerald pendant around my neck and suddenly felt ill. I told myself it didn’t match the dress, but, Kitty, I couldn’t wear it. I put it back in my jewelry box and draped a white fur stole around my neck.
The Hotel Quirinale is smaller than the Hassler, almost like a country house in the center of Rome. It has a stone floor and Oriental rugs and yellow plaster walls.
The maître d’ led us into the hotel’s gardens and I caught my breath. The tables were covered with white linen tablecloths and set among palm trees and bougainvilleas. We ate cold tomato soup and Parmesan ravioli and roasted lamb with wild mushrooms and chestnuts.
“I brought you something.” James passed a black velvet box across the table.
I opened it and saw a diamond bracelet with a pearl clasp.
“It’s gorgeous, but it must cost a fortune,” I gasped, turning it over.
“We signed three new shipping contracts.” James smiled, fastening it around my wrist. “I had to celebrate.”
I admired the sparkling diamonds but suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I pictured Amanda Carrow’s silky blond hair and pink mouth and long legs. I saw her cream Balmain dress and the emerald and gold pendant hanging around her neck.
“You’re not wearing your pendant.” James frowned.
“I saw a photograph in the newspaper of Amanda Carrow wearing the same necklace.”
I waited for James to answer and thought my lungs would explode. He put his napkin on his plate and smoothed his hair.
“I know I’m guilty of not being original.” He looked at his plate. “Amanda wore it to dinner at the Savoy last week. I thought the emeralds would match your eyes, I went to Cartier and bought the same one.”
“You had dinner at the Savoy?” I stammered.
“It was Amanda’s engagement party,” James explained. “She and Graham are getting married next July.”
“I didn’t know she was engaged,” I replied, tearing a baguette.
“It’s quite sudden,” James agreed. “She’s always been impulsive.”
We danced under the stars and my feet barely touched the ground. James is handsome and generous and fun. When I’m with him I forget the war years and think life can be about beautiful clothes and delicious food and wonderful music.
I should be happy attending dinner parties and garden weddings and first nights at the ballet. Perhaps Mr. Peck is right and I should quit acting. But, Kitty, we’ve always been the ones on the stage. Can I really give that up without becoming someone else?
Audrey
July 2, 1952
Dear Kitty,
Today was so hot I thought I would melt like the witch in
The Wizard of Oz
. Even Veronique Passani looked uncomfortable in her Dior jacket and pleated skirt.
I sat in my dressing room, longing for an English summer. I imagined a chilly drawing room and a warm fire and windows splattered with rain. I pictured a cup of Earl Grey tea and fresh scones with orange marmalade.
Mr. Wyler’s assistant appeared and said Mr. Wyler wanted to speak to me. I crossed the set to his dressing room and knocked on his door.
“Good afternoon, Miss Hepburn, I trust you’re keeping cool.”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I smoothed my skirt and tucked my hair behind my ears.
“Mr. Peck and I were going over these movie posters from Paramount.” He pointed to a poster spread out on the desk. I read
Roman Holiday
in big orange letters and my name at the bottom of the page.
“Mr. Peck thinks we’re making a mistake by keeping your name here.”
I looked up and the room started to swim. How could Mr. Peck desert me after he gave me so much praise? I’m sure he wishes we got the scenes done faster so he could go back to his hotel and drink a cold beer and eat a thick steak.
Mr. Wyler leaned over the desk and pointed to Mr. Peck’s name at the top of the poster.
“Mr. Peck thinks after the movie is released you’re going to be a big star. He says we’re going to have egg on our face unless we put your name under his.”
I knew he was waiting for me to say something but I couldn’t open my mouth.
“You look a little pale.” Mr. Wyler frowned. “Would you like to sit down?”
I watched Mr. Wyler open the fridge and take out a bowl of strawberries and a jar of whipped cream. He tucked a white napkin under his collar and handed me a spoon.
“I can’t eat any of the crap craft services prepares.” He wiped his mouth. “Mr. Peck tells me you’re engaged; who’s the lucky man?”
I ate berries and whipped cream and we talked about Broadway and the West End and Hollywood. After we ate, Mr. Wyler shook my hand and said I was exactly how he imagined Princess Ann.
I rushed out of his dressing room and almost tripped over Gregory Peck. He was sitting in a folding chair, reading a newspaper.
“You look radiant in this heat,” he said, loosening his tie.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” I stammered.
“Thank me for what?” he asked.
“For telling Mr. Wyler my name should go above the movie title.”
Mr. Peck folded his newspaper and smiled.
“I didn’t do anything, Miss Hepburn. You’re doing it yourself.”
Oh, Kitty, I skipped back to my dressing room like Dorothy following the yellow brick road. I can’t wait to call James and tell him I’m going to be a movie star!
Audrey
Amelia put the letter on the glass coffee table and glanced at the marble fireplace and the yellow silk curtains and the framed Tintoretto on the wall. Sometimes it still seemed like a dream: the spectacular suite, the glamorous clothes, the starring role in a major motion picture.
She walked to the dining room table and smelled the pink roses. She had worked so hard; she couldn’t let anything get in the way. She would meet Philip for dinner and tell him she couldn’t see him again. She would say she was leaving Rome and it had been lovely to meet him.
She took a sheet of paper and scribbled a note. She sealed the envelope and picked up the phone.
“Ernesto,” she said into the receiver. “I wonder if you could do me a big favor.”
Philip flipped through his checkbook and drummed his fingers on the desk. He picked up a freelance assignment on the olive oil festival in Montelibretti and was able to pay this month’s rent. But unless he picked up a few more jobs, he’d be living on dry rigatoni and tomatoes from Signora Griselda’s garden.
He stood up and walked to the kitchen counter. He sent Amelia the letter three days ago and hadn’t received a reply. He told himself he was relieved he didn’t have to continue the charade. Just thinking about sitting across from her at La Pergola, cutting a thick steak and buttering a warm baguette, made him nervous.
His mother sent another letter with the menu for his dinner party and his father sent a plane ticket with the note:
Philip,
Enclosed is your plane ticket and the address of my tailor in London. Edna routed you through Heathrow so you could choose a new wardrobe. Every young man should own a double-breasted suit and a white dinner jacket from Saville Row.
Dad
Philip opened the fridge and stared at the wilted head of lettuce and the loaf of bread and the single tomato. He was tired of eating soggy sandwiches and drinking cartons of orange juice. He was tired of staring at the clothesline on the balcony and listening to Signora Griselda’s singing.
He glanced at the pile of euros on the dining room table and grabbed a handful of notes. He was going to have a proper lunch at a café. Then he was going to the Hassler and pray that Amelia left a reply. She had to have dinner with him at La Pergola; the alternative was too difficult to bear.
* * *
“What are you doing here?” Max approached his table. He wore a striped collared shirt and blue jeans and sneakers. His blond hair was freshly washed and his cheeks were smooth with aftershave. “I thought you didn’t like watching the beautiful people.”
“I’m having lunch,” Philip retorted, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
He had taken a table at Caffe Strega and ordered pizza with sweet peppers and buffalo mozzarella and artichoke. He drank a cappuccino in a tall glass and flipped through
Le Tempo
. He gazed at the men and women strolling down the Via Veneto and wondered how they all looked so happy. The women wore white linen dresses and gold sandals and the men wore light-colored suits and leather loafers.
“You don’t have lunch on Fridays.” Max pulled up a chair.
“Today I do,” Philip snapped, shielding his eyes from the sun. “I’m tired of living like a boy scout on a scavenger hunt.”
“I saw your movie star the other day.” Max ate a slice of pizza. “I was in the Fendi boutique on the Via Condotti. She was with a gorgeous blonde with legs up to her neck and skin like polished alabaster.”
“What were you doing in the Fendi boutique?” Philip frowned.
“It’s the best place to meet women,” Max explained. “I saw this beautiful brunette and pretended I was buying a present for a girlfriend. I asked which scarf she preferred; by the time she chose the red silk scarf we had a date for Saturday night. Her name is Lara and her husband owns a glass factory in Genoa.”
Philip stirred his cappuccino and imagined Amelia wearing a light summer dress. He pictured her slender calves and graceful neck. He saw her large brown eyes and her hair smoothed behind her ears. “Did Amelia see you?”
“I followed them to the Piazza del Piccolo but they disappeared into a church.” Max shrugged. “I could have gotten some great photos.”
“You followed her?” Philip pictured Amelia escaping across the cobblestones and his stomach clenched.
“My job is to take pictures,” Max replied. “I wouldn’t mind getting a few close-ups of her friend.”
“I don’t want Amelia to recognize you in case she sees us together,” Philip mumbled. “It doesn’t really matter. She hasn’t replied to my letter, I’m going to return the money and tell Adam I failed.”
“Don’t you have a fight song at Yale about never giving up?” Max mused. “If you went back to New York, I’d spend my nights in the back of a smoky club, drinking absinthe and losing at cards.”
“You can take care of yourself,” Philip replied. He gazed at the elegant boutiques on the Via Veneto and frowned.
He’d rather watch Adam flick cigarettes into a trash can than share an office suite with men wearing Tom Ford suits and Alexander McQueen shoes. He’d rather eat spaghetti every night than sit at his parents’ walnut dining room table and talk about arbitrage and margins.
“Come on.” He pushed back his chair. “We’re going to the Hassler to pay a visit to Ernesto.”
* * *
“Ernesto wasn’t there.” Philip exited the revolving glass doors and joined Max on the sidewalk.
“Did Amelia leave a note behind the counter?” Max asked.
“Nothing.” Philip shook his head. “Let’s get out of here.”
Philip ran quickly down the Spanish Steps and strode across the Piazza di Spagna. Suddenly the thought of leaving all this—the street vendors whistling at pretty women, the tourists taking pictures of the Vatican, the ancient churches and modern shops and cramped trattorias—made his head throb.
He approached his apartment and saw a man standing on the sidewalk. He wore a white uniform with gold buttons. His dark hair was slicked back and his hands were jammed in his pockets.
“Ernesto,” Philip called. “What are you doing here?”