Rome in Love Read online

  “The princess is confined to bed with the measles.” A woman stood at the railing. “There will be no photos.”

  “I’m not a photographer, I’m a friend of Sophie’s.” Amelia shielded her eyes from the sun.

  “Princess Sophia is not talking to anyone.” The woman turned away. “Leave us alone.”

  “I promise I’m not paparazzi,” Amelia insisted. “I’m trying to find her.”

  “I don’t believe you,” the woman murmured, glancing at Amelia’s silk scarf and white leather sandals.

  “I know Sophie has asthma and loves Hans Christian Anderson fairy tales and wants a house full of children,” Amelia blurted out.

  “Who are you?” The woman hesitated.

  “My name is Amelia Tate, I met Sophie in Rome,” Amelia replied. “I thought she might be here.”

  The woman glanced around the dock. She nodded to Amelia and pointed to wooden steps. “Come on board, we will talk in private.”

  Amelia followed the woman into a long room with a beamed ceiling. The floor was polished wood and the walls were painted ivory. There were white leather sofas and tall mahogany bookshelves.

  “I’m Elspeth, Princess Sophia’s lady-in-waiting.” The woman held out her hand. She had brown hair and slender cheekbones. She wore a cream dress and beige pumps. “It’s my fault she’s in Rome. I’ve known Princess Sophia since she was a little girl, and she hardly asks for anything. She begged me to let her go, I should have said no.”

  “She’s been having a wonderful time, she loves the boutiques and museums.” Amelia perched on a white leather sofa. “This article came out and she disappeared.”

  “I have to tell his Royal Highness, something might have happened to her.”

  “Please don’t,” Amelia protested. “I’m going to find her.”

  “I assured King Alfred the article is false and Princess Sophia is in bed.” Elspeth paced around the room. “If he discovers the truth, I’ll lose my position. You have until tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll find her, I promise.” Amelia nodded. She gazed at the ceramic fruit bowl filled with peaches and apricots and thought she had no idea where to look.

  * * *

  Amelia sat on the balcony of La Terrazza restaurant and gazed at the view. It was early afternoon and the sun sparkled on the blue water. The harbor was shaped like a horseshoe and everywhere there were green plants and brightly colored flowers.

  She glanced at the white linen tablecloth and gleaming silverware. Everything on the menu—the Ligurian ravioli with herb filling, the taglietelle with prawns and artichokes—sounded delicious. But now that the waiter delivered a platter of seafood salad with lemon sauce, Amelia couldn’t eat a bite.

  She fingered a glass of sparkling water and pictured Sophie with her blond hair and blue eyes. She imagined her seeing her photo in the newspaper and felt her stomach rise to her throat. She remembered Philip denying he had anything to do with it and flinched.

  She would take the last train to Rome and wait for Sophie at the Hassler. If Sophie didn’t return by morning, she would have to ask Theo for help.

  Amelia pushed away her plate and called for the check. She took the elevator to the third floor and opened the door. She slipped off her sandals and felt the cool marble under her feet. She opened her suitcase and drew out a stack of papers.

  At the last minute she was afraid the maids would discover Audrey Hepburn’s letters and stuffed them in her suitcase. She took the top page and began to read.

  August 24, 1952

  Dear Kitty,

  Mr. Wyler had to go to Florence so we have the whole day off! I woke up early and strolled through the Roman Forum. It’s wonderful to explore the city before the streets are full of cars and the sidewalks are crammed with tourists. Sometimes I’m so busy looking at the camera, I forget that I’m in Rome.

  I came back to the Villa Medici Suite and ran a bath. I thought it would be a perfect day to wash my hair and mail these letters. Oh, Kitty, don’t be angry when you get a stack of mail. I love sitting at the antique desk and writing my thoughts, but I never have time to address the envelopes.

  I was about to step into the marble bathtub when the telephone rang. I wrapped myself in a fluffy white towel and answered it.

  “We’re going to take a picnic to the Villa d’Este,” a female voice said. “You must join us.”

  “Veronique?” I hesitated. She never called before but I don’t know anyone else with a French accent.

  “Gregory and Mel and I are in a car downstairs,” Veronique replied. “Don’t take too long, we want to beat the traffic.”

  “I was about to take a bath.” I hesitated.

  “You can take a bath in London or New York,” Veronique mused. “But you can only visit the Villa d’Este when you are in Rome.”

  I stood in front of my closet and wondered what to wear. I was sure Veronique would be dressed in a perfectly cut Jacques Fath dress or Chanel suit. I imagine when she wakes up in the morning, her hair is perfectly coiffed and her skin is flawless.

  I selected a beige Dior dress with a wide leather belt and Ferragamo pumps. I put on a wide straw hat and slipped on oval sunglasses.

  “There you are.” Veronique waved. She wore a turquoise Chanel dress with a matching jacket. “Sit in the front with me, the boys are talking business.”

  “You’re driving?” I raised my eyebrow.

  “Gregory doesn’t have a license and Mel is a New Yorker, he never learned to drive.” She hopped into the driver’s seat of a shiny green Mini. “I love to drive on the motorway, there’s no speed limit.”

  “There must be a speed limit,” I said nervously.

  Veronique started the ignition and shrugged. “If there is, I don’t know what it is.”

  We drove through the outskirts of Rome onto the Appian Way. We stopped at a gas station and Veronique went inside to get a bottle of Coca Cola. Greg leaned forward and touched my shoulder.

  “I hope you don’t mind being kidnapped.” He smiled. “Veronique thought it would be more fun if we had an even number.”

  For a moment I thought it was Greg’s idea to invite me and I tried not to look disappointed. “I was about to take a bath.”

  “You’ll have to make do with ham sandwiches instead of Hassler bonbons,” Greg mused. “But I did pack a delicious Burgundy.”

  Veronique got back in the car and we entered the grounds of the Villa d’Este. Oh, Kitty, the gardens make Versailles look like a nursery garden. Everywhere you look there are fountains and sundials and tall birds of paradise. We passed fir trees and English gardens filled with yellow and white roses.

  We explored the Hundred Fountains with its hanging plants and the Dragon Fountain with its stone dragons and the Oval Fountain with its marble nymphs. I ended up walking beside Mel. He’s very sweet though quite serious. He seems to know everything about history and art and architecture.

  “The villa was built for Cardinal Ippolito Il’ d’Este in 1560,” he said as we entered the palace. The floor was gold and the ceilings were painted with intricate frescoes. “The cardinal was disappointed he didn’t get the papacy so he hired Pirro Ligorio, the finest architect in Italy. The terraced gardens are the greatest example of late Renaissance style.”

  “Do they teach you that at Princeton?” I teased, glancing at the murals of wooden tables overflowing with green grapes and ripe cheese and pink roast beef.

  “Every man should study great artists,” Mel said seriously. “How else will they recognize beauty?”

  We caught up with Greg and Veronique and spread a picnic blanket next to the fish ponds. It was heavenly watching the goldfish swim in the clear water.

  We ate pancetta and tomato salad with goat cheese. There were green olives and figs and bunches of purple grapes. Greg opened a bottle of Burgundy and we talked about Rome and the movie business.

  “Villa d’Este is nothing compared to Greg’s spread in Beverly Hills.” Veronique nibbled a grape. �
�He’s got thirty rooms and a tennis court.”

  “Do you really?” I asked.

  “My wife sends me pictures.” He shrugged. “She redecorated it to resemble a Moroccan villa.”

  I glanced at Greg and realized he hardly ever talks about his wife. I was about to ask what she was like when Veronique announced she had a run in her stocking.

  “I’m going to the car to get a new pair.” She stood up.

  “You keep extra stockings in your car?” I raised my eyebrow.

  “Everyone should carry a first aid kit.” She hurried across the lawn.

  Mel had a call scheduled to a producer in Hollywood and excused himself to find a pay phone. I glanced at Greg reclining against the picnic basket and blushed.

  “It’s a funny way to make a living,” Greg said, eating a baguette. “Having a picnic in a sixteenth-century garden when most men eat peanut butter sandwiches at their desk.”

  “I suppose it is,” I murmured, pulling daisies out of the ground to make a daisy chain.

  “My mother made my father the same lunch every day, ham and Swiss cheese on white bread,” Greg mused. “Every night she took his briefcase and handed him a martini, I haven’t had dinner with my wife in two months.”

  “I’m sure she misses you,” I mumbled.

  Greg looked at me and suddenly changed the subject.

  “Mel is sweet on you, you have to promise not to marry him.”

  “Why would I do that?” I smiled.

  “Because you’re twenty-four and think you want to be a movie star and have a big house in Beverly Hills. But in ten years you might wish you lived in a cabin in Maine or a loft in New York,” Greg said earnestly. “But you’ll be married with two towheaded children and a black Labrador and you can’t change a thing.”

  “I don’t think I’m ever getting married,” I said glumly. “I’m going to be a lonely old spinster.”

  “There are lots of ways to be lonely,” Greg replied. “Even in a house with thirty rooms and a tennis court.”

  Veronique and Mel returned and we ate jam tarts and miniature profiteroles. We toured the Grotto and by the time we drove back to Rome my feet ached.

  I took the elevator to the Villa Medici Suite and turned on the bath. I sank into the bubbles and remembered what Greg said about being lonely. I know I made the right decision by breaking up with James but it would be nice to have someone to come home to. I shall have to get a fluffy white poodle!

  Audrey

  September 1, 1952

  Dear Kitty,

  We spent the whole day rehearsing the dance scene on the dock. I haven’t danced in so long I felt like my ankles would snap. I miss it sometimes; give Madame Rambert a kiss for me!

  I was changing in my dressing room when there was a knock on the door. I zipped up my dress and opened it.

  “You’re still here.” Greg stood at the door.

  “I was just changing.” I ushered him inside. “My body feels like a pretzel.”

  “I haven’t danced since I hurt my back in acting school,” Greg began. “I wonder if you’d give me lessons.”

  “Me give you lessons?” I raised my eyebrow.

  “Willy told me you were a great ballerina,” Greg continued. “I don’t need to be Fred Astaire, I just don’t want to have two left feet.”

  “I was too tall to be a ballerina.” I sighed. “You’re a very good dancer.”

  “I need a refresher course,” Greg replied. He wore a white collared shirt and tan slacks. “We could go to Harry’s Bar and take a spin around the dance floor.”

  “Tonight?” I asked.

  “I should have guessed you had plans.” Greg turned to leave. “Perhaps another time.”

  I pictured whirling around the dance floor in Greg’s arms and took a deep breath.

  “Tonight sounds wonderful, let me scrub off this makeup and put on a new dress.”

  Greg opened the door and smiled. “I’ll meet you outside in thirty minutes.”

  I put on a cream Balmain dress and beige sandals. I coated my eyes with mascara and rubbed my lips with lipstick. I grabbed my purse and walked onto the set.

  I saw Veronique smoking a cigarette. She wore an emerald green Schiaparelli dress with a gold belt. I followed her gaze and saw Greg talking to a blond woman in a black silk dress. She had pale blue eyes and a dimple on her cheek.

  “They make a beautiful couple.” Veronique let out a puff of smoke. “She’s so petite, Gregory could fit her in his pocket.”

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “Greta Peck, the wife. She was at the summer Olympics in Helsinki and made a surprise appearance.”

  I remembered Greg’s invitation to go dancing and blushed.

  “They look so intimate,” I blurted out, watching Greg kiss his wife on the mouth.

  “Oh, dear.” Veronique eyed me curiously. “Why don’t you and I get a drink?”

  “No, I…” I hesitated.

  I looked up and saw Greg and Greta walking toward me. She smiled and extended her hand.

  “You must be Audrey Hepburn. Greg told me so much about you,” she said. “It sounds like you’re going to steal the show.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Peck,” I shook her hand.

  “You make me sound like an old woman.” She laughed. “Please call me Greta.”

  “Greta just got off the plane and she’s famished,” Greg said. “We’re going to eat pesto fettuccine at Alfredo’s. Would you ladies like to join us?”

  “Audrey and I are going to Harry’s Bar.” Veronique stubbed out her cigarette. “Maybe we’ll catch up with you later.”

  We sat at a table in the back and drank Bloody Marys. Veronique ordered oysters and cocktail sauce but I wasn’t hungry.

  “You should have seen your face.” She lit a cigarette. “You looked like someone stole your Easter candy.”

  “She’s very pretty,” I murmured.

  “She’s five years older than Gregory but she looks like a girl.” Veronique sighed. “There’s something to be said for never seeing the sun, Finnish women have beautiful creamy skin.”

  “They looked so close.” I sipped my drink.

  “They’ve produced three children in ten years.” Veronique exhaled a thin trail of smoke. “In Hollywood they’re like royalty. They have a chef and a butler and an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Everyone wants an invitation to the Pecks’.”

  “How do you know?” I raised my eyebrow.

  “I interviewed Gregory last winter for Paris Soir,” Veronique replied. “He told me everything about his marriage.”

  “He just … it sounded like…” I stumbled, flashing on Greg saying he was lonely.

  “You do have a crush on our leading man,” Veronique exclaimed. “It’s a movie set, it’s all make-believe.”

  “I don’t understand.” I frowned.

  “If Gregory rambled on about barbecues and baseball games he couldn’t give a good performance,” Veronique continued. “He has to believe he’s a tortured actor.”

  “Greg has been very kind.” I nodded. “I’m glad he has a happy marriage.”

  “I’m sure it’s not all champagne and chocolates.” Veronique ground her cigarette into the ashtray. “But I doubt happy marriages exist, except on the screen.”

  “Don’t you want to get married?” I asked, nibbling a handful of peanuts.

  “I’m a writer.” She bristled. “I’m not giving up my typewriter for a bottle of perfume and a fur coat.”

  Mel Ferrer arrived and we all had another round of drinks. Mel asked me to dance and we twirled around the dance floor until I felt dizzy. He is such a good dancer, I teased him he should join the American Ballet Theater! He asked if he could walk me home but I thought about what Greg said and shook my head.

  Audrey

  September 2, 1952

  Dear Kitty,

  This morning I was sitting in my dressing room eating a hard-boiled egg. There was a knock on the door and I
stood up to open it.

  “That doesn’t look very appealing.” Greg entered the room.

  “It’s Baroness Ella’s hangover cure.” I popped the egg in my mouth. “I drank too many Bloody Marys at Harry’s Bar.”

  “Never trust a drink with celery, it only looks healthy.” Greg slipped his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry I had to cancel our dance lesson. Greta was just here for the night, I couldn’t let her dine alone.”

  “She already left?” I asked.

  “I was one stop on her itinerary,” he explained. “She visited her designer in Paris and her mother in London. She has to be back in Los Angeles on Saturday for the premiere of High Noon.”

  “Veronique said you lead a very glamorous life,” I replied. “Everyone wants to be invited to the Pecks’ residence.”

  “Gary Cooper is a fan of my wife’s Finnish cooking,” Greg mused. “We often have Cary and Betsy and William and Ardis over. William fixes the best dry martini.”

  “Do you mean Cary Grant and William Holden?” I sucked in my breath.

  “They’ll be bowing at your feet after Roman Holiday comes out.” Greg grinned. “You’re going to win an Oscar the first time out of the gate.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to utter one line without your and Mr. Wyler’s help.” I peeled another hard-boiled egg. “I can’t imagine a life of cocktail parties and movie premieres. It sounds terribly fun.”

  “We have a good time as long as we’re holding a scotch.” Greg shrugged. “The trick is to never let the glass be empty.”

  There was a knock on the door and a man entered carrying a bouquet of red roses.

  “Delivery for Miss Hepburn,” he announced, placing the vase on the desk.

  “It’s from Mel.” I blushed. “He met us at Harry’s Bar.”

  “Is that so,” Greg mused. “He’s a very good dancer.”

  “He asked if he could walk me home.”

  I saw a funny look on Greg’s face, as if he swallowed a snail.

  “What did you tell him?” he asked.

  “I took your advice and told him no.” I smiled.

  “Good girl.” His shoulders relaxed. “Let’s get on the set before Willy calls a search party.”

  We did the dance scene on the docks, and Greg held me so tightly I could barely breathe. When Mr. Wyler yelled cut I almost jumped. I had forgotten about the cameras and the lights, I thought we were the only two people in the world.