Rome in Love Read online

  “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.

  chapter two

  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? Sh
e 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.

  She opened the bathroom door and found Philip sitting at the table. He was reading the newspaper and drinking a second cup of coffee.

  “Well, you don’t quite look like a drowned rat.” He smiled.

  Amelia touched her hair and fiddled with her apron. She glanced at the dirty breakfast dishes and the rumpled bed and suddenly felt embarrassed.

  “Thank you.” She held out her hand. “You’ve been very kind.”

  “It’s nice to meet a fellow American.” Philip nodded. “They say the French are snobs but the Italians give them a run for their money. They think the only good thing that came out of America is spaghetti Westerns.”

  Amelia ran down the cement steps and onto the street. It was almost noon and the cobblestones were bathed in sunshine. Amelia saw tourists lugging cameras and Italian men wearing silk suits. She saw street vendors selling warm pretzels and roasted chestnuts wrapped in newspaper.

  Amelia saw the Spanish Steps rising in front of her and realized that last night she must have been walking in circles. Philip’s apartment was only a few blocks from the Piazza di Spagna. She ran up the steps two at a time, passing couples basking in the sun and women selling bunches of daisies.

  She approached the Hassler Hotel and pulled the scarf tight around her hair. She slunk around to the kitchen door and slipped quickly inside. She ran down the staircase to the basement and entered the laundry.

  Amelia gingerly turned on a light and breathed a sigh of relief. The laundry bag was stored safely in the locker and the vast room was empty. She peeled off the uniform and folded it neatly. She stepped into her pink satin evening gown and strapped on the Prada sandals.

  She grabbed her phone and called Sheldon’s number. She reached his voice mail and left a message explaining she overslept. She was never good at time changes and was terribly sorry.

  She was about to run up the stairs when she heard footsteps. She ducked behind the lockers and saw a woman enter the room. She had white-blond hair and wore a white lace dress and leather sandals. She glanced quickly around and climbed into a laundry basket.

  Amelia held her breath and watched the woman cover herself with towels. She heard voices and saw two men race down the stairs and burst into the room. They spoke over each other in rapid Italian, gesturing with their hands. They shrugged their shoulders and disappeared into the hallway.

  “Merde,” the woman exclaimed, tossing the towels on the floor. She climbed out of the laundry basket and lost her footing. She tumbled headfirst and landed hard on the wood floor. She lay with her arms sprawled and her ankle jutting at an odd angle.

  “Are you all right?” Amelia rushed from behind the locker. She knelt down and saw a purple bruise forming on the young woman’s forehead.

  “Merde alore!” the woman moaned. She had pale blue eyes and alabaster skin. Her hair was knotted in a low ponytail and she wore a gold necklace around her neck.

  “Êtes vous blessé?” Amelia asked, trying to remember her high school French.

  “I think I twisted my ankle,” the woman replied in accented English. “And my head feels like it’s been attacked by a flock of seagulls.”

  “I’ll get the hotel doctor.” Amelia stood up. “Concussions can be serious.”

  “No!” The woman put out her hand. “Help me up, I’ll be fine.”

  Amelia gingerly pulled her up and let her rest on her arm. The woman took a step forward and sunk abruptly to the floor.

  “My ankle is crap,” she said miserably, sitting in a heap on the floor.

  “Why don’t you want me to call the doctor?” Amelia frowned. “Were those two men following you?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t think so,” the woman mused. She looked at Amelia and her eyes were watery. “There’s a clinic down the street. Help me get there and I’ll explain.”

  Amelia gazed at the growing bump on the woman’s forehead and the blue bird’s egg on her ankle. She thought of Sheldon impatiently waiting on the set and photographers lurking in the alley. Perhaps the two men had seen her slip in the back door and were looking for her. But why did the woman climb into the laundry basket unless she was hiding from something?

  “I really have to be somewhere.” Amelia hesitated.

  “Please.” She touched her hand. “It’s very important, you’d be doing me a huge favor.”

  Amelia sighed and took the woman’s hand. She couldn’t just leave her on the floor of the laundry room. “All right, but I don’t even know your name.”

  “It’s Sophie.” The woman accepted her hand and her face broke into a small smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  * * *

  They walked down a narrow alley onto the Via Gregoriana. Sophie stopped in front of a brick building with a bright yellow awning. She opened the door and entered a waiting room. There was a thin gray rug over white linoleum and two red vinyl chairs. Fluorescent lights shone from the ceiling and a plastic plant stood in the corner.

  “Thank god it’s run by Americans.” Sophie sat gingerly on the chair. “Or it would be closed for the noon siesta.”

  “Do you come here often?” Amelia frowned at the worn magazines and the half-empty coffeepot.

  “Only once, I have asthma,” Sophie explained, twisting her ponytail around her fingers. “They have two doctors, they’re both ancient but they’re kind and they don’t make you wait for hours.”

  The receptionist said something to Sophie in Italian and handed her a metal clipboard. A nurse ushered them into a small room with a gray stool and a plain white table.

  “I can wait outside.” Amelia hesitated.

  “Please, stay.” Sophie winced, leaning against the table. “I’m a baby when it comes to pain.”

  The nurse took the clipboard and closed the door. Amelia gazed down at her pink Balenciaga gown and her jeweled Prada sandals and stifled a giggle. She hadn’t expected to spend her second day in Rome in a spartan clinic lending moral support to a stranger.

  A man entered the room. “You look pretty banged up.” He had blond hair and green eyes and a cleft on his chin. He wore a white coat and couldn’t have been more than thirty.

  “I tripped down the stairs,” Sophie said, avoiding Amelia’s eyes. “I’ve always been a klutz.”

  “You’ve got a pretty healthy bump.” The doctor pressed her forehead softly. He shone a light in Sophie’s eyes and placed his fingers on her wrist. “But I don’t think there’s serious damage.”

  “What about her ankle?” Amelia asked. “She can’t walk.”

  The doctor maneuvered Sophie’s ankle and she let out a sharp moan. He wrapped it in a thick white bandage and secured it with tape.

  “I’ll write a prescription for the pain.” He scribbled on a white notepad and handed it to Sophie. “I’d spend the next few days with my feet up reading romances.” His eyes sparkled and his face broke into a smile. “But I think you’ll be good as new.”

  Sophie limped to the waiting room and Amelia opened the front door. They were about to walk into the street when the doctor appeared with the clipboard.

  “You didn’t fill in your name.” He waved it at Sophie.

  “You didn’t tell me yours either.” Sophie smiled and shut the door behind her.

  * * *

  “That was miserable,” Sophie said when they reached the alley behind the Hassler. “I’m starving and dying of thirst. We deserve a bottle of red wine and a plate of spaghetti marinara.”

  “You shouldn’t drink if you’re taking medicine,” Amelia replied, taking her phone out of her purse and glancing at the screen.
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  Sheldon had left a message saying the wardrobe hadn’t arrived and filming would start tomorrow. Amelia let her shoulders relax and followed Sophie to a trattoria with round tables covered with checkered tablecloths and bottles of wine hanging from the ceiling. She smelled tomato and garlic and realized she hadn’t eaten since Philip’s breakfast.

  “If I drink I won’t have to take anything for the pain.” Sophie grinned. “Don’t worry, one glass is my limit. I promised I’d explain and it will be a lot easier over a platter of shrimp scampi and a bottle of Chianti. I know the perfect place, it’s called Trattoria da Giggi. The waiters are horrid but they serve the best bruschetta in Rome.”

  “Why would we want to eat in a restaurant with rude waiters?” Amelia wrinkled her brow.

  “Trust me.” Sophie grabbed her hand. “You won’t forget it.”

  They walked slowly down the Spanish Steps and onto the Via Belsiana. They entered a small restaurant with brown leather booths and smoky mirrors. Amelia gazed at the open kitchen and saw huge plates of prosciutto and mozzarella. There were bowls of rigatoni with porcini and spaghetti tossed with clams. She saw round pizzas topped with artichoke and spicy sausage and round red tomatoes. There was a tray of bruschetta with a dozen different toppings.

  “The waiters take pride in being rude to tourists because they’d rather serve the locals,” Sophie explained, nibbling a breadstick. “I ordered in Italian, they brought me double servings of anything I wanted.”

  “I would think tourists tip better,” Amelia replied, deciding between the tortellini con Parma and the lasagna al forno.

  “Italians don’t care about money.” Sophie signaled a waiter. “They’d rather feel superior.”

  Amelia watched Sophie converse with the waiter, pointing animatedly at the menu. Amelia studied her upturned nose and creamy white skin and thought she looked like a character in a Disney movie. Her hair was so blond it was almost white and her blue eyes were rimmed with thick lashes. She wore a gold necklace with the letter “S” around her neck and a heart-shaped diamond watch on her wrist.