Rome in Love by Anita Hughes

of anyone else to give them to.
    There are no strings attached and you don’t need to reply. I just don’t like to picture you working so hard, without enjoying yourself. After all you are in Rome, and the Italians believe strongly in la dolce vita.
    Yours Truly,
    Philip Hamilton
    Amelia gazed at his scrawled signature and thought it would be lovely to sit on a cashmere blanket under the stars. It would be lovely to listen to classical music and eat baguettes and salami and Camembert. But she couldn’t risk having any contact with Philip. If he discovered she was Amelia Tate he’d plaster her name across the front page of Le Repubblica .
    She walked into the bedroom and placed the letter on the Regency desk. She would write him a polite note thanking him but saying she couldn’t take time off work. She opened the drawer and took out a piece of ivory writing paper. She put her hand in farther, searching for a pen.
    She heard a click and the back of the desk seemed to fall away. She reached in and suddenly felt a stack of papers. She carefully removed them and walked over to the Tiffany lamp.
    She peered closely and saw yellowed writing paper covered with flowery cursive. They were tied with a white ribbon and covered with dust. She gently untied the ribbon and glanced at the date. Her eyes grew wide and she sucked in her breath. She sat on the velvet chair and read out loud.
    June 1, 1952
    Dear Kitty,
    We finished our first day on the set and it was a disaster! How could I possibly think I could be a movie star? The cameras are huge and the set is so crowded I couldn’t breathe. Everywhere you turn there is someone wanting to smooth your dress or fix your hair or reapply your makeup. I felt like one of poor Madame Rambert’s dogs when it returned from the beauty parlor.
    I wish we were still together in Madame Rambert’s ballet school. It was so easy to concentrate on my pas de deux and arabesques and jettes. I know Mr. Wyler thinks my accent is terrible, I can tell when he crosses his arms and yells: “Cut, let’s try that again.”
    Oh, Kitty! I must be mad. It was all right doing Gigi on Broadway, that was like performing in Baroness Ella’s living room. In the theater you can hear your audience breathe, it’s like being part of a club. But to picture my face on a screen in front of thousands of people makes me feel faint.
    You’ll never believe what I did, it was so embarrassing. After lunch (The food is awful. One would think in Rome they would serve gnocchi and veal cutlets and chestnut puree but I got a plate of dry chicken and canned peas and white bread), I sat on a chair waiting for my cue. I shielded my face with a newspaper; the Italian sun is so hot it’s like being in Africa.
    A tall man in a gray suit approached me. He had smooth black hair and dark eyes and an angular nose.
    “Pardon my late arrival. My plane was delayed in London and I just got in.” He held out his hand. “You must be Miss Hepburn.”
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr.…” I hesitated.
    “You don’t know who I am?” he asked, his eyes sparkling.
    “Please forgive me.” I blushed. “I’m terrible with faces.”
    “Well you might recognize my name,” the man smiled. “It’s written on your chair.”
    I turned around and saw Gregory Peck written in gold letters. I was talking to one of the most famous movie stars in the world and I hadn’t recognized him!
    “I’m so sorry, Mr. Peck.” I shook his hand so vigorously I thought it might break. “I’m honored to be working together. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”
    “The first thing you could do”—he grinned—“is give me back my chair.”
    “Of course, how silly of me.” I jumped up. “I didn’t know chairs had names.”
    “We’ll have to get you one of your own.” He turned to a production assistant. “Jimmy, can you write Miss Hepburn’s name on a chair?”
    “I don’t want my name on a chair.” I shook my