The Perfect Audition (6 page)

No, Mom, it’s what you wanted, thought Calypso.

But she said nothing. Instead she signed on the next day, letting Leeza know her decision via text message. It was time she ran her own life, she thought and now that she was in Italy, she was excited.

Showered and dressed in a towel, she read the room service menu. ‘Blah,’ she said, putting it down again.

Wandering over to the window, she looked outside. She had meant to go for a run when she got back to the hotel but the tiredness from the jet-lag was still in her system and instead she fell asleep, fully dressed, until sounds from outside drifted up to her window. It was nine o’clock at night, but it seemed most people were only now going out for dinner. What the hell, she thought, I’m going out.

Opening her wardrobe, she chose a pair of black vintage cigarette silk pants and teamed them with a floaty silver Catherine Malandrino camisole and pink Costume Nationale flat sandals. The hills of Perugia would murder her heels; flats were sensible and Calypso was always sensible, particularly when it came to looking after her clothes. Leaving her hair down, she grabbed a vintage beaded clutch and skipped through the door into the bustle outside.

Wandering around the ancient city, the sound of smooth jazz came up a laneway and Calypso followed the music.

She found herself in an elegant thoroughfare filled with laughing students from the university, families with sleeping children in strollers and tourists all mingling together in the warm evening.

The cafés were filled with people who spilled out onto the stone ledges and steps, listening to the jazz. Calypso thought she knew the song from an old album her dad used to play. ‘There’s a somebody I’m longing to see, I hope that he turns out to be, someone who’ll watch over me,’ she sang quietly to herself.

An older couple walked out in front of the band and started to dance to the old Gershwin classic and Calypso felt her eyes fill with tears as she saw the tenderness on the man’s face.

It was an almost perfect moment except for the gnawing in Calypso’s stomach. I haven’t eaten in fourteen hours, she counted as she moved towards some bright lights in the side of a stone wall.
Sandri Pasticceria
it read. The window boasted some of the most delicious pastries Calypso had ever seen. Never would she allow herself something so fat-filled in LA but here, without the gaze of the paparazzi and her trainer, Calypso decided to live a little. Stepping inside the crowded shop, she was pushed forward by the crowd until she found herself at a stool at the marble bar.

A red-coated waiter placed a chocolate-filled pastry with glazed berries on top of it in front of her with a cappuccino. ‘I didn’t order this,’ she said to the waiter who had already turned his back. She sat awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

‘I would just eat it,’ said a voice next to her over the din in the bar.

Calypso turned and was faced with Eros himself. Impossibly handsome, with long, light brown hair loose and curling around his face. Smiling at Calypso, his teeth were the whitest and straightest that Calypso had ever seen, which was quite something, considering she lived in California, the state of orthodontists. ‘
Ciao, bella
,’ he said, his green eyes dancing as he took in her face.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ said Calypso, doing her best Barbra Streisand impersonation.

‘I know that voice, that’s Barbra,
si
?’

Calypso laughed, ‘Yes, that’s Barbra.’

‘
Mangia
,’ he said, gesturing.

Calypso paused. It did look divine and saying a little prayer to the God of Cellulite to stay away, she took a bite.

‘Oh my God, it’s amazing.’ She sputtered pastry flakes across the table, not caring to wipe the chocolate cream from her mouth.

The Italian watched her, amused. ‘You like?’

‘I like,’ said Calypso, her mouth full.

‘So, what is your name? Barbra?’

‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Calypso,’ she smiled shyly.

‘Beautiful name, the nymph of the sea,
si
? I am Marco. Lord of the planet Mars.’

His bewitching accent and the way he looked so intently at her, as if wanting her approval was endearing. Calypso smiled. She had made her first Italian friend.

Sapphira De Mont arrived in Italy courtesy of the film studio’s Gulfstream. She would have liked to have flown the plane herself but her instructor said she was not yet ready for such a large aircraft, much to Sapphira’s disappointment.

She stretched her back like a cat as she unbuckled her seatbelt on the plane. Her skin across her shoulder blades was tight from the new tattoo she had recently added to her thin body as a nod to her newly gained pilot’s licence.
Alis volat propri
, it read in a serif script across her back. A Latin phrase, meaning ‘She flies with her own wings’.

All her life experiences were illustrated by the tattoos on her body. On her left wrist was a tiny crab – her sun sign; on her right wrist a symbol for Leo, her astrological Moon sign. On one foot was a delicate vine that wound its way around her ankle and on the outside of each ankle was a tiny fairy curtsying. On her back, underneath the new tattoos, was a tattoo of a tree, the one she dreamed of most nights. She had explained it and the tattoo artist had drawn it repeatedly until he got it right.

Sapphira’s life had been one of adventure and saying ‘yes’ to whatever came her way. Italy was like a new affair to her; she wanted to get to know the country, learn the language and understand its moods. Spending six weeks in a foreign country was exhilarating and made Sapphira feel safe.

The private plane had been an indulgence that the studio was only too happy to agree to when Sapphira’s agent requested it to get her to the film’s location. She was a big star and had taken a slight pay cut to do the movie – compared to what she had been paid after the last two action hits she had starred in. There was big money to be made with Sapphira’s name on the marquee and they knew it. The studio was only too happy to keep their bankroll comfortable. A little gift from them for her having to audition, she thought.

It was her first screen test for four years. Her agent told her she should hold out and they would come round and just give her the part. She ignored him. She ignored most advice. Instead, she arrived smoking a cigarette, and in a coffee coloured silk blouse so transparent it showed the outline of her tattoos and no bra. TG was ready to dismiss her until she did the lines of dialogue more perfectly than the writer could have wished for. She was a chameleon when she acted and he was excited to work with her. He was also smart enough to realize she would bring a new audience to this genre of film.

It was not as though the idea of flying a commercial flight was beneath Sapphira, but she had more reason than most to need the private flight.

Sapphira held her Bottega Veneta black leather tote bag close to her chest feeling the little beads of sweat form on her forehead. The door of the aircraft opened and Sapphira heard the pilot talking to the officials in Italian as he stood at the top of the steps.

‘They need to just check your details and do a quick look around,’ he said as two Italian airport officials came aboard the plane. Sapphira sat up straight and smiled her million dollar smile. The men were instantly smitten. Handing over her travel documents, Sapphira attempted to greet them in the basic Italian she had learned.

‘
Ciao. Grazie per lasciarlo venire al vostro paese bella
,’ she said, a little uncertainly.

The Italians looked at each other, pleased that such a big American movie star would bother to try speaking their wonderful language. They gave a cursory glance at her documents. Sapphira smiled again, this time they melted. ‘Welcome, Signora De Mont.’

‘My mother is Italian. I’m so pleased to be here in her country that she speaks so warmly about,’ Sapphira said.

She left out the fact that her mother was now in the best nursing home in LA, all bills paid for by Sapphira. The years of alcohol abuse had caught up with her and most days she didn’t even remember she had a daughter.

‘That is why you are so beautiful,’ said the older man. ‘Your father must be Italian also?’

‘No,’ said Sapphira, almost apologetically. ‘He’s French.’

And dead, she left out. A minor French aristocrat, dying from a heroin overdose when she was twelve years old and she’d been left with her mother to raise herself.

One of the men held out a small notepad and asked shyly for an autograph. Sapphira signed quickly and posed for a photo with each of them taken on their cell phones. Deciding that such a beautiful star with an Italian mother was absolutely no security risk, they waved her through Customs and soon Sapphira was in the back of her car, and heading towards her new home. Relief flowed through her as the car pulled away from the airport and towards the villa booked for her stay.

The villa, a former 12th century monastery, was not the biggest in the region but it had the most security. Surrounded by large, stone walls with locked gates, security cameras were set to capture every angle of the property and it came with a set of security guards to protect its guests.

Sapphira lit a cigarette and wound down the window. Her driver looked at her in the rear mirror. She seemed tired and unwell, he thought, as he drove through the picturesque countryside. Italy will fix anyone, he thought proudly.

The car pulled up outside a large set of iron gates. There was a scrolled crest on the gates and ivy grew on the walls on either side. With its palm trees and green lawns, the property looked like an oasis, Sapphira thought.

As the gates swung open, the car drove slowly along the gravel drive and soon the villa appeared. A tower rose from the centre of the building, with a cross on the top. Remembering it was once a monastery, Sapphira prayed it was a sign of protection while she was in Italy.

When the car pulled to a stop, a stylish young woman came out of the arched oak doorway. The woman smiled warmly. ‘Welcome, Ms De Mont, to Villa Castello Saint Carolina. I hope you enjoy your stay here.’

‘Please call me Sapphira,’ she said and indicated to the driver to take her cases and bags inside.

‘I am Giulia, TG’s assistant while he is in Italy. He requested I come and ensure you have everything you need.’

‘Thank you, Giulia. I appreciate it,’ Sapphira said, wishing she were upstairs in the privacy of a bedroom.

Giulia walked inside and stood in the magnificent foyer. High above them was a ceiling mural of Madonna and the baby Jesus, surrounded by cherubs in the Garden of Eden. It was breathtaking. Sapphira stood with her neck craned back trying to drink in the picture.

Giulia spoke again. ‘I have your set of keys and your map of the property as requested. The kitchen has been stocked to your requirements and all your other requests have been fulfilled.’

Sapphira nodded her approval.

‘The security are on site at all times and will do their best to not disturb your privacy, but please contact them or myself if you should require anything extra during your stay here. If you give me your phone I will punch my number into it so you can contact me day or night.’

Sapphira dug into her handbag, searching for her phone. Her hand ran over her secret and she felt like she might vomit. Finding her phone, she handed it to Giulia who expertly keyed in her number and name.

‘
Bene
,’ she said. ‘
Finito
.’ She handed it back.

Sapphira stood waiting. There was an awkward silence. ‘Well then, I go,’ said Giulia.

‘Thank you, Giulia,’ Sapphira said, relieved.

‘One more thing, you want me to take your bags to your room?’ asked Giulia.

‘No,’ said Sapphira a little shortly. ‘I’m fine.’

Giulia looked at her almost skeletal arms and wondered how on earth she would manage the array of cases the driver had left in the foyer up the flight of stairs.

‘The staff will come by every morning to make up your room and restock your kitchen once you are on set, as requested. They have all signed the confidentiality papers and these have been faxed to your agent.’

Sapphira nodded and Giulia walked out the door. ‘Thanks again,’ Sapphira called as Giulia climbed into her red Alfa. Sapphira closed the door behind her.

Giulia sat in the car for a moment, looking for her car keys. Sapphira’s appearance troubled her. Her demands, while not extraordinary compared to some stars, still seemed covert and secretive when she had received them from Sapphira’s agent. She required no one to look after her in the villa, didn’t want a tour of the vast property, only a map to be left for her in Italian. She asked for two cartons of Marlboro Light cigarettes and an espresso maker with the best local coffee blend. Seeing her in person, she seemed edgy and anxious, and clearly could not wait for Giulia to leave. Giulia knew it was more than tiredness; she had seen it in her brother years before when he had come home from living in Rome. She picked up her mobile phone. ‘Hello, TG? It’s Giulia.’

‘Hey, how’s our star Sapphira?’ he asked as he jumped out of the shower.

‘Okay, all settled. She seems fine.’ She paused. ‘She’s a little, how you say,
preoccupato
. Worried. Anxious, you know?’

TG laughed. ‘That’s Hollywood stars for you, Giulia. They’re all a little crazy, although she is supposed to be great on set, so don’t worry about it, she’s fine. Kelly said so and she’s worked with her plenty of times.’

‘Okay then, I will not worry. You all okay for tonight?’ she asked as she turned on the car engine.

‘Fine, it all looks great, Giulia. Thank you, you are a star!
Arrivederci
.’

‘
Arrivederci
,’ Giulia replied and drove off down the driveway, the huge gates closing behind her.

Sapphira watched Giulia on the phone in her driveway from the upstairs window. ‘Go,’ she said as she willed her away from her house.

Finally the red car disappeared and the gates closed in the distance. Walking over to the bed, she emptied her bag out onto the crisp white bedspread.

Opening a small Comme des Garçons bag, she took out her instruments and prepared her hit.