Читать книгу: «The Perfect Location», страница 2
CHAPTER TWO
Calypso Gable woke up, fully dressed, in the biggest suite of the Hotel Brufani Palace in Perugia and checked her phone for the time. Nine o’clock in the evening. Damn, she had slept all day, she thought, exhausted from jet-lag.
She wanted to be amongst the action, not stuck in a villa in the country, playing house. Basing herself in the city of Perugia meant she could stroll the streets and explore with almost no one recognizing her. Her TV show had not been shown in Italy and her latest film had yet to be released in Europe. Besides tourists, no one knew who she was and she was looking forward to exploring the city and some of the gorgeous antique shops she had spied on the drive through the city to her hotel.
She was shocked that she had won the role. Rumour was that Jessica Biel, Carey Mulligan, and Scarlett Johansson were up for the role. Calypso only went because her manager told her she needed to be seen by a better class of directors.
Calypso hadn’t worked with the director, TG, as he was known, but she did know his ex-girlfriend, Lisa. She had always been on the make, trying to get up the next step of the career ladder, fucking and sucking her way to the top. She had made quite a few films, starring in supporting roles and then starting to get more leading roles. Labelled as the next Indie Queen, she and TG were the star couple of LA and New York.
But Calypso knew it was all bullshit. She had seen girls like her before over the years. Underneath the façade of the intellectual, art house style she displayed was just another actress desperate for the Spielberg epic and the paycheque.
Now the ex was dating a studio head, Calypso had heard. An obese, sweaty man who was notorious for his penchant for sexually deviant activities. His favourite was having his partner bite him during sex, all over, till he was black and blue; he loved it even more when they drew blood, apparently. Calypso shuddered at the thought.
The audition for The Italian Dream had been torturous. Calypso was nervous and said ‘fuck’ throughout the meeting and drank from the Coke can on the table until she realized it wasn’t hers but the director’s. He hadn’t seemed to mind and seemed to be okay as far as directors went. At least he didn’t try to hit on her but he looked at her oddly throughout the audition and she wondered of she had something in her teeth.
She knew she gave a shocking read and although she could do the part, she fucked it up and would have put money on Scarlett getting the role. But apparently the director saw something in her that she didn’t see in herself, her manager said when she rang with the news.
To celebrate, she had spent a morning at the Miu Miu store in LA, hoping to channel the Italian style she admired so much while trawling The Sartorialist. Now she looked at the piles of luggage piled in the corner of the suite and wondered if it was too much. The store on Rodeo Drive had closed for her for two hours while she tried on everything. Calypso now had in her possession bags and boxes of the latest season and even some of the upcoming season that had not yet been copied by Zara. Miu Miu’s classic, super cool look wasn’t exactly Calypso’s style – she preferred something a little more eclectic – but what the hell, she could always accessorize to make it a little more Calypso and a little less Miuccia.
Calypso had left the Miu Miu store in a carbon wool-fringed short jacket over her white American Vintage t-shirt. The jacket dressed up her black J Brand cigarette-style jeans and brought an almost European style to her California look. She had swept back her perfectly lightened blond hair – ‘Buttercup’, her colourist called it. Calypso’s hair was one of her signatures and she returned to the salon every two weeks to have her roots done. A natural redhead, with tight corkscrew curls, she now wore her hair long and straight, courtesy of the Brazilian blow waves she got every six weeks. With a tiny frame and lean muscles courtesy of a combination of yoga, Pilates and a fat-free vegetarian existence, Calypso had a pretty voice and an even prettier face.
As she lay in the hotel bed thinking of the shopping spree, she remembered the paparazzi hounding her in LA outside Miu Miu. Some actors sought that attention, even tipping them off themselves with their whereabouts. But not Calypso. The media’s intrusion was a recent problem for her. Now that she was a part of the film circus, she understood that often the film studios started the rumours and hired the photographers to drive the heat and interest for whatever vehicle they were pushing. Calypso wondered who had made the call to them. Her studio, her stylist, or was it one of the store employees? The more she thought about it, Calypso began to suspect who had tipped off the media, and it made sense the longer she considered it.
She remembered the last conversation with Leeza before she left for Italy.
‘Hi, Mom.’ Calypso had answered her cell phone impatiently; they’d only spoken an hour ago.
‘Hi, baby!’ Leeza breathed. Always so eager. ‘How was shopping?’
‘It was great, Mom. But … err … Mom …’ Calypso licked her lips nervously. Why was she always nervous when questioning her mother?
‘Mom, did you tip off the paps?’ Calypso was smart enough to know she wasn’t a big enough celebrity yet for her studio to have called in such an overwhelming number of photographers.
‘I just made one call. Were there many there?’ Leeza had sounded happy – she thought all publicity was good publicity, especially when you were an unknown.
‘Mom, it’s not good. It’s weird. It makes me look desperate and sad. Leave that shit for Miley and Lindsay. Greg will kill me when he finds out. He’s being really careful about my exposure right now. You know this already! Jesus!’
‘Have you heard from Greg or Mandy?’ asked Leeza, ignoring Calypso’s frustration.
Calypso’s hiring of a new manager, Mandy, had replaced her mother who had held the title since Calypso was six years old and in her first commercial. The decision resulted in a huge fight with Leeza who locked herself in the bathroom for six hours at Calypso’s house. She only emerged after Calypso slid a back copy of Variety, with an article on Mandy in it, under the door and was finally satisfied that Mandy might be able to do the job.
Now Calypso felt free as she lay in bed. Free from Leeza, the paparazzi and from LA. Stretching, she stepped out of bed, peeled off her Burberry silk shorts and Calvin Klein singlet and walked into the bathroom. Turning on the shower she examined herself in the mirror. Her hair looked amazing, straight and yet with body, thanks to the blow-dry she had just before she left LA. She was due to have another in six weeks but since she was on set for twelve weeks, she wondered if they had them in Italy. She reminded herself to ask Kelly, the head make-up artist on the film, although it may cost a lot here compared to US prices.
Calypso lived on a budget, despite her moderate wealth. It was too easy to overspend and she was mindful of her money, having worked so hard for so long. Besides, Leeza was always in her mind, reminding her never to stray from her budget. It wasn’t as though Calypso was tight with money, however, she was just very aware of what it was like not to have any. No one but her and Leeza and her father knew how tough things had been for them when she was trying to make it in Hollywood. All the money her father had earned had gone into nurturing Calypso’s talent. Although her father had a job, it was meagre pay and trying to make it in Hollywood was expensive. Dancing lessons, headshots, acting lessons, clothes, and flights for auditions to New York for the attempts to make it on Broadway. Her agents and lawyers both demanded a cut when she did work and it was a struggle at times. Calypso knew her parents had gone without for her. She remembered the nights without electricity; the beans on toast for dinner, or sometimes just the beans. Once she found her father in the yard, nailing the soles of his work shoes back together.
The sense of responsibility Calypso felt to ensure she was successful and to look after her parents was what drove her – and what stopped her from losing her head. Calypso had been offered drugs, sex and all the other temptations during her years growing up but she abstained, thinking of the faith her parents had placed in their only child’s talent. Whenever she was interviewed, Calypso painted the picture that she was the typical California girl, growing up in middle-class affluence and wanting for nothing. She claimed she grew up in the house she had actually bought for her parents in Brentwood, whereas in fact she and Leeza and her dad went from place to place until the money ran out. Leeza would check them into rough hotels and trailer parks when the money was really low. Sometimes they skipped paying the bill if they could, just to save a few dollars here and there.
It all changed for a while when Calypso was cast on a variety show, singing and dancing her little heart out until she grew breasts and the show was cancelled. Calypso received the news she had been let go the day before the producer found out the show had been cancelled. She never told anyone, only she and Leeza knew. That day, Leeza sent out a press release saying that Calypso was leaving to explore other opportunities. It was a smart move. She was always seen as the kid who left early and avoided being a part of an axed show. Leeza was considered an excellent manager for knowing when it was time for Calypso to move on.
The next opportunity did not come though until Calypso was nineteen. She did a few bit parts and commercials and this helped the bank balance. She urged her parents to use the money she earned from the show but her father wouldn’t hear of it, so they were back to where they were before. Scrounging and living hand to mouth, job to job.
Now she was in Italy, shooting a film with Rose Nightingale and Sapphira De Mont. She could hardly believe it. Rose Nightingale was her hero and Sapphira De Mont was the hottest star in Hollywood. Why the director, TG, had asked for her, she had no idea. She wasn’t a huge name yet, and certainly not in film, she had thought when Mandy had rung to her gauge her interest in auditioning for TG.
Against Leeza’s advice, she had knocked back the action film that was on offer and had jumped at the chance to act opposite Rose and Sapphira. This was her chance to move into the big league. No more TV, only film and opposite the best actresses in Hollywood. Convincing Leeza was a different story though.
‘But, honey, if you take the action movie, think about it. A percentage of the profits, royalties, Comic-Con appearances and your own action figure. You’ll be a movie star, honey, big time.’
‘Mom, a movie star is different to an actor. Cameron Diaz is a movie star. Meryl Streep is an actor. You can’t be both. Well, maybe if you’re Reese Witherspoon, but there aren’t many others. I want to be an actor.’
‘Being a movie star is what we always wanted,’ Leeza said, forgetting she had recently been demoted in Calypso’s life from manager to mother, as she carefully prepared the salad with no-fat dressing for a family barbeque, protecting her acrylic nails with a new French manicure.
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.
CHAPTER THREE
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.
Thankfully her tattoos were placed all over her body and so she was always accustomed to covering them up. If she knew she would be showing a lot of flesh then she shot up between her toes. Citing privacy, she always dressed herself and never allowed herself to be partially dressed in front of the costume or make-up crew. Living with her addiction for the last ten years had taught Sapphira a thing or two about secrets and how to hide them. A few of her lovers had been addicts as well, sharing her bed and her smack till she got sick of them. She had tried to get off it, taking OxyContin, which her LA doctor had only been too happy to supply. But there was nothing like pure snow, she thought.
Sapphira was a big enough star not have to go through the medical tests for insurance. Her record on set was flawless, she was a hard worker and big money earner; as far as the studio could see, there was no problem.
Coming to Italy was not a problem on the private jet, once she had been waived through Customs. She had enough to get her through the next eight weeks and then she would have to sort out her next supply. No problem, she thought. Rome is filled with drugs, I’ll send someone off to score. Who that might be, she was not sure, but there was always someone to help Sapphira De Mont, she figured.
She took an alcohol swab out of the bag. Getting her spoon, she wiped it down with the swab and placed the chunk on it. Filling the syringe with water, she squirted it onto the spoon and lit the tea light candle she carried in her kit. Melting down the smack, she rubbed her fingers with another swab and then placed a small piece of cloth on the spoon. Rubbing between her toes with the alcohol swab, she drew the shot up into the syringe and looked for a vein. Finding one between her little toe and the one next to it, she put the needle in, withdrawing it slightly to ensure she had it in the vein. Seeing a small prick of blood come out, she injected herself.
The OxyContin worked when she was doing the action movies, as she had to be fit and trained everyday. But the hit from heroin lasted longer and so she was back on it whenever she could get away with it. When she took it she felt like nothing would ever go wrong in her world again. She stopped injecting once, a long time ago but then started again after her hopes and dreams had been shattered. That was too much for anyone to handle, she had justified at the time.
As soon as the needle touched her skin she lay on the bed and felt the relaxation drape over her like a blanket. She breathed in and out, listening to the sound of herself in the silence, thinking about the first time she took heroin.
What was the guy’s name? she wondered. They had met at a party for someone whose name they didn’t even know, and the attraction between them was instant. The knowledge that Sapphira had with her a bag of coke, twelve joints pre-rolled in her father’s Cartier diamond Art Deco cigarette case was also appealing. They blew her bag of coke together in the bathroom, smoked three joints in the spa and then fucked at her apartment.
She tried heroin because she could. There was no thought that she would be hooked, no thought of her father’s addiction. She was attached to nothing and addicted to no one but the drug had other ideas. The first time she was sick. The second time she thought she was kissing God. And now all she did was shoot up trying to chase that feeling.
The sex with the guy on smack was beyond anything she had ever felt before. It lasted for hours and Sapphira recalled a continual searching for something elusive, not finding it, yet still being incredibly satisfied.
‘Ethan,’ she said out loud. ‘That was his name. Ethan.’
She felt strong enough to rise up from the bed and finally explore her surroundings. Walking downstairs, she took in the frescos on the wall, depicting magnificent gardens and angelic characters. Grabbing the map and the large set of keys from the hall table, she stood in the foyer and tried to get her bearings. Sapphira loved this part best: being in the mystery, finding her way. Wandering from room to room, map in one hand and lit cigarette in the other she was almost happy.
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