The Perfect Location

Popping the sweet into his mouth, he put his head back on her chest and sucked contentedly. Looking up at the Madonna and Child hanging on the wall in front of her, she sent a little prayer up to the Patron Saint of Mothers to send her own little child to her one day.

‘Milo, bloody hell, we have been looking for you everywhere. You’re bloody hopeless, I’m very cross with you.’ A man came into the room, followed by two older boys, about six and eight.

Hearing his father’s voice, Milo started to cry again and clung to Rose.

‘I just wanted to give her a drink,’ he whispered in Rose’s ear.

Rose was unsure what he was saying and was about to ask him when the child’s father interrupted again.

‘You cannot run away from me, do you understand, do you?’ the father said, tearing the child away from Rose’s body and standing in front of him. Towering over the child, the man’s face was flushed. The two other boys looked at the floor.

‘Dominic and Jasper have been searching everywhere, as have I. Not good enough, Milo, really! Hopeless, hopeless, and where’s your drink bottle? You’ve lost that also, I see,’ said the man.

The small child stood frightened and shaking. ‘And now you’ve bloody wet yourself. Jesus Christ, Milo! Can’t you do anything right? When we get home, you will spend the rest of the day in your room. Do you understand me?’

Rising from the bench, Rose stood in front of the man. ‘Excuse me …’ she began.

The man snapped his head around to look at her. ‘Yes?’ he said, his voice slightly menacing. Rose recognized an English accent and thought she knew him from somewhere but wasn’t sure. Was he an actor? A politician? She stopped trying to place him when she looked at the small child’s face in front of her.

‘It’s not his fault he wet himself …’ Rose smiled at the child who was clearly traumatized.

‘Really? Well, if he had listened to me when I said he needed to go to the toilet then he wouldn’t be here all wet and embarrassing himself, would he?’

Rose tried again, ‘Well, accidents happen, nothing that can’t be fixed.’

‘Are you going to fix it? No? No. I’ll have to fucking fix it, as I always have to fix everything. Always up to me, and what do I get from them? Nothing. Just more fucking jobs to do and nothing in return. Christ! You’re all bloody useless.’ He directed this to not only the children, but also Rose.

Where her rage came from, Rose wasn’t sure. Was it because he had blasphemed in front of the Madonna and Child, or was it because she felt so motherly towards this little boy? Or was it that his words reminded her of Paul, yelling at her, telling her she was hopeless and then ignoring her as this man wanted to do to the small child?

‘You’re a bully. No wonder he ran away from you. I don’t blame him. I’d want to run away from you, too. And as for wetting his pants, well …’ She looked down at Milo and held his hand.

‘I would have wet myself too, if you had yelled at me that way, and I’m a lot older than him. You should be ashamed of yourself!’ she shouted. ‘I’m sure their mother would be shocked if she saw the way you speak to them. I think I should meet her or at least discuss your bullying of these kids or is she just like you also?’ Rose challenged.

‘Well, good luck, because she’s dead!’ the man shouted back at her.

Rose saw the middle child start to cry now. She felt awful but this man was too much for anyone to bear. She composed herself and put on her sunglasses. ‘Well, I suggest you get some therapy, for you first and then for the children just so they can have some strategies to learn to live with you.’

Bending down, she took Milo’s face in her hands. ‘Don’t worry about anything. Your tongue will heal and you will have an excellent excuse to eat yummy Italian gelato now. Never mind about wetting yourself. I wet myself all the time till I was seven. No shame in it, many clever people wet their pants,’ she said confidently and Milo looked up at her, his eyes wide.

Milo smiled shyly and Rose stood up. ‘Goodbye, boys,’ she directed at the children as she walked out of the room.

The man picked up the little boy and hugging him close, he cried, ‘I am so sorry, Milo Schmilo. I’m so sorry. Don’t run away again, okay? Daddy promises to be nicer, I just get a bit sad and angry sometimes.’

Milo nodded and put his arms around his neck. ‘She smelt nice, Daddy.’

He looked at the door she had just exited through. This was going to be complicated, he thought.

Rose, still shaking, headed down to the bathroom in the entrance of the gallery. Composing herself in front of the mirror, Rose was surprised at the venom in her outburst to the man. She did feel awful mentioning their mother but she justified it to herself when she remembered the trauma on Milo’s face.

As she walked out of the bathroom, she glanced at the sculpture where she had first spoken to Milo and saw a flash of blue she hadn’t seen before. At the woman’s feet was Milo’s drink bottle that he had carefully carried before.

Rose felt like crying. Bless him, she thought, the little man had given the thirsty woman his drink. She closed her eyes for a moment to control the tears that threatened and picked up the drink bottle and put it into her bag.

Driving back to her villa, she was shocked at how angry she still felt, but realized she was happy to have not had children with Paul. No doubt that’s how he would have spoken to their child if she had let him. She could still feel the warmth of the little boy’s body on her lap. ‘He smelt nice,’ she said to no one in particular and she took the drink bottle out of her bag and placed it in the cupholder of the car. It looked right, she thought, the clash of the cheap plastic against the luxury of the car. God, how she wanted her own child’s drink bottle in her life, she thought. More than anything else in the world.

CHAPTER NINE

Calypso was having trouble keeping her co-star’s hands off her while filming and she figured if anyone had advice, it would be Sapphira.

Calypso sat on her sofa in the trailer drinking her spirulina shake.

‘Hmm, smells like toxic waste to me,’ said Sapphira, waving away the drink Calypso offered her.

‘He’s gross,’ said Calypso, sipping her drink, which left a faint green moustache on her top lip. ‘I swear he had a hard-on today when we were shooting and I’m pretty sure he wanted me to know it.’

‘Got waste?’ she asked, in reference to the famous milk ads showing stars with milk on their upper lip. Sapphira had shot one years ago and it still made her laugh when she thought about the shoot, trying to get the paste which supposedly resembled milk onto her lip.

‘What?’ asked Calypso, confused.

‘Your lip, babe. It’s green,’ said Sapphira, lighting another cigarette with the one she was smoking.

Calypso, embarrassed, rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand. Sapphira was like the cool older sister she never had and spending time with her had made her realize how much she wished she had siblings to deflect Leeza’s focus and to share things with.

‘Raphael’s a fucking asshole,’ said Sapphira, frowning. ‘I met him at Cannes last year. He was promoting some movie but it was more like he was promoting himself.’

‘I know a lot of actors like that,’ laughed Calypso.

Sapphira paused. ‘Listen, I’m not one for gossip and I hate to be indiscreet, but he is bad news. I’m surprised TG cast him. He’s seriously fucked up,’ she said as she checked the text message that rang through on her cell phone.

‘Now you have to tell me,’ said Calypso, her eyes widening. Sapphira shook her head. ‘Come on, just give me something so I know what I’m up against.’

Sapphira put down her phone and thought for a moment. ‘Just watch him, okay? Don’t get caught up in the charm. He’s a snake.’

Calypso heeded Sapphira’s warning and was careful around Raphael. Whatever Sapphira had intimated was enough for Calypso to be aloof on set and keep him at arm’s length, which was no easy feat. He flirted constantly with her. She tried to be pleasant but he was wearing and trying her patience.

The chemistry between them was not evident on the shoot and TG was at a loss to understand why Calypso was being almost rude to Raphael, who seemed to be trying hard to win her over. This shoot was harder than he had thought. Shooting on location, they were at the mercy of the weather, the planes flying overhead and the ants that crawled up the actors’ legs and bit them.

That morning on set, Calypso was constantly slapping her legs, as the ants seemed immune to insect repellant. In fact, she thought they preferred it.

TG walked over to her. ‘Calypso, you have to stop slapping your legs. All I can see is red hand marks up and down your thighs. It looks like you’ve been beaten up.’

‘I can’t help it, it’s these fucking ants,’ she said, slapping her leg again.

‘Okay, let me deal with it.’ He called out to the second assistant director. ‘Can you find the fucking ants’ nest and pour coffee down it, please? Do something about the ants!’

The assistant director, who was Italian, laughed outrageously. ‘You not get rid of the ants, TG. Impossible.’ He kept laughing like TG had just told the funniest joke in the world.

TG stomped back to his chair. Calypso tried in vain not to slap her leg. Standing with a grimace, TG looked up, and walked back over to her. He looked at her legs, reached down and flicked the soft white skin inside her thigh. ‘Ow!’ she yelled.

‘Maybe you should flick them off instead of slapping, okay?’

‘Jesus, ow, okay, that hurt,’ she said, rubbing her leg.

‘Sorry,’ said TG, not really meaning it. He didn’t know why he was angry with Calypso. Because she largely ignored him, was rude to Raphael. Always running off set as soon as filming started to be with that Italian he had seen on set occasionally.

He walked back to his chair again. He could still feel her soft skin on his fingertips.

Calypso stood confused. Was he physically abusing her now? What an asshole, she thought.

The day’s shoot was tense, to say the least, and Calypso was happy when it was finished. As she walked over to her car, Raphael ran up to her. ‘Tonight I come to town, you show me a good time.’

‘Ah no, I have plans,’ said Calypso wearily. She wished he would return to his villa or Rome, whichever was easier.

‘What are your plans? I can come,’ he said as though his presence was a gift.

Inwardly Calypso groaned. The last thing she needed was this guy sharing her car and trying to hit on her all the way back to the hotel. ‘Umm … I’m seeing my boyfriend.’ she started.

‘You have a boyfriend? Ah, I want to meet the man who vies for my love,’ he said dramatically, jumping in the front next to the driver.

Calypso got in the back, relieved she wouldn’t have his roaming hands all over her. Surprisingly, he didn’t speak to her at all on the way back, talking in rapid-fire Italian to her driver, and her driver talking just as fast back and gesticulating wildly. Calypso prayed he would keep his hands on the wheel and get her back to Marco alive.

Calypso’s relationship with Marco was all the talk of the set. He visited her and brought her flowers, much to TG’s chagrin, hanging about and talking to the Italian crew. He and Calypso went out with his friends almost every night and even spent time with his parents on their farm, looking for white truffles in the woods, with no success. What had been successful was the sex they had on the floor of the woods, with Calypso never having felt as free before in the open air, abandoning herself to Marco and the nature all around her. None of the boys back home had been so passionate and intense as him. He was insatiable; he wanted her constantly and made her feel incredible.

After he’d asked her so many questions about America one night as they lay in her hotel bed, she suggested he move there to find out for himself what America was like.

‘No, no,’ he said as he kissed the tip of her nose. ‘I will never leave Italy. This is my home. Perhaps I will visit.’

Inside Calypso was disappointed; she knew he wouldn’t want to move there. But in her fantasy, she imagined him being a hotshot LA lawyer, her being a successful actress and presenting the Best Foreign Film nominations at the Oscars and being able to say the Italian nomination flawlessly.

Listening to the hysterical laughter of her co-star and the driver, she wondered what they were laughing so hard at. What could be that funny?

The car pulled up in front of the hotel and the doorman opened the door for Calypso. She saw Marco waiting for her, leaning against the front wall. ‘Ciao, bella,’ he said sexily. Calypso felt her insides melting, perhaps she loved him, she thought.

The doorman opened up the front passenger door and Raphael jumped out. Seeing Raphael, Marco was instantly star-stuck. Rushing over and shaking his hand and talking in Italian, he gesticulated and pointed to Calypso.

‘I didn’t know that Raphael Perini was in this movie. He is my favourite actor. I love him,’ he said earnestly to her.

Calypso smiled thinly. Perhaps if he knew what an utter dick Raphael was, then he wouldn’t be so in love, she thought.

Raphael, always ready to greet a fan, grabbed Calypso around the shoulders. ‘It is decided then, we shall break bread together tonight.’

Calypso frowned. She wanted Marco all to herself, not to share him with this self-lover of the highest order.

That night they all ate together at a local bar. Every ten minutes someone came to the table to say hello or get an autograph from Raphael. He was like a god and the Italians were his worshippers. Marco and Raphael spoke Italian most of the night and occasionally interpreted for Calypso, when they remembered she was there.

Towards the end of the dinner, Marco pulled out his phone, rang two numbers and spoke fast down the phone. Calypso looked at him, questioning him with her eyes. ‘I’ve rung some friends. They will come and meet us and then we will drink, si?’

‘Not for me. I’ve gotta shoot tomorrow and we have to be on set at 6.30 am,’ she said, looking at Raphael.

‘Si si, but one drink. Come on, bella.’

She looked at Marco. He was not paying any attention to her, just looking at Raphael in adoration. Calypso sighed. ‘Well, I’m going back to the hotel. Good night.’

She left the bar, expecting Marco to come after her but deep down knowing he wouldn’t. She had been usurped by Raphael and she was pissed off. Heading back down the road to her hotel, Calypso was surprised how she felt. She really liked Marco; in fact, she thought she could even love him. His parents loved her and, let’s face it, the sex was incredible. Now he seemed like a fawning loser. Fuck it, she thought as she went up to her hotel room. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.

After taking a long bath and drinking a chamomile tea, Calypso hopped into bed. It seems too big without Marco, she thought drowsily, as she dropped off to sleep.

She was woken by a loud knocking at the door. She opened her eyes and looked at the clock next to her bedside – 1.00 am. ‘Fuck!’ she said as she went to the door. ‘Who is it?’ she called, not fully awake.

‘Ciao, bella,’ she heard.

Marco! Padding over in the dark, she stubbed her toe on a chair. ‘Oww,’ she cried, hopping on one foot. Opening the door, her foot throbbing in pain, she hobbled back to the bed and jumped under the covers, lying on her stomach. ‘It’s late, don’t talk to me. I have to be up in three hours,’ she said as she started to drop off to sleep again.

She heard him undressing and felt the covers pull back and him start to caress her back. ‘Hmm, that’s nice, but I’m really tired, baby.’

He continued, rubbing her back and buttocks. She felt her legs spread open involuntarily. He placed his fingers down between her thighs and started to feel her. She was wet and ready. Climbing on top of her, he entered her from behind, slowly thrusting and grinding. ‘Mmmmm,’ she said sexily.

He pulled her up onto her knees and then leant down and held her breasts, fucking her harder and harder until Calypso felt uncomfortable. He started to slap her ass and pulled back on her hair. ‘Yeah, puttana, you like it!’ he cried.

And then he came. Calypso turned around, shocked. In the darkness, she could just make out that it was not Marco who had just fucked her but Raphael. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ she screamed. ‘Oh my God!’ She started to cry, pulling the bed sheet up around her.

Raphael got up off the bed, the semen dripping from his cock. ‘What do you mean? You knew it was me when you opened the door naked.’

‘I thought you were Marco,’ she said, crying on the bed.

‘Well, Marco said you were a great fuck and he was right. He said the American puttana will do anything. I like American girls.’

‘Get out, get out! I’m calling the police, get out!’

Raphael picked up his clothes. ‘You liked it,’ he said arrogantly.

‘Get out!’ she yelled again and threw him out into the hallway naked.

She sat back on the bed, sobbing. She knew she should call the police but she could not deal with the intrusion. Once the press got wind of this in America she would be exposed as a slut and her career ruined. She started to shake, uncontrollably. Who could she ring? Not her mother. Maybe Rose or Kelly?

The thought of being on set with him in the morning made her start to vomit. She rushed to the bathroom but didn’t make it, throwing up all over the floor next to the bed. Picking up her phone, she dialled the one number she knew would answer.

‘Hello? TG? I need you.’

CHAPTER TEN

Aware she had spent much of her time in Italy by herself, Sapphira was looking forward to meeting her co-star. Jack Reynolds was a big star. He was a renowned bachelor who spent part of the year in LA and part in Italy. Speaking flawless Italian, he was a spokesperson for Brioni suits and Longines watches, and had been voted Sexiest Man of the Year for the past three years. Jack was the male equivalent of Sapphira, according to one of the biggest gossip magazines back in the States. He worked only when he wanted to and chose his projects carefully. The role TG had offered him was perfect – a script which promised to create celluloid history, acting opposite one of the biggest female stars of the time and shooting in his beloved adopted country was an offer Jack could not pass up.

His affairs always made the news and he had dated many beautiful young women from all over the world, always brunettes and never for longer than a year. He never spoke about his love life, instead making witty and occasionally ironic comments about the celebrity fascination and culture. He was due on set that morning. Jack arrived on time and chatted freely with the crew, switching from Italian to English effortlessly. Sapphira came on to the set, walking like a panther and as if Jack was her prey.

‘Hello, I’m Sapphira De Mont. I’m surprised we haven’t yet worked together.’

‘Jack, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Sapphira.’ He looked at her bemused, and stuck out his hand for her to shake it.

She leaned over and kissed each cheek while pressing herself against him. He stood, his head cocked to one side, his greying temples glinting in the sun.

‘Well, let’s get to work,’ he said and turned on his heel and walked to TG, where he proceeded to spend the next thirty minutes discussing character and plot.

For all his playboy reputation, Jack was a professional in every sense of the word, and when Sapphira sat in the make-up chair, she wondered about his reaction to her.

‘Is Jack dating anyone?’ she asked Kelly as she dabbed on her pancake base.

‘Nope, just broke up with a Swiss TV presenter. No word from her yet. I thought she may sell her story to National Enquirer and the like, but I haven’t heard a thing.’

Sapphira’s reputation preceded her, and Kelly and Chris had a bet on to see how long before Sapphira and Jack were an item, at least for the remaining duration of the shoot.

Sapphira wondered if perhaps Jack was heartbroken. Not fucking likely, she thought.

Walking into the trailer, Jack kissed Kelly, whom he had worked with before and sat next to Sapphira. She knew she looked good in the chair, make-up flawless and artfully applied. Her hair was long and out. She was wearing a strapless black dress, showing off her tattoos and her tanned skin. She was the kind of woman who knew what she wanted and Jack was in her sights. She smiled at him in the mirror. He smiled back and pulled out a copy of the local newspaper, La Nazione and started to read it, much to Sapphira’s shock.

The assistant director knocked on the door. ‘All ready, Sapphira? TG wants to do your close-up, then Jack’s. We’ll be ready for you.’

‘See you then,’ said Jack from the depths of his paper.

Sapphira stood up, unnerved. Heading onto the set, she went through the motions of the close-up, standing patiently while they sorted out the angles and focus measurements for the camera. I’ll just have to work harder, she thought, having never yet given up on a challenge. This is what she felt the best at, luring her man in on her long line.

TG came on set soon after with Jack and talked them through their first scene. They were inside the Villa and in the kitchen set. ‘Ok, so I need you, Sapphira, to have your bare feet up on the table and Jack, you come in. Sapphira, your eyes are shut for this scene. You are worn out from working on the Villa all day. Jack, you rub her shoulders and then you say the lines. Want to rehearse it first for marks?’

‘Nope,’ said Jack. ‘I think we are good.’ He smiled at Sapphira, who responded to him with one of her million-dollar laughs.

‘Whatever you want, Jacky boy.’

‘Action.’ Called TG from off set.

Jack came through the door and saw Sapphira with her feet on the table but instead of walking around behind her he sat down at her feet, saying his lines. he started to give her foot a rub.

Sapphira stayed in character and kept her eyes shut while Jack rubbed her feet. He said his lines and she responded.

‘Cut,’ yelled TG.

Jack stood up. ‘I just felt he would rub her feet since it’s the first thing he sees when he walks into the room.’

‘Yeah fine, worked well from our angle. Let’s do it again for different shots, ok?’

Sapphira was panicking. Had he noticed her feet? She had tried hard to cover the track marks but did he know what they were?

She looked at him. He seemed not to notice anything unusual about her feet. They waited for the camera to move. ‘Sorry about my disgusting feet,’ she said arching her long foot. ‘They are covered in ant bites,’ she explained, laughing.

Jack didn’t look at her. ‘You take care of yourself Sapphira, ok?’

‘Of course, I always do, Jacky boy.’ She threw her head back again and laughed. This is what she felt the best at, luring her man in on her long line.

When her close-up had been shot, and Jack had come on set for his, she sauntered towards him. ‘Why don’t we meet tonight, Jack? I can come to your place and we can discuss characters, trade war stories, whatever …’ The open invitation hung heavily in the air.

‘I don’t think so. I don’t play with the talent.’ This was true, Jack always played with talent lower than him on the celebrity radar; he was always the racehorse and his new girlfriend was always the donkey. Of course, this wasn’t disrespectful but Jack’s ego and celebrity were too big for two stars, and Sapphira would be too huge a star to orbit. The pressure of them pairing up might bring the kind of publicity that opened closet doors and let the skeletons out, and this was the last thing Jack wanted.

‘That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. You are breaking my heart, Mr Reynolds.’

‘I’m sure it will mend, Ms De Mont,’ he said, laughing.