Friday 6thSeptember
My bedroom was unbelievable – like something from a fairy tale – and I felt like a queen as I starfish-stretched in my king-size bed, sliding my legs up and down the silky sheets. The curtains were heavy red velvet and as I pulled them open, the view of the Grand Canal was breathtaking. A moving work of art. The morning sun shone bright as people scurried past, gondolas bobbing up and down on the water, men in black and white stripes getting ready to sing for their supper, breakfast and lunch. Tables and chairs were beautifully laid outside, full of people breakfasting al fresco, as locals flew by on bicycles to get to work and tourists posed for photos.
The stars were all staying at the Cipriani, so there was no danger of bumping into Brad Pitt over breakfast. It was 7.30 a.m. and I had to be at the venue for 11 a.m. for a twelve-hour shift, so there was plenty of time, but I felt weirdly nervous to be back working again after such a long break. Especially with people I hadn’t met before. How had I even landed this job? It was like being in a dream. I couldn’t wait to meet everyone and settle in atPalazzo del Cinema, the place of filmmakers’ dreams. The hotel phone rang and jolted me from my reverie, as I stood at the window watching the world go by. It was an old-fashioned rotary dial in cream, and I was living Mum’s Marilyn Monroe fantasy as I sat on the bed and picked up the receiver.
‘Hello?’ I breathed, in my most glamorous voice.
‘Ah good, you’re up. Breakfast in ’alf an hour?’ Phoebe croaked in reply.
‘Perfect.’ Scrambled eggs and smoked salmon flashed through my mind, and my stomach rumbled. ‘Are you heading home today? Or planning to smuggle yourself into the festival with me?’
Phoebe laughed. ‘The latter. You are my Trojan horse. Word on the street is thatbothRyans are already here, as well as George and Amal, and Jacob Elordi. A man for every generation.’
‘Which one are you hoping for?’ I asked, with a smile.
‘I’m not fussy,’ she breezed. ‘One of them… all of them. Potato, potata.’
‘OK, well don’t get me into trouble on my first day,’ I said, imagining Phoebe being ejected by security, while trying to convince them she’s my emotional-support human. ‘I doubt the assistant make-up artists are entitled to an entourage.’
‘Tsk tsk, Abi. Don’t diminish yourself. You’re one of the glitterati out here, remember. Part of the A-team. And I need to see you safely into the hands of your A-list employer.’
‘Is that what you’re planning to say?’
‘I’m still thinking it through. Come down for breakfast and we can work on it together.’
I jumped in the shower and lathered myself up with all the Elemis products, like a modern-day Cleopatra. Fluffy pink towels and shimmery gold tiles, with wall-to-wall mirrors. There was no escaping my face. I felt both anxious and excited for a new start, and nervous for Tony arriving back to the vineyard and reading my letter. My phone-checking tic was back, even though I’d only just woken up. I needed regular updates from Holly throughout the day, so I knew what was happening and who was where. Tony wouldn’t be back until at least lunchtime and even then, I’d have to wait for Holly to deliver the letter. Did I really want to lay it all out for him when it was too late to change things? There was still time to pull the whole idea – Holly could just chuck the letter in the bin.
I put on the most appropriate work outfit I had in my holiday wardrobe. A black jumpsuit with a gentle sequin. A tiny bit of sparkle, but loose and comfortable. With a pair of chunky gold earrings and my new gold flats. Italian leather, of course. Minimal make-up, but enough to make it clear that I knew what I was doing, and I was ready to take on both Ryans, George, Amal, and Jacob – all at the same time if necessary. Or more likely – a list of randoms from around the world that I’d never heard of. I spritzed on some Dior perfume and ran downstairs for breakfast. The hotel was full of original art and beautiful people. Italy really was a fabulous country – there was no doubt about that.
The restaurant was plush and ornate, with starched white tablecloths, silver cutlery and crystal glasses on every table. The waiting staff danced from guest to guest, delivering plates of tiny Italian cakes –pan del doge, with fruit and hazelnuts, the smell of cinnamon and sugar making my mouth water, as they wafted past. I spotted Phoebe by one of the enormous windows, oozing diva energy as she ranted into her phone and slid into the chair opposite – elegant and throne-like, in deep red velvet and a gold gilt frame. A waiter came rushing over and Phoebe held up her hand masterfully, as I silently perused the menu.
‘Macchiato caldo, please,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll be a minute to order my food.’ I’d almost forgotten ever making my own breakfast. Forty grams of oats soaked in soya milk overnight and topped with almond butter and honey – my standard weekday staple. How had I managed to stay so controlled for so long, when there were so many other breakfast options to enjoy? Phoebe snapped her phone shut and threw it in her bag.
‘Honestly! Being mansplained about my commission payment by a grad,’ she said, furious. ‘Cheeky bastard.’ She was wearing a voluminous red dress with black dots, and giving off ladybird vibes. A ladybird boss bitch.
‘I’m sure you’ll get what you’re owed,’ I said, as my coffee appeared, and the waiter presented Phoebe with a beautiful puff pastry horn, then piped it full of delicate custard cream, while we watched.
‘Venetiancannoncini,’ he announced, with a smile.
‘Grazie,’ Phoebe said, clearly impressed.
The waiter hovered, waiting to take my order.
‘I’ll have one of those as well, please,’ I said, pointing at the cream cake. ‘And the eggs royale.’ I wasn’t sure when I’d eat again and it seemed only right to have a royal breakfast, while staying in this palace.
‘I’ve booked us a water taxi in an hour,’ Phoebe said. ‘So look alive.’
‘Is everything OK, Phoebs? You’re more on edge than I am and it’s making me nervous. Are you worried about your little chaperone scam?’
‘Not at all. And it’s not a scam – I’ve got to make sure you’re handed over to the right person.’
‘Yeah, right. Well, just to besuper clearin case of any misunderstanding later. I will disown you immediately if it kicks off, so don’t rely on me to back you up.’
‘Charming.’ Phoebe flicked her fringe out of her eyes and bit into her cream horn. ‘I spend every waking hour of my life backing you up.’ Her phone started vibrating again and she snatched it up as my breakfast arrived, the waiter proudly holding the plate aloft then whipping away the cloche to reveal eggs royale on buttery muffins, toasted to perfection. It was so theatrical, I almost clapped. If only I didn’t have to listen to Phoebe wittering on while I ate.
Tony would never have sat opposite me on his phone. He’d have been chatting away, fascinated by the art, and no doubt asking the waiter who had painted what, and which pieces were originals. He’d want to capture the beauty of the hotel, the city, the views, the breakfast – all the while telling me how different it was from LA. I snapped out of my daydream as Phoebe finished her call and the waiter came back with my cream cake.
‘I’m switching my phone OFF,’ Phoebe said, disgruntled. ‘That’s two calls already and it’s not even 9 a.m.’
