The Perfect Location. Kate Forster

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