The Perfect Location

Copyright

AVON

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Kate Forster 2012

Kate Forster asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2012 ISBN: 9780007452491

Version: 2014-07-23

Dedication

For Nicole whose ‘deliberately vague’ directions steered me here.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One: Pre-Production

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Part Two: Production

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Part Three: Post-Production

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Epilogue

Deleted Scenes

Read on for an exclusive interview with Kate Forster and a guide to the Perfect Locations in Italy.

In Conversation with Kate Forster

About the Author

About the Publisher

There is not a writer who is published who doesn’t owe somebody something at some point in their career. Writing books is collaborative, even though a few writers’ egos might argue otherwise.

Without the following people in my life, who knows where I would be and what I would be doing. I want to say thank you to them, it’s not nearly enough but it’s a start. Yes, I could drop them a bottle of wine and a thank you card but I would prefer to see their names in print for posterity and all that jazz. They put up with me; they deserve something more concrete than a Pinot Grigio and a scrawled note. Trust me, I can be hard work.

*Warning: gushing ahead. Look away if it offends.

To my mother Joan who never censored the books in our house and who has champagne taste and a song for everything.

To Emma and Fiona for being the first readers of everything I write. Thank you for telling me to keep writing. I am here now, because of you both. You are my ideal readers and ideal best girlfriends.

To my agent Tara Wynne at Curtis Brown for taking the call, seeing something in the first draft and taking me on, typos and all. Tara, you are a tigress, a patient teacher and always, extremely fabulous. I am blessed to have you in my corner.

To Domonique for her cheerleading across the pond and never-ending belief in me.

To Claire Bord and Sammia Rafique, thank you for your support, collaboration and sound advice. It has been a dream to work with you both and I am very thankful you took me on.

To Tansy for keeping me up to date with everything and telling me when something is really ‘lame’.

To Spike for having such faith in everything I do and not complaining (much) when dinner doesn’t always arrive on time.

And to David for understanding I didn’t have a choice and wanting me to be happy more than anything else.

CHAPTER ONE

Rose Nightingale walked into LAX, hiding behind large Dior sunglasses and ignoring the photographers that lurked at the international terminal, waiting for celebrities to come and go. They took their chance to harangue them, usually when they were holding travel-weary children and pushing a trolley full of luggage. It didn’t matter how fabulous you were, travel was travel and it was a bore.

As Rose approached the United Lounge, she was greeted by a flight attendant who ushered her inside a door to the sanctity of the private space.

‘Hello, Ms Nightingale. May I have your passport, please?’

Rose handed it over with a smile.

‘Can I offer you champagne and a light snack?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Rose as the attendant led her towards a private seating area.

Rose’s phone rang and she answered it as she sat down in a corner of the lounge, ignoring the flickers of recognition from other travellers.

‘Slapper,’ said Rose, seeing Kelly’s name appear on her phone.

‘Tosser, you all ready for Italia?’ Kelly’s thick Northern accent came down the line and Rose smiled at the sound of her oldest friend’s voice.

‘All sorted, babe. You and Chris there already?’

‘Yeah, we got here two days ago. Shit, it’s gorgeous, Rosie. You’re gonna flip when you see your villa, I checked it out yesterday, although the housekeeper is like something out of central casting. “Super Nonna”, I call her.’

Rose laughed. Kelly always had a way with words that summed up a person or a situation perfectly.

Rose and Kelly were from different parts of England, both geographically and economically but these differences were never remarked upon or noticed even by each other. The only acknowledgements they made to their upbringings were their nicknames referencing people’s perceptions of them, Rose being an upper class girl and Kelly being from Yorkshire.

Rose was the daughter of a successful novelist and a television writer. Her intellectual father had been nominated for the Pulitzer twice and her mother created and wrote a popular crime series for television. Rose moved amongst the society crowd at her private day school and her brief relationship with a minor European royal gave her enough social currency to be named the most eligible girl in England by Tatler magazine. Appearing on the cover in a dress handmade by Lacroix himself from fresh rose petals, the headline read ‘A Rose by any Other Name’. Rose could have then married well and faded away from fame with an occasional photo in the social pages of Jennifer’s Diary.

But Rose was no wallflower or country wife and she decided on a more precarious road, successfully auditioning for acting school in London. She worked hard at the school to be more than just the beautiful girl, but never overcame the stigma of being close to perfect.

It was the other women on her course who were the worst in their treatment of Rose. Deliberately excluding her from parties and events and even at one point calling a group meeting with her where they each told her what they disliked about her in a round circle as a way of ‘helping her fit in more’. Rose despaired, her self-esteem was gone, her confidence shot, and she hated herself and the way she looked.

It was Kelly who saved Rose from losing her mind. Students from The London School of Make-up Artistry were to create the make-up for the third year students’ production of William Congreve’s Love for Love. Rose had the lead role and Kelly, the best student in the course, was given Rose as her subject.

The heavy Restoration make-up required for the play meant Rose was in the chair earlier than the other actors. Even though Kelly liked to call herself psychic, it didn’t take much to realize that Rose was ostracized from the rest of the cast. Kelly thought Rose seemed pleasant enough, if not a little quiet.

As the play’s short run went on, Kelly realized that Rose was on the outside of the circle, deliberately punished for her beauty and her background. A shared joint at the cast party between Rose and Kelly bonded them. Kelly made an effort to include Rose in her group of interesting and creative friends from the make-up school and Rose was grateful for the company. Kelly’s friends were without the affectations of her school friends and without the competitiveness of her acting school peers. They celebrated Rose’s beauty and encouraged her to try new looks and styles with her face and even her clothes.

Kelly’s belief in new age philosophies was at odds at her country upbringing and it was something that Rose was interested in. She wasn’t sure she believed in it, but was always surprised at Kelly’s ability to intuit what another person was feeling.

‘You are a rose in a field of onion grass,’ Kelly said to her best friend after she graduated. ‘You need to go to America where they will appreciate you more.’

Rose ended up taking the US by storm and when it was Rose’s turn to help Kelly after she had made her mark in Hollywood she did it without a moment’s doubt. Rose got Kelly a job as an extra’s make-up artist on her next film, and soon Kelly was on her way to becoming the most sought after make-up artist in Hollywood.

Bringing her thoughts back to the present, Rose tuned in to Kelly’s voice on the other end of the phone.

‘Hey, are Wendy and Bruce coming over to stay?’ asked Kelly.

‘I don’t know. They’re being weird about it. I think Mum thinks it all a bit much, you know, Italy and flights for her and Dad. I asked Martin and Fiona and the kids too. I just think it would be nice to spend some time together. It’s not like I’m heading back to London anytime soon.’

‘I’m going back for Christmas,’ said Kelly.

‘Really?’ said Rose, not noticing the surprised faces looking at her.

‘I want to show him Skipton.’

‘Well, that should take half a day, what else will you do while you’re back in your old stomping ground?’ Rose teased.

‘Piss off, big city girl,’ laughed Kelly. ‘We’re going to visit my family and then head to London for a few days, you should come back with us,’ Kelly asked impulsively, although she already knew the answer.

Rose smiled thinking of her and Kelly in London. Drinking, dancing, more drinking. God, they had had so much fun until Rose moved to Hollywood.

‘I don’t think so, the English paps are relentless.’ Rose claimed it was too much hassle on her family to come back to London with the constant media intrusion. The truth was that Rose had only been back a handful of times in fifteen years and only then for fleeting visits, staying in a suite at The Dorchester.

Shooting The Italian Dream would give her the perfect opportunity to bring the Nightingales together in Italy on her own terms. When her agent was negotiating the deal, she had a number of villas to choose from. Rose chose the one with the most bedrooms on offer for her family and their brood.

Lauren, her trusted assistant, had organized a myriad of inflatable toys to be FedExed over, so Rose’s nieces and nephews could play in the infinity pool looking over the endless hills of Umbria. She had also sent board games, dolls and books and had a Wii installed in the den, with a large flat screen TV and a huge selection of DVDs.

‘No, I can’t come back to London, I’m booked up till the middle of next year, so that’s why I wanted them to come to see me,’ said Rose. ‘Hey, I’m really looking forward to working with TG,’ she said, in an effort to change the subject quickly.

‘TG’s really excited to work with you too, he told Chris,’ said Kelly.

‘He’s a great guy, I’m surprised we’ve never worked together till now,’ said Rose.

‘TG’, as everyone in the industry called him, was Tim Galvin, the hottest young gun director in Hollywood. A teenage skateboarding world champion who became an NYC film graduate, he made his mark directing videos for some of the LA garage band scene. He shot his films quickly, used quick edits and loud soundtracks, he possessed a rare gift: he could create a happy film set. His best friend and Director of Photography was Chris Berman, Kelly’s husband.

‘He’s a good egg,’ said Kelly, ‘although he’s been around a lot since he and Lisa broke up. He’s a bit mopey, I need to find him a root.’

‘She was a piece of work,’ said Rose, mentioning TG’s ambitious actress girlfriend. ‘He’s better off without her. I only met her at your place but she was scary, like a reptile. He seemed sad at the audition, more low-key than usual although maybe he was nervous.’

‘Probably. I think he was amazed you agreed to audition but he said the studio wanted to see all the women.’

‘Oh God, I don’t mind auditioning,’ laughed Rose. ‘Puts me back in my box, reminds me that the fame is fleeting.’

‘’Tis true, ’tis true,’ said Kelly. ‘So, call me when you arrive, yeah? I miss you like crazy, Tosser.’

‘Love you too, Slapper. Call me every five minutes,’ said Rose, giggling at the use of their old names for each other.

Rose settled down in the chair and opened her script. She already knew her lines but she always liked to do as much work as possible. As she read the scenes between her and her on-screen lover, she wondered who it would be. Her agent Randy said that the role wasn’t cast yet but she was so keen to be a part of the film, she signed on without knowing who would take the role opposite her. For a brief moment she panicked it might be Paul but then she dismissed it with a silent laugh. There was no way the universe or TG would be cruel enough to cast her ex-husband, she thought.

Rose stared out the window, watching the planes take off and land. The LA smog was settling in over the city and she hoped it would not affect the flight. She despised lateness and lived by a rigid schedule. Organization gave her a sense of control.

A text message came through on her iPhone from her equally organized assistant, Lauren: Car service will pick you up on arrival and drive you to the villa. If you get stuck then call Guilia, TG’s assistant. I have keyed number into your phone.

Rose already had this information printed out neatly on her letterhead, tucked away safely in her iris calf leather Smythson travel wallet. But she appreciated Lauren’s attention to detail and concern.

Rose poached Lauren from the director, Jerry Hyman, who Rose was shooting a film with after her divorce from Paul. Daily she had watched him berate Lauren and abuse her in front of the crew. His constant comments about her weight, sexual innuendos and the ridiculous demands that she had to fulfil became painful for everyone to watch. Rose saw Lauren losing her self-esteem, wanting to please the obese tyrant and failing at every turn. Towards the end of shooting, she took her lunch tray over to sit with Lauren who was typing on the computer, with five mobile phones in front of her. Each one was labelled neatly in Dymo labels: Home, Studio, LA, NY, Other.

Rose put her tray aside and sat down. Lauren looked up, surprise registered on her face. ‘Um. Hi,’ she said.

‘Hi, yourself,’ replied Rose sunnily. ‘How are things?’

Lauren looked at the screen, ‘Fine, fine, Jerry’s very busy. I’ve always got something to do.’

Rose looked at the phones. ‘So, let me guess,’ she said as she picked up the phones and laid them out in front of her. ‘Home is the wife and kids. LA is his agent and the studio. NY is his dealer. And Other is his whores. How did I do?’

Lauren looked shocked, and then pulled herself together. ‘No, no, entirely wrong.’ Rose smiled and bit into her apple.

Lauren went back to typing, feeling unnerved by Rose’s correct guesses about Jerry’s many phones. The stars never talked to her. Granted, Rose seemed nicer than most. Just that morning she had raised her eyebrows comically at Lauren when the director went on one of his tirades at Lauren because his latte was too hot.

Looking at Lauren’s eyes twitch and her mouth tighten, Rose wondered what the notorious director had done to her. She knew his reputation; he liked to dominate women in every way. Rose herself was too much of a class act and too outspoken for his tastes. He liked them young, thankful and ambitious.

Rose pondered a little longer then said casually, ‘Anyway, I have a job opening. I really need an assistant. They need to be super organized. I like lists and Apple Macs.’ She stared disdainfully at the PC Lauren was working on. ‘I only have one mobile phone, so that may be a put-off to any potential applicants. I can offer them their own office, a BMW and I promise to never hit them with a phone. I will not make them do ridiculous jobs; I’m capable of buying my own tampons. I need help with schedules, Christmas and birthday lists, help with some of the charities that I work with. And someone to field the media and my agent.’ She smiled at Lauren and walked away. Always leave them wanting more, she thought, as she felt Lauren’s eyes on her.

That evening, after speaking to Lauren on set, Rose found Lauren’s professional CV and cover letter expressing her interest in the job on hotel stationery, slipped under her hotel room door. Rose smiled when she opened the envelope; she knew Lauren was perfect for her.

The boarding call sounded over the loudspeaker and Rose’s mind was brought back to the present. Rose walked to the desk, and handed her passport and boarding pass to the flight attendant. The girl took them with a smile and then passed them back to her. ‘Thank you, Ms Nightingale, your flight to Italy is boarding now.’

Rose placed her passport in her bag and headed towards the plane. Italy, here I come, she thought, excited by the idea of living in a new country, even for a short amount of time.

Rose arrived in Perugia reasonably relaxed, although feeling a little grimy. As predicted by the wonderful Lauren, her car was indeed waiting for her. Surprisingly, there were no paparazzi lurking around and Rose was relieved. I hope this continues, she thought, as she sank into the back seat of the Mercedes.

When she arrived at the villa and got out of the car, the housekeeper stood on the front step, waiting to greet the surrogate grandchildren she assumed were coming from all the toys that had been sent over.

Instead it was just Rose who shook her hand and walked inside the cool foyer. Lucia walked over to the car to check there were no children inside. She shook her head. ‘Bizarro,’ she mumbled as she followed Rose inside.

Rose was tired but not enough to dull the beauty of her new home for the summer. A restored 200-year-old villa, it was surrounded by green lawns and a grove of olive trees to one side. There was a magnificent outdoor terrace, covered in grapevines and wisteria, giving much-needed shade throughout the day. The pool looked out over the hills and the garden was filled with roses, lemon trees and lavenders.

Inside were six bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. Lauren had sent Rose’s luggage by FedEx with all the toys, so Rose didn’t have to wait at the airport. Lucia had hung all her clothes in the solid oak wardrobes, marvelling at the tissue paper and the scented sachets from Maryse à Paris. Her Smythson beauty case had been unpacked and all her toiletries had been placed carefully in the bathroom cupboards. The Egyptian cotton sheets with a 250 thread count had been washed and dried in the Umbrian sun by Lucia and placed on the bed.

‘Signorina, you want something to eat?’ asked Lucia hopefully. She was looking forward to feeding up this skinny girl with her imaginary children.

Rose smiled. ‘No, maybe just a cup of tea and a biscuit. I might have a bath and lie down for a while.’

Lucia wandered off, mumbling in Italian to herself. Rose thought she heard her saying something about ghost children and she reminded herself to listen more to the Italian lessons on her iPod. Ghost children, she thought. My Italian is worse than I thought.

Rose walked into the bathroom. It was astonishing, even by Rose’s Hollywood standards. The floors were covered with beautiful stone tiles in natural colours and the surrounding walls whitewashed. At the end of the room were three steps that led down into a large sunken tub. Above the tub was a leadlight window that opened wide, letting the warm summer breeze float into the room.

At the foot of the tub was a gorgeous gift basket filled with a selection of products from Santa Maria Novella, a 13th century apothecary, once run by Dominican monks with a note from the film’s producers welcoming her and thanking her for taking the role in the film. The handmade basket was overflowing with vanilla bath and shower gels, pomegranate bath salts, lily and rose water, summer candles smelling of the sea and a selection of fragrances including honeysuckle, opoponax, orange blossom, tuberose, and the stunning Angels of Florence perfume – a blend of jasmine, lilac, peach, violet and white musk.

Lying next to the basket of scented items was a tower of towels, all with the Frette crest embroidered on them, an exquisitely folded ivory bathrobe, several quilted spa mitts and a pile of beautifully folded bath sheets in dusk and sandstone.

Tiredness washed over Rose and she sat on the antique armchair in the corner of the room. Lucia knocked at the open door and saw how weary Rose seemed. Clucking in Italian and bustling into the bathroom, she walked over and turned on the water in the bath. Rummaging through the basket of bath and body goodies, Lucia pulled out citrus bath oil and poured a few drops under the running water. She undid the robe and shook out the bath sheets.

‘Come, signorina. Time to bathe, very nice for you, quiet. I bring you your tea, yes?’

Rose nodded her acceptance and was actually grateful for someone taking over while she was in her jet-lagged state.

Lucia felt the temperature of the water. ‘All ready now, signorina.’ She left the bathroom and brought back a tray with a silver teapot with strainer, a bone china cup and saucer, a small matching pitcher of milk and tiny bowl of little sugar cubes, a silver spoon and a selection of Italian biscuits and left Rose alone.

Rose slowly undressed and stepped down into the tub. If this was Italy, then I never want to leave, she thought.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Lucia moaned to her husband, the gardener, about Rose. No children, too skinny, too old, should be married … the list went on of Lucia’s complaints about Rose. It wouldn’t do, said Lucia to herself, deciding then and there she would have to draw Rose’s future to her. All the women in the family had the gift and Lucia knew she had no choice but to magic a man and some children into Rose’s life. Pronto!