Once Is Not Enough Read Free Page A

shook his head. “When an Italian has charm, forget it.” They walked arm in arm. Thestudio was empty and she felt as if all of her unspoken prayers had been answered. This was the moment she had longed for, the moment she had dreamed about. Walking beside him . . . being a part of his life . . . his work . . . sharing his problems.
    Suddenly he said, “By the way, I’ve lined up a bit for you in the picture. Just a few lines—hey.” He tried to pull away from her embrace. “You’re strangling me!”
    Later, as they inched through the unbelievable traffic, he told her about his troubles with the picture. Melba’s anxiety with her English . . . her antipathy toward Mitch Nelson . . . the language barrier he had with some of the crew. But most of all he groaned about the traffic. And she sat and listened and kept telling herself it wasn’t a dream . . . she was really here . . . this wasn’t just a Saturday . . . there would be no limousine to take her away from him tomorrow . . . she’d be with him like this every day . . . and she didn’t care if the traffic took forever . . . she was with him in Rome . . . just the two of them!
    When they finally reached the hotel another slim attractive young man was waiting in the lobby with several large boxes. January wondered how all the men stayed so thin. Didn’t Italians eat their own food?
    “This is Bruno,” Mike said, as the grinning young man followed them to their suite. “I figured you might not have enough clothes, so I sent him out a few days ago. He shops for a lot of the V.I.P.’s. Take whatever you want, any or all of it. I’m going to shower, make some calls to the States—that is, if I can break through the language barrier with the operators here. Sometimes we never get past Pronto.” He kissed her cheek. “See you at nine.”
    He was waiting for her when she walked into the living room at nine o’clock. He let out a low whistle. “Babe, you’re built like a brick—” He stopped suddenly and smiled. “Well . . . let’s say you’re better than any top fashion model.”
    “Meaning I really haven’t got enough on top.” She laughed. “That’s why I adore this Pucci. It clings and makes me look—”
    “Fantastic,” he said.
    “I took this and a skirt, some shirts and a pants suit.”
    “That’s all?” Then he shrugged. “Maybe you’ll have more fun finding all those hidden little shops the dames all talk about. I’ll have Melba tell you where to look.”
    “Daddy, I’m not here for a fashion collection. I want to watch you make the film.”
    “Are you kidding? Jesus, babe . . . you’re seventeen. You’re in Rome! You don’t want to stick around on a hot movie set.”
    “That’s exactly what I want to do. I also want that bit part you promised me.”
    He laughed. “Maybe you will be an actress at that. At least you’re beginning to sound like one. Come on. Let’s get going. I’m starving.”
    They went to a restaurant in the old ghetto section of Rome. January adored the old buildings . . . the quiet streets. They went to a place called Angelino’s. Dinner was served by candlelight in a Renaissance piazza. There were even strolling musicians. The entire evening took on a feeling of beautiful unreality. She sat back and watched Mike pour her some wine. She realized that another of her favorite fantasies was actually unfolding . . . she was alone with Mike in a storybook setting . . . he was pouring the wine . . . women were looking at him with admiration but he belonged to her. No phones could take him away, no long black limousines could take her away. She watched him light his cigarette. The waiter was just pouring their espresso when Franco and Melba came into the restaurant. Mike waved them over to the table and ordered another bottle of wine. Melba began talking about one of her scenes in the picture. When her English failed, which was often, she got her point across with gestures. Franco laughed and turned to