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  Funny, really, how she had words to write for her characters and words for artists dead for hundreds of years but no words for herself. She blushed at how tongue-tied she’d been with Frederick Ashton. Her shyness—self-consciousness really—embarrassed her.

  Camilla believed that for some reason her fate was to always be an outsider. She had felt different—had been different—from the rest of her family. Then, as a scholarship student from a working-class background, she’d been singular, distinct from the other girls at the convent school. Afterward, at college in America, she had felt unlike the Americans—who seemed somehow younger and more carefree than she. Now, living in Italy, although she’d made a few Italian friends and had certainly been passionate about her Italian lover, Gianfranco, she knew that, once again, she was different, an outsider. They all had the strong ties of family, of homes they had lived in for generations, of allegiances to the city in which they were born. Being an outsider had made her self-conscious and had helped her to write. In a way, it cleared her vision. But it certainly didn’t make for a warm and pleasant personal life.

  Despite living alone she could never be totally lonely if she had a good book. Books spoke to her, more directly, more deeply, than most people did. Her greatest pleasure had been reading, and now she found that she could write as well. Not well, not really well, not as well as Beryl Bainbridge or Kay Gibbons or Anita Brookner, but well enough to entertain herself—and maybe others.

  The secret she had discovered, known to all other writers, was that when she wrote she wasn’t lonely. It did more than just fill her mind and empty pages. It also seemed to be a communion, a communion between her feeling self and her observing self, a communion with her future reader—if there ever would be one.

  Now, thinking of the publishing business, she realized that once again she was an outsider. How in the world would she manage to break into that elite group? Who in London did she know? Camilla was good at slogging and perseverance, but she was simply useless at putting herself forward, at pushing herself on anyone. What would she do now that she had finished her little book? In some secret part of her heart, she had written it hoping that it was a way out. Because she knew she had hit a dead end, here in sunny Italy. But what if the book was simply another dead end?

  At noon she put the Forster away along with her dark thoughts and energetically walked out of the town and down to the plain below. She’d wanted both to escape her anxiety and to admire San Gimignano’s unique skyline—its crazy towers, so odd against the Tuscany backdrop. She ate a sandwich she’d brought with her, but it was unseasonably hot and she was thirsty. After picking a handful of irresistibly red poppies, she walked back up to the hill town and found a taverna in which to sit and drink white wine. She had to keep away that question, that feeling of fear that accompanied the thought “Now what?”

  She didn’t want to eat much because of the dinner that evening, but she also didn’t want to get tipsy. After a second glass of wine, Camilla made her way back to the hotel, where she bathed and then, in the luxurious thoughtlessness of the wine’s embrace, slept through the rest of the afternoon. She awoke at a little after six and stretched, idly watching the light reflected on the ceiling. Then her mind turned to the immediate problem of what to wear.

  Last night when Frederick Ashton had suggested dinner he said that they could “dress up a bit” to celebrate. But in fact, she had been wearing her best clothes yesterday evening.

  She dressed in the other skirt she had with her and looked at herself in the glass. She smiled ruefully. You could take the girl out of the convent, but you couldn’t take the convent out of the girl. Mrs. Clapfish had sent Camilla to Sacred Heart rather than the local school simply because Lady Ann Beveridge had kindly arranged it. Once or twice, when Mrs. Clapfish had been called to the Beveridge home in an emergency, she had been forced to bring little Camilla, who was told “to sit very still and not touch nothing.” This Camilla did. She had been awed and enchanted by the proportions of those fine Georgian rooms. She loved the light that poured in and the sheen of the furniture. And Lady Ann noticed.

  “She seems a bright child, if a bit quiet,” Lady Ann had said. “It would be a pity to have her bullied by the children from the council houses at school.” The fact that Camilla was bullied by those same children at home—after all, they lived in council housing—seemed not to have occurred to Lady Ann. But she had sent a note to Sister Agnus, which was enough for Camilla to have been brought for an interview to the convent. From her first walk down the long stone entrance hallway, the convent had changed her life, and Camilla would always be grateful. Even at six years of age she had responded to the hush, to the light, and to the compelling beauty of the stone. The convent school, in all its peace, austerity, and magnificent organization, had given her something important.

  But it had also separated her forever from the rest of her family. Because, although she was only a day girl and went home to chez Clapfish every night, once she had seen another way of being, she took to it. The uniform allowed her to gratefully lose herself among the other, wealthier, more confident students. And, if she applied herself, the nuns gave constant, if cool, approval, a commodity as lacking at home as order.

  Of course she had been a bit of a joke, a curiosity. To start with, there was the name. Working-class girls in Birmingham were named Tracey or Sharon, not Hermoine or Jemima or Camilla. Truth was, her mother had named her Camilla after one of Lady Ann’s dogs. The name was so clearly upper-class that its appearance in her humble family made it laughable. How many times had she seen a new sister eyeing the class register and raising her eyebrows as she came to what Sister Agnus had dryly called “the girl with the highly unlikely name of Camilla Clapfish.” Because of her background and patronage, she was expected to do well but not too well. On Visitor’s Day, when Camilla had won a prize, Lady Ann—an old girl—had raised her brows and told her she’d done very well “for a Clapfish out of water.” Everyone who heard her had laughed. Camilla had just shrugged and supposed she had.

  Now, gazing at her reflection in the mirror, she realized she looked the perfect postulant. Well, it would have to do. She left the hotel at exactly half-past seven, her hair still slightly damp. It took her only a few moments to get to the square, but once there, she was dismayed not to see Frederick anywhere about. She would have to sit down, and that would wrinkle her skirt. Of course, she would have to do that at the restaurant, but by then he would have already seen her at her best, such as it was.

  Dismayed, she lingered beside the well for a few self-conscious moments. How long could a girl stand beside a stone well and look interested? A thought chilled her. What if Frederick didn’t come? What if his mother had refused? A proper Gorgon, she was. What, Camilla asked herself, if she had wasted the whole day in silly anticipation of an evening that wasn’t even going to happen? And she didn’t have the dosh for a restaurant dinner. A blush heated her face. It was at that exact moment that Frederick tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Do you need some money?”

  She looked at him, startled. She knew Americans were much franker than the British, but it took her a moment to realize that he wasn’t reading her mind, nor was he quite as daft as to be inquiring into her bleak financial situation. He was only asking if she needed a coin to throw into the well! Wordlessly, she shook her head. Still, he handed her a coin.

  “Well. Squander your lira,” he suggested. “Make a wish.”

  Camilla looked into the well. I want my book published, she thought and dropped the coin. And maybe, someday, to own a great painting. “Well done,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

  She nodded and realized she hadn’t yet spoken a word. She was a wordless writer. “Yes,” she said, “Yes. I’m famished.”

  “Great. I’m just the guy who knows just the place where they’ll serve just the meal you need.” And with that, he gently took her arm and led her across the square.

  Perhaps his mother wasn’t goin
g to join them. Camilla was glad, but while she would enjoy dinner more if she were alone with Frederick, she would also have to be more on her guard. After all, he was a stranger, and an American, and he had said that his mother would join them. He might just be on the make.

  But as they stepped inside the main room of the restaurant Camilla saw Mrs. Ashton, already ensconced at the best table, at the end of the room in the corner. It had a window view in two directions, facing out across the darkening plain below. Mrs. Ashton seemed to be deeply engrossed. Seeing her, Camilla didn’t know whether she was relieved, disappointed, or both, but before she could make up her mind Frederick had escorted her across the room. He seated her beside his mother so that she, too, had the benefit of the exquisite view. Frederick seated himself opposite. “I almost hate to do it,” he said. “To sit here, I mean. I hate to block the scenery.”

  “Why don’t you sit here?” Camilla offered. “It is quite the best spot.” For a moment, Camilla thought again of Forsters tourist’s and the fuss over the room with a view.

  “I disagree. I’m the one with the view of two beautiful women.” It was corny, but Camilla felt herself color again.

  Mrs. Ashton snorted. “I think your arithmetic is faulty. Or else it’s your grammar. No need for plurals. There is only one beauty at this table.”

  Camilla, embarrassed, knew she should thank both of them for the compliment, but it was hard to look directly at Frederick, while Mrs. Ashton had been so very cool in her correction that she almost made the compliment seem a by-product. Or an insult. Certainly it wasn’t true. Camilla knew she was not unpleasant-looking. Her skin was clear, her features regular, and her hair—a light brown with a coppery undertone—was nice enough. But nice was not beautiful. Camilla decided to sidestep the comment all together. “Have you eaten here before?” she asked.

  “Every time we come to San Gimignano,” Mrs. Ashton told her. “Frederick is fond of the gnocchi.” She sighed and shifted her weight. “He can eat whatever he wants without gaining an ounce. It’s really aggravating.”

  A waiter approached just then and asked what they wanted to drink. Camilla asked for a Martini, while the Ashtons ordered a large mineral water, congas. When the drinks were brought, moments later, Mrs. Ashton looked over at Camilla’s innocent glass of red liquid.

  “But that isn’t a martini,” she said.

  Frederick smiled. “It isn’t gin, Mother. Martini is the brand name for sweet vermouth.”

  Mrs. Ashton regarded Camilla’s glass. “Ah, vermouth,” she said in a voice full of approval.

  Frederick beamed at the two of them. “I told you she thought it was an American martini you ordered yesterday,” he explained. “My father was a gin drinker. They make mean drunks.”

  Camilla blinked. Would she ever get accustomed to American candor? Shyly, she tried to suss out Mrs. Ashton. But the woman seemed unflustered by the remark. She did, however, notice Camilla’s eye upon her.

  “I’m used to Frederick,” she explained to Camilla and calmly picked up her menu.

  With Frederick’s help, Camilla ordered what turned out to be a splendid meal. She ate the roasted peppers, the gnocchi, and the wonderful snapper with pleasure. They talked about San Gimignano, the odd architectural war between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, and church frescoes. Mrs. Ashton commented occasionally, but the conversation was mostly between Camilla and Frederick.

  “So, where are you from?” Frederick asked.

  “Hard to say,” Camilla said, smiling. “I grew up in Birmingham. In England. Not very romantic, I’m afraid. And then I went to school in the States and studied art history, and now I’m here being a tour guide. Where are you from?”

  “Well, I usually say New York, but that’s a lie. Actually, I grew up in Westchester County. Mother still has a house in Larchmont. Very suburban.”

  “There’s nothing shameful about being from Larchmont,” Mrs. Ashton said.

  “No. As long as you don’t stay there after you grow up. My sister and I both moved to the city,” he explained, “though I’ve been living back in Larchmont the last few months.”

  He sounded apologetic. Camilla knew that a lot of young people had moved home. What had they called that in the States? “Returning to the nest” or something? For Camilla, it was an impossibility. Anything would be better than the council house in Birmingham.

  She tried not to judge Frederick harshly. Still, she had to wonder at a man in his thirties who lived at home and traveled with his mother. She wondered if he was a homosexual. But if so, why would he feign an interest in her? Perhaps it was simply to divert his mother. Camilla looked down at her plate and decided it was best to keep her attention on her dinner.

  “Who is your favorite Italian painter?” Mrs. Ashton ventured.

  “Canaletto,” Camilla told her without hesitation. This was comfortable ground.

  “Canaletto?” Frederick asked. “God. I never would have thought it. He’s so fixed. So mathematical.”

  “That’s part of what I like,” Camilla replied. “He combines the fairy tale of Venice with the control of an architect.”

  “It’s very British of you,” Mrs. Ashton said approvingly. “Didn’t Joseph Smith send Canalettos by the boatload to London?”

  Camilla nodded, impressed with the old woman’s knowledge. But Frederick was clearly not in agreement with her choice. “When it comes to Venice,” he said, “I prefer Guardi. He does backwaters and different lights. It’s not always midday on the Grand Canal.”

  “I suppose I like midday on the Grand Canal,” Camilla said primly. She felt like adding that she’d spent enough of her time in backwaters, but she restrained herself.

  “So, tell us about your book,” Frederick proposed. Camilla’s mouth was full of the potato pasta, and she nearly choked as she swallowed. “What is it about?” Frederick prompted. Camilla thought for a moment but didn’t come up with an answer.

  “It’s hard to say, really.” She paused. The pause grew too long. “I mean, it’s a group of American women on tour in Italy, but that’s not what it’s about, if you know what I mean.” God, she sounded awkward and daft.

  “Is there a plot?” Mrs. Ashton asked.

  “Not much,” Camilla admitted. “They come to Firenze and they tour by coach and then they go home.”

  “Send it to Emma,” Mrs. Ashton sniffed. “She always thinks highly of books without plots. Now, I prefer a story. Daphne du Maurier. But you ought to send it to Emma.”

  Camilla looked from Mrs. Ashton to Frederick. What had she missed? “My sister,” he explained. “She works in New York for a publisher. Are you determined to publish first in London? Have you already promised it to someone?”

  Camilla very nearly laughed. As if the whole publishing world were waiting breathlessly for her manuscript! “No,” she said demurely, “I haven’t promised it to anyone at all.”

  “Well,” Frederick said, “we’ll have to talk about this.” Camilla took another sip of wine. Was this happening? Or was this just the empty talk of strangers? She could hardly believe her luck. She told herself not to get too hopeful. She’d just wait and see. Yet her head felt light, as if she’d already had too much wine.

  Somehow, hazy as it all felt, they began to talk about their favorite cathedrals, and Frederick listened as Camilla chin-wagged about Assisi and Giotto’s frescoes. At last, realizing what she was doing, she stopped. She must be drunk, she realized. She’d dominated the conversation. The three of them sat for a moment in the silence.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I seem to have run on and on.” She looked down at her empty plate, abashed.

  Frederick ignored her apology. “You have a lovely voice,” he said. “Would you show me the church at Assisi sometime? I’ve been, but I always focused on the structure more than the decor.” He paused. “Would you come with me to Assisi?”

  “At the risk of interrupting where I’m not wanted, Frederick, I must ask if you think that’s wise?” h
is mother said.

  Camilla blushed again and looked from Frederick’s enthusiastic face to his mother’s cool one. She shrugged. “I have to go back to Firenze tomorrow anyway,” she said. “I have a tour group to meet.”

  “Just as well,” Mrs. Ashton said calmly.

  “Well, when would you be free?” he asked, ignoring his mother.

  “Frederick, leave the girl alone,” Mrs. Ashton said. “She doesn’t want to go to Assisi with you.”

  “Oh, no!” Camilla blurted out, surprising herself. “That’s not true. I mean, yes, I would like to go.” She surprised herself even more because she meant it. “But I simply can’t. I mean, not now. Not this week, anyway.” She thought of Gianfranco, back in Firenze. He was what the French called a cinq-à-sept, a five-to-seven kind of lover because, she had only recently realized, he regarded her as a mistress, not a potential wife.

  “Some other week?” Frederick asked. “Next week?”

  “Well, I will be flying home at the end of next week,” Mrs. Ashton said. “It appears that I can’t go to Assisi.”

  Frederick looked across the table at Camilla and smiled. “But that doesn’t mean that we can’t, does it?” he asked.

  8

  I write for women who read me in the goddam subways on the way home from work. I know who they are, because that’s who I used to be. They want to press their noses against the windows of other people’s houses and get a look at the parties they’ll never be invited to, the dresses they’ll never get to wear, the lives they’ll never live, the guys they’ll never fuck.

  —Jackie Susann

  A technician was winding a cable across the beige rug of the living room. “Susann Baker Edmonds Interview,” read the clapper board, waiting among the other flotsam and jetsam of television recording for the camera to begin taping. Susann herself, beautifully dressed in a Carolina Herrera suit, stood quietly as the makeup artist dusted her with one more layer of glare-reducing powder. After more than a dozen years of these interviews, she still got nervous, but she had taught herself to breathe deeply and calmly and to empty her mind of everything. Susann and Alf had worked hard at creating a seamless image of herself—an image of a woman that every one of her readers might want to be. She knew that they didn’t only love her books—they loved her story. Her own story. Because if she could rise from the misery of her legal-secretary job in Cincinnati to the dizzying heights of international living at its best, so could they.