CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE WAS UNABLE to get hold of Paulo for a couple of days, but when Ella did he was delighted to hear from her.
But trying to arrange an interview proved a little difficult. ‘What about next Sunday?’ Ella peered at the diary, then changed her mind. If they changed the shipping dates, it would be the final day of filming and there would be three hundred extras milling around and the set would be crazy. ‘Let me sort out things this end and then I’ll get back to you.’
‘No problem.’ He was just so funny and nice and keen to work for Santo, and he told Ella that he was happy now to take just one week off between jobs. ‘Even no time off, but don’t tell him that yet—I would love to work for Santo,’ Paulo said. ‘I have heard so many good things.’ He laughed then and so did Ella. ‘Lots of terrible things too—the whole family, really. They’re a PR nightmare. I assume you’ve seen the papers this morning?’
‘You really don’t expect me to discuss that!’ Ella smiled, because there were tales of infidelity and missing grooms and illegitimacies. It was Santo’s mother, Carmela, who was taking up the news today. She was an exceptionally cold woman, one who had been more interested, the newspaper article read, in her designer suits than being a mother to her children. Even if Santo knew that already, he was surely reeling from the news that had just broken of his mother’s most illicit affair.
She turned her attention back to Paulo. They really weren’t gossiping. Ella had asked him questions about his employer, liking the fact that though Paulo chatted away, he told her nothing. ‘There is an awful lot of discretion required for this role.’
‘Of course.’
‘Even with Santo—though you work alongside him, really, you won’t have a clue half the time what is going on. He especially doesn’t discuss his family.’
‘I would never expect a Corretti to,’ Paulo said. ‘I am Sicilian, I know.’
Marianna was nowhere near as accommodating or as pleasant to speak to as Paulo.
Most annoyingly, Marianna insisted on speaking in English. God, the Italians were so good at delivering a snub when they wanted to, but Ella took it nowhere near as well as she did when it was Santo. It was even harder to pin her for an interview time than it had been with Paulo.
‘I’ll arrange transport for you if you can just give me a suitable date.’ Ella did her best to keep her voice even. ‘Santo really would like to get this organised as soon as possible, so if you could let me know when you’re available, I’ll try to sort things out with him.’
‘I’ll arrange my own transport,’ Marianna said. ‘You can reimburse.’ Ella held on to her breath. Really, she felt rather more as if she were the one being interviewed, as if she was Marianna’s assistant. She tried to remember that this was the sort of person best for the job—someone brash and confident, someone who would be able to reschedule a ship at five minutes’ notice and deal with all the drama Santo generated. There was certainly no off-the-record chats with Marianna. In fact, she wanted to speak only with the man himself.
‘I will look in my diary and see when I am available. Perhaps if I speak directly with Santo...’
‘Santo is busy with filming at the moment,’ Ella said. ‘I arrange his diary.’ And she heard the note of possession in her own voice and tried to stifle it. ‘If we can organise a mutual time that would be great, but there are several applicants and Santo is very busy.’
‘I’ll be in touch.’ It was Marianna who rang off.
Still, it was a minor triviality and not one she would worry Santo with, because the filming was going from bad to worse and, as the days progressed and the filming didn’t, his mood darkened. The crew were putting in incredibly long hours but it was seemingly all going backwards. Still, Ella had more on her mind than Santo. It was the day she had been dreading for weeks—her mother’s birthday—and later she needed to ring her.
And say what?
Ella tried not to think about it. Instead she responded to a couple of texts from Santo, who was already on set, and then sorted out some of his overnight correspondence.
The second it was 9:00 a.m., she started on the endless phone calls to sort out the extras and ship, and then it was time to head for the set.
She could feel the tension on set as she approached.
Santo had been right to reschedule the ship scene. There was no way they would have been ready otherwise.
‘Where’s Vince?’ someone called.
‘Sulking in his trailer.’ Santo scowled back.
She looked to where Rafaele was placing all the actors, and then glanced over to Santo. There was a muscle jumping in his cheek as he watched the placement. ‘What the hell is he doing?’
Ella said nothing—it wasn’t her place to—but how she would have loved to get in and change things. Rafaele had Vince walking along the docklands where he would come across Taylor crying and stand watching her for a long moment before making his way over.
It didn’t work.
The characters weren’t supposed to even like each other and it just made Vince look opportunistic, especially when Rafaele asked him to put more purpose in his stride.
‘Yep...’ Santo gritted. ‘March over there, why don’t you...’ He turned his head to Ella. ‘Is Rafaele reading the same script as you and me?’ Ella said nothing, just watched in silence as, yet again, the make-up team were called on to touch up Taylor’s make-up.
‘This is a disaster,’ hissed Santo.
Again Ella said nothing.
But absolutely he was right.
Over and over they watched as Taylor cried on cue, and then, over and over, Rafaele called for her to do it again.
‘It’s too much,’ Santo said, and Ella stayed silent, knowing Santo wasn’t stressing about the pressure on Taylor. It was that there was far too much going on in the scene that was the problem. This particular scene was to be combined with a flashback of her receiving the news that her lover had died. It was supposed to portray the devastated heroine staring out to sea and breaking down as she realised her lover would never return.
‘Action,’ Rafaele called, and Ella watched as again Taylor broke down. Vince was being filmed too, from the rear first, watching her from a distance, then walking across the docklands towards her. It was at the end of this scene their grief and passion would ignite.
‘First her face—’ Santo was incensed ‘—then the beach, then back to her face, and now Vince.’
Santo was right. Vince was just bombarding the scene. Ella could see what was needed, could actually see it before her eyes. Taylor was acting beautifully. It was an Italian shot that was needed—an extreme close-up of her eyes with the ocean reflected in them and then turning as Vince joined her side.
God, she could see it.
‘It’s going to be like watching tennis,’ Santo moaned.
Still Ella said nothing, just watched as a very tense Taylor flounced off. Finally Rafaele told everyone to break for lunch.
‘What do you think?’
An ironic smile twisted her lips, that he had the audacity to ask her.
‘Come on, Ella, say what you’re thinking.’
‘That I need your signature to transfer some funds for the extras....’
‘I meant about this scene.’
‘I’m your PA,’ Ella said. ‘You declined directing advice from me.’
He looked over, his expression somewhat incredulous. ‘Are you still sulking about that?’
‘I’m not sulking.’
‘Absolutely you are.’
‘Do you know what?’ Ella muttered. ‘Not everything goes back to you, Santo.’
‘Of course it does.’ It was the first smile she’d seen on him today, but it faded when he turned and saw her expression. ‘That was a joke,’ he said. ‘So what’s wrong?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does to me.’
Sometimes he could be so nice, just so damned nice, which was why he charmed so many, why he was so brilliant with women, Ella reminded herself.
‘Are you having second thoughts about working for Luigi?’ he asked as he added his signature to the paper she had brought for him to sign.
‘No.’ Which was an outright lie, since Ella had accepted the job she’d had five emails from her soon-to-be-boss, each one a touch more familiar. ‘We need to sort out a time for your interviews with my replacement.’
‘And when you no longer work for me, can we celebrate in bed?’ He watched her eyes close for a second. ‘Get used to it, Ella. If you think I’m a lech, you wait till you start your new job.’
‘I never said you were a lech.’
‘What then?’
‘Let’s just concentrate on work for now. Paulo can’t come till next Sunday.’
‘It will be the final day of filming.’
‘If I can rearrange the ship.’
‘You have to,’ Santo said. ‘We’re getting nowhere.’
‘Okay.’ Ella sighed. ‘I’m doing my best. I’ll arrange for Paulo to come about four. You can do a brief interview in your trailer and then I’ll take him out to dinner, while you lot all party.’ She gave a tight smile, because the parties Santo threw at the end of filming were legendary, though the way this movie was going it might end up being more of a wake.