paused. ‘Listen, I’m not one for gossip and I hate to be indiscreet, but he is bad news. I’m surprised TG cast him. He’s seriously fucked up,’ she said as she checked the text message that rang through on her cell phone.
‘Now you have to tell me,’ said Calypso, her eyes widening. Sapphira shook her head. ‘Come on, just give me something so I know what I’m up against.’
Sapphira put down her phone and thought for a moment. ‘Just watch him, okay? Don’t get caught up in the charm. He’s a snake.’
Calypso heeded Sapphira’s warning and was careful around Raphael. Whatever Sapphira had intimated was enough for Calypso to be aloof on set and keep him at arm’s length, which was no easy feat. He flirted constantly with her. She tried to be pleasant but he was wearing and trying her patience.
The chemistry between them was not evident on the shoot and TG was at a loss to understand why Calypso was being almost rude to Raphael, who seemed to be trying hard to win her over. This shoot was harder than he had thought. Shooting on location, they were at the mercy of the weather, the planes flying overhead and the ants that crawled up the actors’ legs and bit them.
That morning on set, Calypso was constantly slapping her legs, as the ants seemed immune to insect repellant. In fact, she thought they preferred it.
TG walked over to her. ‘Calypso, you have to stop slapping your legs. All I can see is red hand marks up and down your thighs. It looks like you’ve been beaten up.’
‘I can’t help it, it’s these fucking ants,’ she said, slapping her leg again.
‘Okay, let me deal with it.’ He called out to the second assistant director. ‘Can you find the fucking ants’ nest and pour coffee down it, please? Do something about the ants!’
The assistant director, who was Italian, laughed outrageously. ‘You not get rid of the ants, TG. Impossible.’ He kept laughing like TG had just told the funniest joke in the world.
TG stomped back to his chair. Calypso tried in vain not to slap her leg. Standing with a grimace, TG looked up, and walked back over to her. He looked at her legs, reached down and flicked the soft white skin inside her thigh. ‘Ow!’ she yelled.
‘Maybe you should flick them off instead of slapping, okay?’
‘Jesus, ow, okay, that hurt,’ she said, rubbing her leg.
‘Sorry,’ said TG, not really meaning it. He didn’t know why he was angry with Calypso. Because she largely ignored him, was rude to Raphael. Always running off set as soon as filming started to be with that Italian he had seen on set occasionally.
He walked back to his chair again. He could still feel her soft skin on his fingertips.
Calypso stood confused. Was he physically abusing her now? What an asshole, she thought.
The day’s shoot was tense, to say the least, and Calypso was happy when it was finished. As she walked over to her car, Raphael ran up to her. ‘Tonight I come to town, you show me a good time.’
‘Ah no, I have plans,’ said Calypso wearily. She wished he would return to his villa or Rome, whichever was easier.
‘What are your plans? I can come,’ he said as though his presence was a gift.
Inwardly Calypso groaned. The last thing she needed was this guy sharing her car and trying to hit on her all the way back to the hotel. ‘Umm … I’m seeing my boyfriend.’ she started.
‘You have a boyfriend? Ah, I want to meet the man who vies for my love,’ he said dramatically, jumping in the front next to the driver.
Calypso got in the back, relieved she wouldn’t have his roaming hands all over her. Surprisingly, he didn’t speak to her at all on the way back, talking in rapid-fire Italian to her driver, and her driver talking just as fast back and gesticulating wildly. Calypso prayed he would keep his hands on the wheel and get her back to Marco alive.
Calypso’s relationship with Marco was all the talk of the set. He visited her and brought her flowers, much to TG’s chagrin, hanging about and talking to the Italian crew. He and Calypso went out with his friends almost every night and even spent time with his parents on their farm, looking for white truffles in the woods, with no success. What had been successful was the sex they had on the floor of the woods, with Calypso never having felt as free before in the open air, abandoning herself to Marco and the nature all around her. None of the boys back home had been so passionate and intense as him. He was insatiable; he wanted her constantly and made her feel incredible.
After he’d asked her so many questions about America one night as they lay in her hotel bed, she suggested he move there to find out for himself what America was like.
‘No, no,’ he said as he kissed the tip of her nose. ‘I will never leave Italy. This is my home. Perhaps I will visit.’
Inside Calypso was disappointed; she knew he wouldn’t want to move there. But in her fantasy, she imagined him being a hotshot LA lawyer, her being a successful actress and presenting the Best Foreign Film nominations at the Oscars and being able to say the Italian nomination flawlessly.
Listening to the hysterical laughter of her co-star and the driver, she wondered what they were laughing so hard at. What could be that funny?
The car pulled up in front of the hotel and the doorman opened the door for Calypso. She saw Marco waiting for her, leaning against the front wall. ‘Ciao, bella,’ he said sexily. Calypso felt her insides melting, perhaps she loved him, she thought.
The doorman opened up the front passenger door and Raphael jumped out. Seeing Raphael, Marco was instantly star-stuck. Rushing over and shaking his hand and talking in Italian, he gesticulated and pointed to Calypso.
‘I didn’t know that Raphael Perini was in this movie. He is my favourite actor. I love him,’ he said earnestly to her.
Calypso smiled thinly. Perhaps if he knew what an utter dick Raphael was, then he wouldn’t be so in love, she thought.
Raphael, always ready to greet a fan, grabbed Calypso around the shoulders. ‘It is decided then, we shall break bread together tonight.’
Calypso frowned. She wanted Marco all to herself, not to share him with this self-lover of the highest order.
That night they all ate together at a local bar. Every ten minutes someone came to the table to say hello or get an autograph from Raphael. He was like a god and the Italians were his worshippers. Marco and Raphael spoke Italian most of the night and occasionally interpreted for Calypso, when they remembered she was there.
Towards the end of the dinner, Marco pulled out his phone, rang two numbers and spoke fast down the phone. Calypso looked at him, questioning him with her eyes. ‘I’ve rung some friends. They will come and meet us and then we will drink, si?’
‘Not for me. I’ve gotta shoot tomorrow and we have to be on set at 6.30 am,’ she said, looking at Raphael.
‘Si si, but one drink. Come on, bella.’
She looked at Marco. He was not paying any attention to her, just looking at Raphael in adoration. Calypso sighed. ‘Well, I’m going back to the hotel. Good night.’
