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office, the flashing computer screens, the surfaces littered with soda cans and crumpled sheets of paper and knew he had no choice.
    He stood up and extended his hand. “It’s a deal.”
    John smiled and shook his son’s hand. “Did you bring Daphne? Your mother would love to see her. Shall we say seven o’clock at the Four Seasons? I’ll book our usual table.”
    *   *   *
    Philip gazed at his father’s martini, wishing he had accepted a cocktail. He leaned forward and rubbed his forehead. “You know I was unfairly fired, I was on my way up.”
    John saw the anguish in his son’s eyes and fiddled with his straw.
    “I’m a fair man; you can pay me twenty-five thousand in August and twenty-five thousand at Christmas.”
    “I don’t have that kind of money.” Philip slumped in his chair.
    John drained his glass and placed it on the napkin. He took a wad of euros out of his pocket and put it on the table.
    “I’ll have Edna book your flight. You can stay at the house until you get settled; your mother redid your room. We’ll have a welcome home dinner at Gramercy Tavern and invite the old crowd.” John stood up and smoothed his slacks. “Your mother ran into Daphne at Barneys, she said she looked wonderful. Did you know she just made associate partner?”
    Philip watched his father cross the thick Oriental rug to the elevator and felt his pulse race. He remembered the last time he saw Daphne when she packed her Krups espresso maker and her Louis Vuitton cosmetics case and her closet of Donna Karan suits and moved to a brownstone on the Upper West Side. He remembered lying on the sofa and gazing at the leak in the ceiling and feeling like he’d been run over by a truck. He remembered long hours of tapping on his computer and running laps around Washington Square.
    Philip reached into his pocket and took out Max’s ten-euro note. He scooped up a handful of macadamia nuts and signaled the bartender.
    “A dry martini please.” He handed him the note. “Straight up, no ice.”

 
    chapter four
    Amelia perused the platters of roast beef and sliced ham and bread rolls. She saw bowls of M&M’S and plates of chocolate chip cookies and baskets of bananas and green apples. She saw cartons of cold cereal and cans of soda and smiled. No matter where one was on location, the food always looked like the contents of a high school cafeteria.
    Amelia grabbed an apple and rubbed it against her sweater. They had been reading through the script all morning and she was hungry and tired. But the jet lag and loneliness had been replaced by a feeling of anticipation and excitement. When she looked in the mirror she saw Princess Ann in her white ball gown and long white gloves and diamond tiara.
    “You were perfect,” a male voice said behind her. “I knew you were my Princess Ann, your delivery is sublime.”
    Amelia turned and saw Sheldon Rose filling a plate with cheddar cheese and stone wheat crackers. He added a bunch of green grapes and a peanut butter cookie.
    “I want to apologize again for yesterday,” Amelia explained. “It was the champagne and the jet lag, I’ll never miss a call again.”
    “When I made Picasso’s Mistress with Natalie Portman, she missed the first two days of production. I finally tracked her down to an artist’s studio on a cliff in Majorca. She was splattered in paint and staring at an empty canvas.” Sheldon smiled. He was in his early sixties with thick white hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a beige sweater over a collared shirt and khakis. “I can allow my lead actress some leeway if she delivers a great performance. Audrey Hepburn won an Oscar for her Princess Ann, I think you can do the same.”
    Amelia watched Sheldon cross the room to talk to the director and pictured Sophie’s large blue eyes and upturned nose and creamy white skin. Even before she told Amelia she was a princess there had been something regal about her. She thought about her stories of arranged