-•✦--✦--✦•-
Somehow, I'd ended up at a super-posh villa with a sweeping view over the city and the Boboli Gardens. Villa Cora had a history as layered as Florence itself. Built in the comparatively modern nineteenth century, it now hosted the loudest crowd it was likely to see all season. Food was fabulous, drinks were freshly juiced not a few miles from here. As the hours ticked by, I was already starting to dislike the whole affair. Adults were annoying enough, but adults who were drunk were infinitely worse. Nain, Cher and even the three lionesses took every opportunity to muss my hair, pinch my cheek or fire off some ridiculous joke before dissolving into laughter while I seethed.
The Italians, at least, held their drink well. They were loud, but no louder than their usual selves. I wanted to go home. If this went on much longer, my Nain might not be able to walk back. I eyed the so-called three lions speaking quietly with my Nain — bad influences, the lot of them. My Granddad… where had he gone?
I wandered through the opulent golden halls of the mirror room, its painted ceilings and gilded frames glowing under crystal chandeliers and golden candelabra. Marble statues stood guard above us while ancient vases decorated every surface, and every mirror caught a brief, ghostly flicker of my reflection as I passed. Fancy and creepy. Even the grandeur of the place seemed to sag under the weight of drunken adults making dithering fools of themselves. If my Nain said I was just being a grumpy boy, they should look themselves in the mirrors first.
Then I spotted my Granddad, laughing loudly with David Watkin, our senior cinematographer of all people. I supposed it made sense — those who couldn't speak Italian would naturally converge together. I felt like the only child at the party, and, worse, the only sober person for a mile around. Even some of the servers and bartenders were quietly sampling their own wares. Instead of my grandparents acting as my guardians, it looked like I'd have to shepherd them home.
"Blergh—" Franco belched straight into the mic. The feedback noise screeched so violently the whole villa winced — but it snapped the room to attention better than any announcement ever could.
A wave of good-natured boos followed.
"Eh! You've all had your turn. Now let the director speak!"
The boos doubled, louder, cheekier.
"I've had to listen to Marco grumble, grumble about money. Clive— always yapping about shooting schedule. And Pippo — even my son — complaining while making the speech for our 'wrap' party. Producers and their priorities. He says we have months left. I know! I am the director," Franco barked, laughing at his own joke.
"But this you must hear." His tone dropped; he weighed his words, letting silence stretch just long enough. "I must say it."
He breathed in, heavy with memory.
"Everything I am began here in Firenze. The most beautiful city in the world. Warmest place on earth, kindest people around. Everyone here has shaped me. So first — I thank the city of Firenze."
He gave an extravagant bow toward the open balcony, the glittering city was visibly catching the last threads of daylight. View was incredible.
"First person I must thank — Mario Primicerio, our mayor. Without him, this film… impossibile. Please, give him applause!" Franco urged.
The crowd obliged, loud and sincere. I saw a man around my grandparents' age try to humbly accept the gratitude. His family surrounded him looking markedly odd in with the crowd of movie folks. I think going to a party like this was a reward enough for him. How many government officials are paid this way for smoothing things out for the filming permissions? Famous people was enough incentive for many people.
"Next, the producers who gave us money… and almost killed me with a heart attack by taking it back before committing once again!" he roared.
Laughter erupted — producers were the true gods of cinema, after all. By their bounty could movies even be hewn.
"I've been thinking of this story, making it a movie for decades on end. I shared it with many friends and colleagues, some of you have pushed me away from it while some of you have insisted I do it. So, lets talk about those who wanted this film made. Of course, I must thank my three ladies — the English ladies who made my career and walked with me on that journey. Joan Plowright!" Franco lifted his chin proudly. "She acted in two of my plays in London — Sabato, Domenica e Lunedì and Filumena Marturano. Her late husband, Laurence Olivier, inspired me to pursue theatre. He is gone… but life brings us full circle. Just as she acted for me then, she acts now in the story of my life. I mean— partly my life. Semi-autobiography!" he declared.
Jeers and cheers tangled together; Joan blinked quickly against tears. Memories could crush you gently, couldn't they?
"Maggie Smith!" Franco boomed. "Everyone knows her Beatrice from Much Ado About Nothing. Old Vic! Sublime. And now— after more than thirty years— eccoci. We have lived, eh?"
Maggie was openly crying, fanning her face. I nearly joined her. It was a new weakness I'd formed; my Nain had passed it on like a hereditary affliction. Someone dies in a film? She's a sobbing mess beside me. Something happy happens? She's a blubbering child hanging onto me. I swallowed — Maggie did the same — both of us trying to steady ourselves.
"And finally, Judi. My lovely Juliet!" Franco said with a flourish. "She was— what— twenty-five? I gave her theatrical debut at the Old Vic. Splendid Juliet. She brought the affaire de cœur to life. We created the Swinging Sixties together! We did, eh?"
His English was noticeably cleaner here, smoother — like slipping into a forgotten old coat. I wondered if this was the voice he used in London before switching back and dropping his careful pronunciation once he returned to Italy. And the history between these icons… forty years. A lifetime.
"That was not my debut, actually," Judi cut in, her brows twitching in indignation. "I was Princess Katherine before Juliet. And Ophelia before that," she muttered, half-mumbling, half-scolding.
Her husband Michael, who was playing the British Consul gently held her back. As you would do stop a pitbull from attacking, but Michael also had to mind the damage to his own, so he was awful careful.
"Ah! She will never drop it," Franco lamented, raising a fist to the sky before looking on at the English women with gentle eyes, "When this movie was nothing but a dream, Joan insisted I continue on. I thank Riccardo Tozzi and the brilliant Cattleya production company for making this come true. When I said, I had funding Joan and Maggie did not ask me even one question. They accepted. They trust me, as I trust them. Judi— not so much. She asked about everything,"
Even I laughed; Judi was very much that sort of person. Catlike — and yes, terrible pun for she was in Cats before dropping out of the musical — but she was warm to the core. Two days had been enough for me to see it.
"And then, Cher," Franco went on, voice gentling. "She came to me when I could not find my Elsa. She wanted the challenge. She wanted to stand beside these lionesses. Cher, you are brave and you are beautiful. You held the ground, isn't it true?" he asked, turning to the three titans.
Maggie's lips curled inward, disappearing into themselves; Judi's mouth tightened into a thin blade; Joan's cheeks inflated like a squirrel hoarding a nut.
The crowd sensed the shift — silence rippled outward.
Another storm was brewing.
"She was serviceable!" Maggie declared.
"Quite so," Judi added with a prim little nod.
"Perhaps that's… a touch unfair," Joan murmured, cautious as ever.
The temperature in the room spiked; Cher's smile faltered.
Then, in perfect unison, the three lionesses burst into laughter — sharp, wild, more hyena-like cackles than royal pride adjacent.
"Oh, you're an awful bunch of silly old ladies!" Cher shot back, loud and brassy in the way only an American could manage.
"Old? Who are you calling old?" Maggie snapped with comic outrage.
"Now, now — claws back in," Joan chuckled. "Cher, darling, you've been wonderful. You've acted beautifully. We've enjoyed working with you… and sparring with you."
"All those digs and cold comments — you're calling that sparring?" Cher asked, incredulous.
"This is how the British show friendliness, but you would've known if we were being mean." Judi said, baring a mischievous grin.
Conversation spilled over again, drinks resurfaced like tidewater, and the room grew louder. I found myself liking it less and less, even though the tension with Cher had finally evaporated. If anything, the four of them were louder now — the alcohol hadn't helped. People were steadily slipping towards "merry" and beyond.
"Hey, keed!" an Italian voice called in questionable English.
"Hey yourself, Luciano," I sighed, eyeing him to gauge the damage.
"I am sober! I see you judging me," Luciano protested dramatically.
"I can smell the wine," I pointed out.
"Well, I've had… eh… a glass or five," he admitted, laughing. "Come, come. You wanted self-tapes for audition, yes?"
"Err… yeah? Why?" I asked, suspicious.
"We go film it now!" Luciano insisted, already reaching for my arm.
"No. You're drunk, everyone's drunk, and it's too loud," I countered, trying to pry him off.
"Yes, but you wanted to sing! Singing needs festa, publicco — audience, atmosphere. It is perfect, is it not?" Luciano argued,
The room was splendid of course.
"I'd rather not," I muttered. I'd already been stroked and cooed over like someone's unfortunate house cat when the kids came along; singing would make it veven worse.
"You see David?" Luciano pointed vaguely. "Clive make him agree to shoot your tape."
"Granddad did?" I asked, momentarily impressed.
"What? No! Clive Parsons. The producer!"
"Oh." My face fell in embarrassment.
"If you want to keep your job," Luciano said dramatically, "you must come entertain us!" He tugged at me again.
"No, stop — at least let me warm up!" I hissed, pushing his hands away.
"Fine, fine. But five minutes, sì?" he demanded.
"Sì," I groaned.
—✦—
I sat at the piano, staring at the gold-leaf Steinway & Sons logo. The lyre always struck me as an odd choice for an emblem for their business, but that hardly mattered — I was about to play a Steinway. A real Steinway. The dream piano. The holy grail. Golden standard for industry professionals.
A crowd of drunk, boisterous bodies hovered around me like overexcited vultures. I looked around the mirror room bursting with people. Other rooms, the bar and the dining room had all spilled over here for my performance.
"I performed in front of three thousand people. I performed in front of three thousand people," I muttered under my breath, over and over.
My nerves didn't care. Some of the people in this room mattered to my future — a lot. And Cher, one of the best singers of her era, was five feet away with a drink in hand. Yes, I was nervous.
"Okay, Luca! Whenever you're ready!" David called.
He held a handheld camcorder similar to mine, though he'd attached one of the production's proper microphones. Luciano was clutching the boom like he was holding on for dear life. Pippo was holding a thousand watt light with a diffuser over it.
"Ciek," Franco joked — and of course an actual clapperboard materialised.
"We came prepared," Luciano said proudly, laughing at the shock on Franco's face.
These folks were serious even though they only had a 8mm camera with them.
"Do you want help, Luca?" a voice asked.
I turned, hardly believing I'd heard right.
Cher stood beside me, cheeks flushed from drink, smiling like she'd just found a stray puppy she wanted to adopt or kick. Her eyes looked dangerous enough for both.
She was offering to sing with me.
"Yes!" I said immediately — far too quickly, mind.
"What song are you doing?" she asked, eyes glittering.
I leaned in and whispered it to her. Her mouth fell open.
"Are you trying to suck up to me? Because it's working," she laughed. "You know he and I go way back, right?"
"Really?"
"Yes, really," Cher said, rolling her eyes fondly.
"I'm changing the key to suit my voice — that okay for you?" I asked
"Even better," Cher said,
I shut my eyes and breathed deeply. The nerves always lasted right up until the moment I started performing — never during. But even that was nothing compared to when I sang. Music was my muse, my only real talent given to me.
I nodded to Luciano and David. They lifted the camcorder and the boom and made expressions of seriousness as if they were about to shoot Raging Bull.
The clapper snapped shut, making this awfully loud sound. The room fell instantly silent. Years of film discipline — everyone was made to pay attention and keep quiet at once.
I began to play.
In the last nine months, I'd become competent at the piano — transcribing, transposing, practising until my fingers cramped. But more importantly, they stopped making stupid mistakes. They felt under my firm control now. I'd chosen this particular song for a lot of reasons. One was that I knew it inside out. But the bigger reason…
This was the song — the one played during the most important scene in Almost Famous. If anything I'd seen in my revelations could help me land a role in that film, this was it. This was the moment that could swing it in my favour.
My hands shifted close together, adapting to the lower key. I'd lost some of the range, but I kept the sparkling high notes in — the ones that buzzed and trembled in the air like fireflies. Ones that fluttered around like buzzing beez.
"Oh, Bennie, Bennie!" Cher sang-said with a laugh.
"Sorry, start again! You reminded me of Elton. So serious on the piano — we sang Bennie and the Jets when we were just kids," she added.
I smiled. Of course they'd performed together. And now here I was, sitting where Elton once had. How incredible was that? I had to live up to it, and this felt like the perfect moment. My hands slipped over the keys — quick and light, loose and assured. As always, I fell straight into the music, into the notes unfolding beneath my fingers, into the little world I could weave in one chord at a time, steady rhythm holding it all.
I drew a deep breath and began to sing — a touch higher than the original, as smooth as I could manage.
Blue jean baby, L.A. lady
Seamstress for the band
Pretty-eyed, pirate smile
You'll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must've seen her
Dancing in the sand
And now she's in me, always with me
Tiny dancer in my hand
Cher slipped into the second verse, and I let the piano take over my hands completely.
Jesus freaks out in the street
Handing tickets out for God
Turning back, she just laughs
The boulevard is not that bad
Piano man, he makes his stand
In the auditorium
Looking on, she sings the songs
The words she knows, the tune she hums
She sang in the same key I'd set, yet somehow her voice coloured it differently — unmistakable, textured, effortless. Her timing was looser than mine, freer, and it suited the song so well I found myself adapting to her without thinking. I slipped into a small solo, grinning at her as I played. Singing alone was one thing, but singing with someone truly great was something else entirely. It reminded me of performing with Robbie — except Robbie had never been a singer. As good as I was at playing the piano, it was never my main instrument. Everyone I'd sung with lately had been professionals. I'd missed this: the unforced joy of singing with another person just for the passion of music rather than money that we could earn.
She didn't need cues or prompts; she knew the lyrics, the phrasing, the shape of the music. She simply knew — the same way I did.
My solo melted into a slight key change in order to set up the chorus.
Lost in the music, my head dipped down to the level of the keys. My body insisted on it, music demanded it and I didn't fight it. My lungs filled, and I released the pre-chorus.
But, oh, how it feels so real
Lying here with no one near
Only you, and you can hear me
When I say softly, slowly
Cher let me carry the line, then slipped in beside me for the chorus. The tiny bench worked to hold us together. Our eyes met as we blended, her harmony locking into place with uncanny precision. I'd listened to her album — that deeper, distinctive tone people sometimes called masculine — yet here she was matching me effortlessly, singing just a shade below my register and sounding perfect.
Hold me closer, tiny dancer
Count the headlights on the highway
Lay me down in sheets of linen
You had a busy day today
Hold me closer, tiny dancer
Count the headlights on the highway
Lay me down in sheets of linen
You had a busy day today
I forgot the room. I forgot the party. There was only Cher, and the music between us. If this was what it felt like to sing a duet with a real vocalist, perhaps I ought to have questioned my entire career path. When I ended with a flourish on the piano, the room erupted in applause.
Only then did I remember the audience — and the cameras. Heat flushed through me; I'd been so lost in the music I'd forgotten everything else. It'd been ages since that last happened. Lyrics usually were what wore me down, but I'd never related much to Tiny Dancer, so it was the piano on its own to sweep me away this time.
To sing with Cher while Maggie Smith, Joan Plowright and Judi Dench watched — it was an impossible high. And these legendary actors could sing too, couldn't they? I'd heard Dame Judi Dennch in London; her Send in the Clowns in Hey, Mr Producer! had been so full of emotion that I'd cried. As the last notes faded, I hoped that in my little haze of music, I'd managed to inflict even a fraction of the emotions she had dished out on the stage of the National Theatre.
My head turned to see David's face and his hand holding the camera. Luciano with the microphone. This may have been filmed for a self-audition, but I was going to make at least a hundred copies of that tape. This was a memory I'd cherish forever.
Franco Zeffirelli watched me with a look I couldn't quite read. I wondered what was going through his mind. He'd been strangely distant — always sharp with directions, yet offering little feedback beyond a brief good scene. To be fair, the two shoots I'd done so far hadn't centred on me, so it was hard to tell what he truly thought. Still, I kept waiting for the new sides he'd promised, the ones for the additional scenes he had apparently written with me in mind.
"Good job, kid!" Cher said breezily, as if she hadn't just showed off everyone in the room — including the three lionesses.
If there ever was a competition, Cher had won it completely. Our English ladies were amazing bunch but they just didn't have the spunk that Cher had.
"Good job yourself," I laughed.