The Affair Page 6

  ‘You’re going to make a very good mother some day,’ Scott told her and she clutched her face in embarrassment. He noted that she seemed more relaxed with him now that they were a few streets away from her home. Was it time to make his move?

  ‘I’m glad we got a chance to talk at last. I’ve been watching you for ages now, every morning at the same time. You’re so beautiful I can’t help looking at you.’

  She bowed her head and kept walking.

  ‘Can I take you out one evening? We could have dinner, or coffee, or go for a walk in the Villa Borghese gardens?’

  ‘No, it’s not possible.’ Her tone sounded regretful so Scott persevered.

  ‘If you like, I could come and meet your family so they can see I only have respect for you.’ He touched her arm lightly and gazed at her with pleading eyes. ‘Per favore?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it would never work. My father is an important businessman around here and he will never accept his daughter dating a foreigner. Never.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Don Ghianciamina. You have heard of him?’ She watched his face, but he just shrugged. No, he hadn’t. ‘Well, if you ask around, you will find out that he is a very traditional father. I really can’t talk to you any more.’

  She began to walk off and Scott caught hold of her arm. ‘Please don’t go.’

  Suddenly she screamed and pushed Scott away. ‘Go now! Run! It’s my brother.’

  He turned to see a young Italian man charging up the street towards them. Scott decided to stand his ground and try to talk to him. If the worst came to the worst, he was taller and reckoned he could take him.

  The man grabbed Gina by the elbow, shouting at her in Italian so rapid that Scott couldn’t make it out. He opened his mouth to say ‘Leave her alone’ and too late he saw a left hook curving towards his nose. The force of the blow caught him off balance and he fell to the pavement. As he tried to get up, a boot struck him in the ribs, then he was kicked from the other side and that’s when he realised there was more than one attacker. Fists and boots came at him from all directions in a relentless rhythm. There must be at least three of them and they were taking turns. He curled into a ball to protect his head and tried to crawl back towards a doorway behind him but still the blows rained down.

  Christ, they’re going to kill me, Scott thought.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see passersby scurrying past and called out ‘Aiuto!’ but no one stopped. Cars were driving by. It was mid-morning and no one was prepared to intervene. His attackers didn’t say anything but didn’t appear to be planning to stop the barrage any time soon. Somehow Scott managed to haul himself through the doorway and tried to push the door shut, and at last, with one final kick, the men disappeared.

  Scott closed the door and lay still for a while, cataloguing his injuries. Everywhere hurt: his face, his ribs, his stomach, his kidneys. He threw up, mostly bile, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d heard the clichés about protective Italian men but this was out of all proportion. He could have died.

  He raised his head and saw he was in some kind of courtyard with a little fountain in the middle. He called out for help again, but there was no response and no one in sight. Surely one of the passersby would have called the police at least? He listened for sirens but there was no sound except the tinkling of the fountain and the hum of the traffic outside. He needed to get to a hospital but his knees gave way beneath him when he tried to stand up.

  Cautiously, he opened the door a crack and peered out to make sure the men had definitely gone. He crawled on all fours to the roadside then leant on a car to pull himself to an upright position. Further up the hill there was a taxi with its light on. He waited until it was almost alongside then stepped out into the road so it was forced to stop. He staggered round, wrenched open the nearest door and fell in.

  ‘All’ospedale,’ he told the driver. ‘Presto.’

  Chapter Ten

  Diana decided to make the acquaintance of Irene Sharaff, who was designing the costumes for Elizabeth Taylor, but, following Candy’s advice, she first made an appointment through Miss Sharaff’s secretary. By all accounts, she wasn’t a woman you wanted to rub up the wrong way.

  Once in the costume department, she was directed to a cavernous room full of vibrant colour. Gowns in jewel shades were pinned around white-faced tailors’ dummies and swathes of glittering fabric covered tables and chairs. Irene Sharaff was instantly recognisable from magazine pictures, her strong features and odd hooked nose emphasised by the fact that her dark hair was scraped back in a tight bun.

  ‘So you’re a historical advisor?’ She gave a little snort. ‘How are you finding everything, my dear?’

  Diana decided to be honest. ‘No one seems particularly keen to have my advice. Still, I promised Walter that I would offer it all the same.’

  ‘And you’re here today to give me your advice?’ In a sharp glance Irene took in the flared yellow skirt and white blouse Diana was wearing.

  ‘I wouldn’t presume, Miss Sharaff. I’m a huge fan of yours. I loved West Side Story. The girls’ dresses were wonderful. And I loved Guys and Dolls, and Meet Me in St Louis … You bring so much panache to all your productions.’ She’d memorised this speech beforehand, so nervous was she about meeting the great woman.

  ‘Someone obviously told you to butter me up. Good job!’ She smiled. ‘Now I already know what you’re going to say about Cleopatra’s costumes. In the first century BC they wouldn’t have been low-cut and they wouldn’t have been caught in at the waist; they would have been a straight tunic style, maybe with a belt. Is that what you were going to tell me?’

  ‘I was sure you would know that already,’ Diana said hurriedly. ‘I just wanted to ask about the decisions you’ve made.’

  ‘It’s obvious. The reason why they wanted me on this movie is because I know how to dress Elizabeth Taylor, and that’s no laughing matter. Those renowned mammaries have to be on display; if it’s not actually written into her contract it might as well be, because the last film she made without thrusting them at the audience was Lassie Come Home.’

  Diana grinned, feeling more at ease.

  ‘I have to choose styles that don’t show off the fact that Miss Taylor is, to be blunt, chubby. And I have to be able to adjust the costumes from day to day because her weight goes up and down like a yo-yo. I swear she can gain an inch on her hips overnight! A straight tunic would never work for her, especially when she is standing beside all these skinny handmaidens. She’d look like a sack of flour.’

  Diana could see what she meant. ‘You’ve done well in researching the colours. Just fifty years earlier they wouldn’t have had all those dyes, but you’ve captured the blues, greens and terracotta shades they used in Alexandria in 40 BC.’

  ‘Do you know what Walter’s instructions to me were? Make sure Elizabeth stands out in front of all that fancy scenery so it’s her the audience are looking at whenever she’s on screen. She’s costing a million bucks and he wants his money’s worth.’ She snorted. ‘You’ll be pretty lucky if you manage to convince him to change anything for the sake of historical accuracy. He won’t sanction any change that costs one cent more than the alternative.’

  ‘So I’m beginning to realise.’

  Irene stood up and led Diana round the room, showing her some costumes that were to be used later in the shoot. They got more and more ornate, with one made out of gold-plated chain-mail that would never have been used in the first century BC, but Diana didn’t point that out.

  ‘Feel it,’ Irene instructed, placing it across Diana’s arms, and she gasped at the weight. It had to be at least twenty pounds. How would Elizabeth walk around in it?

  ‘She’ll be sitting down in that scene,’ Irene explained with a grin.

  They talked about the iconography on the headdresses and Diana sketched a starburst symbol that might have appeared. They discussed the costumes worn by other characters, which
were being made by different departments, and Diana showed Irene a picture of the jewelled sandals Cleopatra would have worn.

  She laughed. ‘Elizabeth would never wear flat shoes. She’s got chubby feet, and she needs a good three-inch heel or Caesar would tower over her. It’s not ancient Alexandria; it’s Hollywood on the Tiber, honey.’

  Before Diana left, Irene looked at her outfit again. ‘Can I make a suggestion? You’ve got slim hips but no one would know it in that skirt. Let me see your legs.’

  Embarrassed, Diana hesitated before lifting the hem of her skirt to knee level.

  ‘I thought so. You boyish-figured English girls all have great legs. You need to get yourself some knee-length skirts and dresses that fit you on the hips. Pick pastel shades for your skin tone. You’d look great in Capri pants as well. If you don’t mind me being honest, you look a bit gauche in that swing skirt, like some backing singer in a rockabilly band.’ She smiled. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ Diana replied, although she was taken aback by the directness.

  As she walked back towards her office, she decided she would take the hint. It came from one of the world’s top costume designers, after all! She realised she had no idea where the women’s clothing shops were in Rome – she hadn’t seen anything but bars and trattorie on the drive to and from the studio – but Helen would know.

  She made her way to the sound stages and followed the handwritten sign to the dressing room that was being used for makeup that day. Helen was flicking through a copy of a women’s magazine called Honey.

  ‘Thank goodness you came by,’ she exclaimed, throwing down the magazine. ‘I’m bored to tears. There’s nothing to do and it’s not warm enough to sunbathe.’

  ‘No actors to make up?’

  ‘I did a few handmaidens and centurions this morning and now I’m not needed.’

  ‘You are by me,’ Diana told her, before asking if she knew any decent, affordable clothes shops in Rome where she could update her wardrobe.

  Straight away, Helen suggested La Rinascente on Via del Corso. ‘I’ve only been here a few weeks and I’ve bought tons of things there. Why don’t we go this afternoon? We could slip off at five and they stay open till seven-thirty. I’ll give you a second opinion. I love shopping with my girlfriends.’

  Diana readily agreed because she wasn’t a confident shopper, and when they arrived at the store she was glad she had taken Helen along because the choice was overwhelming. Faced with such endless racks of clothes stretching into the distance around the store’s elegant columns and balconies, she would have given up and headed home.

  Helen ferreted out some lovely garments and brought them to the plush changing rooms, where all Diana had to do was slip into them. She knew there was plenty of money in the bank account from a travelling allowance she’d been paid in advance by the film company, so she splashed out on four shift dresses in the style Irene Sharaff had recommended, one lilac evening gown, a pair of white Capri pants, some kaftan tops and a lightweight coat, because she could tell her heavy woollen one wasn’t going to get much use in Rome.

  Helen tried on a pretty black and white sweater with a geometric pattern but put it back on the rack.

  ‘Why don’t you get it?’ Diana asked. ‘It suits you.’

  ‘I’m broke until payday. Going out every night is costing me an arm and a leg.’

  ‘Let me treat you,’ Diana said. ‘I insist. It’s a gift to thank you for being so helpful today. I’d have walked out without finding anything if you hadn’t been here.’

  Helen protested but Diana simply picked up the sweater and added it to her pile on the cashier’s desk. As she wrote a travellers’ cheque to cover the bill, she felt a twinge of guilt about Trevor. Of course, this wasn’t just her money – it was his as well. He was paying all the bills at home. She would write to him that evening, as Hilary suggested.

  Back at the Pensione Splendid, she sat on the bed and poured out her feelings on paper. She told Trevor first and foremost how much she missed talking to him. She hadn’t yet been to see the Forum or the Colosseum because he was the one person she would want to see them with. She told him she knew it was shallow and frivolous to work on a Hollywood movie but that it was an education of a different sort – an education in human nature. She described Joe Mankiewicz and the way he was writing the script for each scene the night before they shot it. She wrote about Irene Sharaff and the criteria she used to design Elizabeth Taylor’s costumes, such as displaying the ‘renowned mammaries’. She told him about the Indian elephants and the fact that the circus owner who supplied them was now suing Twentieth Century Fox for ‘insulting his elephants’. The letter spilled over many pages. It made her feel close to him to be able to express everything that was on her mind and she prayed that he would read it and try to understand.

  At the end, she begged him to write back soon, using the studio’s courier service, or to telephone her at the office, and if she wasn’t there someone would take a message and she would call back. And then she couldn’t think of anything more to say so she signed off with all her love and lots of Xs underneath. There was a pain in her chest, in exactly the same place as her heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  Scott spent two days in a morphine fug, while doctors and nurses came and went, occasionally stopping to perform some unpleasant procedure. His nose had been broken and there were strips of plaster across it and great wads of cotton wool stuffed inside so that he could only breathe through his mouth. His ribs were strapped up and his left wrist was also broken and in plaster. He vaguely recalled one of the men stamping on it. He had a catheter and he knew there was blood in his urine from all the kidney punches and kicks he’d taken, but the doctor assured him the ‘trauma’ would heal in time.

  As well as bruising and swelling, there were many contusions on his face and body, and a nurse said they must have used a pugno di ferro. He’d never heard the term, but from her mime he realised she meant a knuckleduster. What kind of person carried one of those around on a normal weekday morning? That suggestion shook him, but when he examined a cut above his forehead, he could see the indentations of metal knuckles, so it must be true.

  Two carabinieri came and he told his story slowly and carefully, remembering every detail of his conversation with the girl and giving a precise description of her brother. He hadn’t seen the other two attackers clearly but thought they had been wearing leather jackets. But when he mentioned the name Ghianciamina, and the fact that they lived in Piazza Navona, the carabinieri glanced at each other.

  ‘I think you must have misheard, sir. There is a family of that name but they are a very prominent family of good character.’

  ‘I can show you the exact house where they live,’ Scott insisted. ‘Take me there and I’ll identify the man who did this.’

  One of the policemen produced a loose-leaf folder. ‘There’s no need, sir. We’ve brought pictures of all the violent criminals in the city and you can go through and point to the men who hurt you without getting out of your bed.’

  Scott began to flick through. They were rough-looking, dark-skinned young men, aged between fifteen and twenty-five, all of them scowling out of police mugshots. ‘My attacker was dressed smarter and his skin was paler than these men,’ he said, but continued to work through the folder until he reached the end. ‘Nope, none of them. Can we go to Piazza Navona now?’

  ‘The doctors say you can’t be moved. Don’t worry, because we are asking shopkeepers and bartenders in the street and we hope there will be witnesses. You’re sure your wallet was not taken? Often, there is robbery involved.’

  ‘My wallet is here,’ Scott said, pointing to the cabinet by his bed. ‘I wasn’t being robbed. It was because I was talking to the girl, Gina.’ He was frustrated that he had given them a name and an address and was not being taken seriously. ‘For crying out loud, don’t you guys want to catch him? What’s the problem? Are you going to wait till he does this to somebody else
?’

  ‘At least you are alive,’ one of them said quietly. ‘Your bones will heal.’

  Scott stared at him, too surprised to respond.

  The nurses had asked if he wanted a family member to be contacted but he decided it would cause too big a furore to call his mother and father in the States. They’d fly over and make a huge fuss and want to stay on for weeks while he recuperated. Scott knew this because he had been beaten up once before. A local gang attacked him on the way home from school and he’d fought back, which meant he’d come off worse than his friend who’d run away after the first punch was thrown. His mother had reacted with hysteria and insisted on collecting Scott from school in the automobile for the rest of the semester, not letting him go out with friends in the evenings either. Getting beaten up was just one of those things that happened to guys from time to time – hopefully not too often.

  Still, he shuddered every time he thought of the knuckleduster, and the fact that it had been three against one. They had wanted to inflict serious harm and hadn’t cared whether he lived or died, and that was chilling.

  One young nurse, Rosalia, seemed especially concerned that he didn’t have any visitors and began to linger by his bed to chat with him while she was on duty. She was a little plump around the hips but had sexy dimples in her cheeks so he began to flirt.

  ‘Rosalia, do you think I will ever get a girl again? I’ll look horrible with all my scars and a crooked nose. Will I have to check myself into a monastery?’

  ‘You’ll do fine,’ she replied. ‘It’s personality that counts.’

  ‘OK then, I’m doomed,’ he said. ‘I’ve never had a personality. I always relied on my gorgeous face to get the girls.’

  ‘Maybe you will be a nicer person now,’ she suggested. ‘You’ll have to be very sweet to girls, buy them presents and be a gentleman.’