The Affair Read online

  ‘I’m going to be real lonely when I get out of here. I’ll be stuck in my little apartment recuperating all on my own. I’ll miss our talks. I don’t suppose …’

  It didn’t take much to persuade her to have dinner with him after he was discharged. It would be handy to have a nurse around, he thought, just in case he needed more painkillers. Surely she’d be able to get spares from the hospital dispensary? Meanwhile, flirting with her helped to pass the time.

  His secretary came to visit, bringing some paperwork he had to sign. He explained about his frustration that the police wouldn’t act over the attack but when he mentioned the name Ghianciamina, she was visibly startled.

  ‘Scott, you must listen to me. They are Mafia, from Sicily, and you must not try to press charges against them because the police will not be able to protect you. Come back to work, forget what happened and stay well away from them. Otherwise, you will have to leave Rome.’

  ‘You’re joking! So they get away with it? No way.’

  ‘Yes, that is exactly what I mean.’

  ‘What kind of a country is this?’

  Scott knew they had Mafia back home in New York and Chicago because occasionally the details of some internecine war hit the headlines, but the American police did their best to lock away the worst offenders. Here in Italy they seemed happy to let them roam the streets. It was outrageous.

  He lay back against his pillows. No way could he let them off the hook. Somehow, he had to get revenge, but he’d have to think of a way of achieving it that didn’t compromise his own safety. He decided he’d sleep on it.

  Chapter Twelve

  On the 14th of October, Walter Wanger dropped by the production office to invite Diana to a party hosted by Kirk Douglas to celebrate the anniversary of the release of Spartacus. ‘He said to bring our top people. Elizabeth is coming, of course. See you later, my dear.’

  Diana felt shy about going, but Helen offered to come round to her pensione to do her hair and makeup so she would look her best. She sat in a chair by the window as Helen smoothed a creamy base all over her skin and chattered nonstop about the stars who might be there.

  ‘You know Roddy McDowall, who plays Octavian?’ she giggled. ‘I had an embarrassing encounter with him when we first arrived in Rome. There was a welcome party and I got a bit tipsy. They tried to find a studio car to take me home but the only one available was already booked to take Roddy back to his villa. Anyway, he offered to drop me off and in my drunken state I got the impression that he must like me so just before we reached my place, I leant over and tried to kiss him.’ She cringed at the memory.

  ‘What did he do?’ Diana mouthed in sympathy.

  ‘He was very sweet. He put his hands on my shoulders, like this …’ she demonstrated. ‘And he said with a twinkle, “I should tell you that I dance on the other side of the ballroom, darling.” Of course, I didn’t know what it meant exactly but the next day someone told me that he is here with his boyfriend John Valva. He got him a part in the film, as a centurion.’

  ‘Has he said anything to you since? Do you ever have to do his makeup?’

  ‘I haven’t, no, thank God. But next day I bumped into him in the corridor and he gave me a huge wink.’ Helen laughed. ‘That’s how I know he’s a nice person. He’s virtually Elizabeth Taylor’s closest friend in the world. And to think I nearly kissed him!’

  ‘What a shame he’s not interested in girls. Otherwise I’m sure he would have pounced on you!’

  ‘Everyone here is already taken.’ Helen began ticking them off. ‘You know about Elizabeth Taylor, of course: on her fourth marriage and she’s not even thirty! Rex Harrison is here with Rachel Roberts, the actress. Do you know her?’ Diana shook her head. ‘You’d recognise her if you saw her. She’s an alcoholic, they say. Anyway, they’re engaged and getting married soon, even though it’s only two years since Kay Kendall died. She was supposed to be the love of his life, everyone said at the time, but I suppose he must have got over her. Richard Burton is here with his wife Sybil; they’ve been married for twelve years. You know about Walter Wanger, don’t you?’ Diana shook her head. ‘He’s married to Joan Bennett, the actress, but he found out she had a lover and shot him in the privates. He went to jail for a while, but not long. They haven’t divorced but I haven’t seen her here in Rome. I can’t imagine all is well in that marriage.’

  ‘Good grief!’ Diana tried to assimilate this information with the very suave elderly gentleman she had met. ‘How about Joe Mankiewicz? Is he married?’

  ‘Not at the moment. He’s too old for me, though. Hey, when is your husband coming out? I’d love to meet him. Is he very dishy?’

  Diana laughed. ‘He’s not at all what you would call “dishy”. He’s a very nice man, though …’ She hesitated, wondering whether to confide about her marriage problems but decided against it. Helen was too loose-tongued and she didn’t want everyone knowing her business. ‘He’s very busy at work but I hope he’ll be able to come out before long.’

  Diana hardly recognised herself in the mirror after Helen had finished. There was mauve eyeshadow smeared on her eyelids and up towards her brows, in a tone that complimented her new lilac dress, and somehow it brought out the greeny-hazel of her eyes. Her shoulder-length brown hair was stacked high on her head and fixed in position with masses of sticky lacquer. She worried that it might act like flypaper, but Helen assured her that never happened. They caught a taxi together to the Grand Hotel on Via del Corso, then Helen continued on to a pizzeria where she was meeting some American actresses from the set, the same crowd Diana had met before.

  ‘Break a leg,’ she called as Diana climbed out of the taxi onto a red carpet leading up to the hotel entrance.

  Photographers snapped some shots of her, in a reflex action, and the flashes were startling, but then they stopped and looked at each other in puzzlement as if to ask ‘Who is she?’ No doubt they would destroy those shots in the darkroom when they realised she wasn’t famous.

  She was ushered into an ostentatious ballroom with gold cornice-work, pillared arcades, stained-glass skylights and inset murals of painted cherubs on the ceiling. A band were tuning their instruments on a stage at one end and groups of expensively dressed men and women were standing round the edges of the room, but there was no one she recognised. A tower of glasses was balanced at the end of a table and, as she watched, a waiter popped the cork of a bottle of champagne and poured deftly into the top glass, so that it overflowed down the sides and into the glasses below. She’d never seen anything quite so extravagant.

  ‘Some champagne, madame?’ a waiter asked her in English, and she accepted with pleasure. She’d had Babycham at her wedding but had never tasted the real thing before. The first sip was a little bitter for her palate, but it was very smooth on the tongue, like stroking suede.

  Clutching her glass, she began to wander self-consciously round the room hoping to spot someone – anyone – she recognised from the film set. Roddy McDowall was sitting with a group of friends but they didn’t glance up as she passed. She wondered which one was his lover. Surely Hilary should be there? And when would Walter arrive? She took a seat behind a pillar from where she could watch the proceedings without sticking out like a sore thumb.

  Suddenly Ernesto appeared by her side. ‘Ah, Diana, you look amazing!’ He kissed her on both cheeks and gave her shoulders a brief squeeze. ‘That dress is beautiful on you. And the hair.’ He held out his hands in appreciation. ‘Bellissima!’

  She hoped he would sit with her so she was no longer quite so obviously the lone friendless female. ‘I’m glad to see you. I wish I’d known you’d been invited.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he whispered. ‘I’m gate-crashing. That’s the phrase you use in English, isn’t it?’ He grinned at her shocked expression. ‘I said I was a guest of Walter Wanger and they let me in.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve!’ she smiled.

  He sat down beside her and began pointing out the celeb�
�rities: ‘That’s Tony Curtis. Did you see him dressed as a woman in Some Like it Hot? And that’s Jean Simmons. She’s English. Have you met her?’

  Diana shook her head, amused that Ernesto would think she might know an actress simply because they were both English. He recognised everyone, knew everything about them, and was very entertaining company.

  The room filled out and Hilary came over to say hello although she didn’t stop for long before rushing to join a group with Joe Mankiewicz at its centre. Walter was there but surrounded by dignitaries all evening so Diana couldn’t get close enough to thank him for the invitation. The dancing began and Ernesto urged her to get up with him.

  ‘I can’t dance. I don’t know what to do,’ she protested.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll do everything,’ he insisted. ‘You just follow.’ He wouldn’t take no for an answer, pulling her by the arm to the dance floor then guiding her with a hand on the small of her back. ‘Just relax,’ he whispered, and she found that if she stopped trying to keep up, his legs and the hand on her back guided her around the floor. She almost felt elegant. No one was watching them so there was no need to be self-conscious.

  Just after ten o’clock, a flurry of whispers passed around the room and a wave of heads turned to the door. Women adjusted their hair while men straightened their jackets and ties as Elizabeth Taylor and Eddie Fisher walked in. She was wearing a clinging silvery-white gown trimmed with long white ostrich feathers and very high heels that made her walk in tiny hobbling steps. Even at a distance, Diana could see that she emanated a kind of effortless star quality. It was hard to quantify or describe but she instantly became the centre of the room, like a sun around which all the planets revolved. She accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter then sat down at the head of a large table. Instantly the most famous party guests rushed over to pay court – Tony Curtis, Kirk Douglas, Jean Simmons, Walter Wanger, Rex Harrison and Rachel Roberts – all keen to be seen in her presence. Eddie beamed benignly and chatted to those on the edges of the throng.

  Ernesto excused himself for a moment, so Diana sat on her own watching the spectacle. She couldn’t help wondering what Trevor would make of all the fuss. This woman might be beautiful but so were lots of other women, and truth be told she wasn’t a particularly good actress. No one reported her as being especially clever. She was simply famous for her marriages, famous for the fact that her third husband died in a plane crash and she stole her fourth from Debbie Reynolds, America’s sweetheart. Yes, it was her love life Elizabeth Taylor was famous for rather than her acting talent. What a strange career.

  Suddenly she noticed Ernesto hiding behind a pillar at the back of the room and speaking into a walkie-talkie. It seemed odd that he would have one, so when he rejoined her, she asked what he had been doing.

  ‘I was making some security arrangements for when they leave,’ he said.

  She thought it was bizarre that he was involved in security for an event to which he hadn’t been invited but didn’t get a chance to question him further as just then the band struck up a rumba and Joe Mankiewicz led Elizabeth Taylor to the dance floor. She tottered like a skittle on her stiletto heels and when she wiggled those well-fleshed hips, the tight white dress threatened to split at the seams. Now, wouldn’t that be a story! All eyes were upon her but Elizabeth’s eyes were fixed on Joe, and Diana had to admit that she was extremely sexy. What man could resist her magnetism? It must feel like being sucked into a vortex.

  The dance brought them close to Diana’s table for a moment and her attention was caught by a varicose vein on Elizabeth’s ankle, like a fat little worm resting on her skin. It was re­assuring to see she wasn’t perfect, that she was real flesh and blood.

  Diana heard a scream before she saw a flash of light, then there was a thump as one of the Italian musicians dropped his cello and leapt off the stage. He ran towards Elizabeth and began to pat her legs and bottom, while Joe stood to one side looking bemused. There was a faint smell of smoke now. Elizabeth turned to peer over her shoulder at her own backside and let out a whoop of laughter.

  ‘I’m on fire,’ she said. ‘Damned ostrich feathers. Someone must have dropped a cigarette.’

  ‘Scusi, signora,’ the musician bowed, having extinguished the flames. She held out her hand to him and he touched those famous fingers to his lips.

  ‘My hero,’ she said warmly. ‘Thank you for saving me.’

  No one else had reacted in time to deal with the emergency. Few people seemed to realise what had happened, as the musician leapt back onto the stage and began to play again. The rest of the band had continued without him.

  ‘It seems you Italians never miss a chance to touch a girl’s bottom,’ Diana whispered to Ernesto, and he beamed proudly.

  ‘Who knows? Perhaps he even arranged the fire himself.’

  Elizabeth reached down to brush the charred edges of her ostrich feathers, as Joe solicitously took her elbow and guided her back to her table. Eddie hadn’t seen the incident and he leapt to his feet in alarm when someone told him about it but Elizabeth appeared to think it was all a huge joke. They could hear her raucous laughter from the other side of the room.

  At least I’ve got a story to tell Helen tomorrow, Diana thought. She’ll love hearing about this.

  Soon afterwards, Elizabeth and Eddie decided to leave, and they were followed by a crowd of hangers-on, still warming themselves around the glow of her fame. Diana wondered if Elizabeth liked being fawned over in that way. She didn’t seem to mind.

  As soon as they had gone, the party began to thin out. Even though the band was still playing and the champagne was still flowing, the consensus seemed to be that the evening was over and there was no point in staying any longer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Scott told the American hacks who drank in the Eden Hotel bar that he’d been beaten up by Don Ghianciamina’s son after flirting with his daughter, they almost fell off their barstools.

  Joe gave a long low whistle. ‘Jesus, you had a narrow escape. Look at your nose, pal. What a mess!’

  There was a knuckle-shaped groove across the bridge of Scott’s nose and the tip now veered off to the left. What was worse was that his left nostril kept dripping, meaning that he had to sniff or wipe it on a handkerchief every minute or so. The doctors had said that might improve over time – or it might not. They didn’t seem sure. That’s what bothered him most. He’d been dating Rosalia, the nurse, since getting out of hospital but he couldn’t kiss her properly because of his dripping nostril. He suffered from thick, poisonous headaches as well, and was popping painkillers several times a day.

  ‘What do you know about Ghianciamina?’ Scott asked. ‘What’s he involved in?’

  ‘Drugs. Probably heroin, because that’s where the money is. But I’m sure he’s also involved in money laundering, prostitution, all the usual stuff. He’s a big cheese.’

  ‘Why don’t the police do something about it? I told them exactly who beat me up, and gave them a full description and his address but they refused to go to the house and question him. It’s incredible!’

  ‘I’ll bet they did. They probably have families. Seriously, you’re lucky to be walking around and I would keep your head down. Stay away from Italian girls, Spike. You won’t get anywhere without putting a ring on their finger.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Scott couldn’t resist boasting about the nurse, with whom he’d had sex three times. She was sweet but not really his type. In fact, she seemed rather keen and he wasn’t sure how he was going to extricate himself. As she left his apartment a couple of mornings previously, she had clung to him and asked plaintively when she would see him again. He said he had a lot of work on and would telephone when he had a moment, and she seemed upset. Warning bells were sounding. But the hacks were suitably impressed.

  ‘Bring her to meet us. Maybe she’s got a friend. I’ve always had a thing about nurses.’

  ‘He wouldn’t bring her here,’ Joe said. ‘He’s sca
red she’d run off with me.’

  They all hooted. Joe was an ugly big guy with buck teeth and one blind eye that stared off to the side. All the men in that crowd were at least twenty years older than Scott, with middle-aged paunches, thinning hair and bulbous red noses that signposted their love affair with booze.

  ‘Where is the drugs scene in town?’ Scott asked. ‘Where would I go to buy stuff if I was that kind of guy? Which I’m not, of course.’

  ‘The Via Margutta, and the area around there. That’s where the arty types hang out. I hear there are bars where you can buy marijuana or LSD over the counter if the bartender knows you.’

  ‘They have LSD parties where everybody’s tripping. I don’t know where you get heroin, though. You probably need to know the right people but I’m pretty sure it’s not hard.’ Joe peered at Scott. ‘You haven’t got any stupid ideas about writing some kind of story, have you, Spike?’

  ‘Course not,’ Scott lied. That was exactly what he had been thinking. He hadn’t yet figured out how but he knew he wanted to get revenge on his attackers and the best way would be to write an article exposing their crimes. It would have to include information so damning that the police would have no option but to arrest them. It would take a lot of research – but didn’t someone once say that revenge was a dish best served cold?

  ‘I filed my first Liz Taylor story today,’ Joe told them. ‘Her feather boa caught fire at a party last night and one of the guests had to throw her to the ground and roll on top of her to put out the flames – or so he said. Nice excuse.’

  ‘Was she hurt?’ someone asked.

  ‘Naw, just shaken up.’

  ‘Where were they?’ Scott asked. ‘Has anyone interviewed the guy who put out the fire?’

  ‘It was in the Grand Hotel but I have no idea who he was. Who cares? People just want to read about Liz. Any excuse to put a picture of her on the front cover and my editor’s happy.’