The Affair (10 page)

‘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 celebrities: ‘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.

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 scared 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.’

Scott pondered this. His own editor had phoned before he left the office to ask when he might start filing stories again, but it was hard to get anything substantial to write about since no politicians or their aides would talk to him. He abhorred the idea of writing about people simply because they were famous, but maybe he could compose a quirky little story about flammable fashions. He’d have to move quickly though, before it became old news.

He made his excuses and scooted back through the streets to his office. That day’s Italian newspapers had been thrown out but the wastebin hadn’t yet been emptied by the cleaner. He pulled them out and located some stop-press items that mentioned the incident with the dress, then composed a snappy little piece about the vagaries of designers who don’t consider that their creations are going to be in close proximity to cigarettes. It was almost midnight in Rome but only four in the afternoon back home, leaving plenty of time to get a piece in the next day’s paper. He picked up the phone and rang to dictate his story to a copy-taker.