The Affair (50 page)

Two bottles of champagne were drained and Diana was beginning to feel tipsy although she knew she hadn’t drunk as much as half a bottle herself. Trevor was looking flushed but happy. She realised it was the first time she’d seen him properly happy since she told him that Walter Wanger wanted her to come and work in Rome.

‘Shall we go for dinner?’ Richard suggested. ‘
Fettuccine
at Alfredo’s? I’ll get Dick Hanley to reserve a table.’

‘We’d better warn Diana and Trevor what it’s like out there.’ Elizabeth caught Richard’s eye for a second then turned to them. ‘Since the beginning of what Richard and I call
Le Scandale
, the press attention has been somewhat terrifying. When the car pulls up, you need to get out quickly and walk straight for the entrance with your head down. Don’t look at the photographers and, whatever you do, don’t respond to anything they say. They can be vile and it’s best not to listen.’

‘Oh yes,
Le Scandale
could have turned us into hermits if we’d let it.’ Richard stood up. ‘But when in Rome, we do as the Romans do and eat at Alfredo’s.’

Trevor chuckled. ‘You know that quotation dates back to a letter by St Augustine saying that Romans fast on Saturdays and you should do the same when you’re there? But it’s a Saturday today and I’m starving, so
fettuccine
it is.’

Richard put his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder. ‘I think this man might possibly know everything. We should keep him around. It could be handy for settling arguments.’

‘Don’t say that, darling. We
never
argue.’ This was obviously a private joke, as she raised her eyebrows dramatically and he laughed.

Trevor sat in the front seat of Elizabeth’s car, alongside the same driver who had given him a silk handkerchief after his previous visit, while Diana slipped into the back seat with the two stars. Her leg was pressed against Richard’s but far from being embarrassed the champagne had relaxed her so she enjoyed the moment. She’d totally revised her opinion of Richard now she had seen his emotional side and heard him reciting poetry. She felt special, honoured to be in their presence and witnessing the great love affair close up.

The car pulled up outside Alfredo’s and Diana climbed out, realising belatedly that she was on the road side rather than the pavement side and would have to push her way through a horde of photographers to get to the restaurant entrance. The noise level was extraordinary, like a steam train whistling right by your ear, and the assault of the flashbulbs disorientated her. For a second she couldn’t decide which direction to walk in and stood, dazzled, as if snow-blind.

‘Come on.’ Richard’s voice was right next to her and he grasped her elbow, pulling her behind him as he elbowed his way through the crowd. She couldn’t see anything for the flashbulbs, but she did hear someone shout, ‘Is she your new tart, Richard?’ and realised with a shock they were talking about her.

They pushed inside the restaurant door and instantly the noise level dropped. Elizabeth and Trevor were already there, waiting for them, and she noticed that Trevor looked a bit dazed. How could Elizabeth and Richard put up with that cacophony every time they went out? It seemed to Diana a high price to pay for fame.

‘Thank you for rescuing me,’ she said to Richard.

He grinned. ‘Welcome to our lives. That’s your baptism of fire.’

The eponymous Alfredo himself came to lead them to a quiet table near the back. Diana kept her eyes forwards but all the same she was conscious of every single head turning as they crossed the room.

‘I think we all want
fettucine
,’ Richard ordered, looking round the three of them.

‘Oh, definitely,’ Elizabeth agreed. ‘Do you know the story? It’s so romantic. Alfredo’s wife lost her appetite while she was pregnant with their first child. She couldn’t face food, and he was worried about her, so he went into the kitchen to create a dish he knew she wouldn’t be able to resist. And the result was
fettuccine alfredo
, which is now served all over the world. I think that’s charming. Will you invent a dish for me one day, Richard?’

‘If a miracle ever happens and you lose your capacious appetite then I’ll give it some consideration.’

They sat on a banquette pressed close together. Elizabeth took out a cigarette and Richard leapt to light it. He filled her glass, spread the napkin on her lap, was attentive to her every need, and she glowed with the attention.

Some red wine was brought and Diana accepted a glass. She knew she was getting properly drunk but for once decided not to stop herself. It made her more talkative and she began to tell them some gossip from the set: her suspicion that Joe Mankiewicz and his assistant, Rosemary Matthews, were becoming more than just work colleagues.

‘He’s a dark horse, old Joe,’ Richard commented. ‘Good for him.’

I’m turning into Helen
, Diana thought with a twinge of guilt. But then the whole of Cinecittà was rife with gossip and neither was married so there was no harm done.

The conversation became increasingly silly as they proposed toasts to their forthcoming trip to Ischia, to the asp that bit Cleopatra’s breast, and to poor silly Antony. Richard kept reaching for the pepper mill or the wine just so that he could accidentally-on-purpose brush his hand past Elizabeth’s magnificent breasts, and she smiled indulgently. In retaliation for a cheeky retort she turned and kissed his cheek, leaving a perfect lipstick outline of her mouth, then hooted with laughter. It was obvious they truly enjoyed being with each other.

Trevor offered to pay half the bill but Richard wouldn’t hear of it. They then had to run the gauntlet of the photographers on the way back out to the car. This time the nearside car door was open and Diana scurried with her head down and leapt in, but she turned to see Richard with his arm around Elizabeth, both of them standing with heads held high as twenty or thirty flashbulbs fired at once, illuminating them with an eerie halo. It was a glorious yet unnerving sight.

The driver dropped Diana and Trevor at Diana’s
pensione
and they all kissed goodnight – Richard even kissed Trevor on the lips, which seemed uproariously funny at the time – then they clambered upstairs and fell into bed.

Diana slept for an hour or two but opened her eyes at four a.m., suddenly wide awake. She reran all the wonderful memories of the evening, particularly the life-affirming happiness that Elizabeth and Richard felt in each other’s presence, and knew that she had never experienced that. Her relationship with Trevor had been about comfort and support, intellectual stimulation and practicality. They cared deeply about each other, but there had never been that fiery passion. They’d never truly had that exhilaration at the sheer fact of being together. And now that Helen’s death had underlined the fragility of existence, Diana wondered whether that was enough. She could get knocked down by a car, or be in a plane crash or fall off a boat at any moment.

Was life too short to stick with the loving companionship they had rather than pursuing the ‘great love’ Elizabeth and Richard shared? She certainly didn’t want to hurt Trevor any more. She just wasn’t sure that going back to the life they’d had before was an option.

Several days went by and still Scott hadn’t heard from the editor about his article. He was surprised because he knew it was good writing and he believed it was a compelling story that would concern American readers, because a lot of the drugs that ended up on their city streets were coming via Italy. So why the delay? Could his editor be on holiday perhaps? But he never took holidays. Were they debating the best way to break the story for maximum impact?

The call came on a Monday evening, just as Scott was about to leave the office.

‘It’s a brilliant piece of writing, Scott. And you’ve obviously been very brave – some would say foolhardy – in your research. But unfortunately we can’t print it.’

Scott sat down hard in his chair, the wind knocked out of him. ‘You’re kidding! Why not?’

‘First of all, the legal team have been through it with a red pen and there’s very little left. You can change the names and disguise them with asterisks but anyone who ever reads a newspaper in Rome would know who you were talking about and that makes it libellous – unless you can prove your allegations, which you obviously can’t.’

‘I’ve just found out that Luigi’s dead, so he’s not going to sue,’ Scott argued.

‘Yes, but the meat of the story is at the top of the tree where the Ghianciaminas are bribing government ministers and you simply can’t say that, can you? They’ll either kill you or they’ll sue you or both.’

‘They might try to kill me but they wouldn’t sue because that would be like putting their hands up and admitting “Yes, it’s us, we’re the crime family he’s talking about.” Don’t you see? That’s the beauty of it.’

There was a hoarse laugh. ‘You’ve given me a few headaches over the months you’ve been in the post, but believe it or not I’d rather keep you alive. I don’t want any of my reporters being gunned down if I can possibly help it.’

Scott cast round desperately for arguments. ‘You have to print it. I’ll resign if you don’t. I’ll walk out, just as Bradley did.’

‘If you walked out I would simply appoint a new correspondent in your place and nothing would have been achieved. Look, Scott, don’t throw your piece away. Save it. Turn it into a book about the Mafia one day. Widen your research while you’re there, and send it out to publishers once you’ve left Italy and are safely ensconced elsewhere. Meanwhile, my Berlin correspondent is moving on this autumn and the job’s yours if you fancy covering the front line of the Cold War.’

That stopped Scott in his tracks. He’d love to be in Berlin, where the government of the German Democratic Republic had started building a second wall several yards from the first, creating a no-man’s land in the middle. But still he wanted his story published. ‘If I can get more evidence against the Ghianciaminas would you print it then?’

‘No.’

‘What if I offer it elsewhere, to a magazine?’

‘I suppose I wouldn’t stop you, even though it’s in breach of your contract. But wait till the autumn and let me get you out of Rome before it’s in print. Is that a deal?’

Scott agreed that it was, but he decided to start looking into a magazine publishing deal straight away because it might take several months to come to fruition. He didn’t have any contacts in that world and was reluctant to ask his father for help. Instead, he decided to go to the Eden Hotel bar and ask among the foreign press hacks to see if anyone could give him a lead. He hoped they still drank there. It had been weeks since he bothered to look them up, but he guessed they were creatures of habit.

There was a surprise waiting for him as he walked out onto the rooftop terrace and called ‘Hi guys!’ to the assembled crowd.

A short, baby-faced man wearing round black glasses turned and looked at him quizzically. ‘Well, he’s a handsome one. Who’s going to introduce me?’

Joe stepped forward. ‘Truman, this is Scott Morgan of the
Midwest Daily
. Scott, meet Truman Capote.’

And that was unmistakably who it was, all five foot three of him, with his high-pitched, effeminate Southern accent and his pinstriped suit with a silk kerchief spilling from the pocket. Scott was stunned. So Joe had been telling the truth about their friendship after all!

‘Enchanted to meet you, Scott Morgan,’ he proclaimed, holding Scott’s hand for much longer than was comfortable.

Truman continued relating an anecdote he had been in the midst of before Scott arrived. ‘Poor Elizabeth is simply beside herself with this pesky woman who simply won’t let go. She does a wicked imitation of her, by the way. “Rich-
ard
, come and take the trash out, Rich-
ard
.”’ He adopted a falsetto that came out as a squeak. ‘She called me and said, “Come to Rome, darling, and we can do some witchy spells to make Sybil slither back to the rain-soaked mountains of Wales.” So that’s what we’re doing – making spells!’ He gulped the remainder of his drink and called the bartender across. ‘I’ll have a Justerini & Brooks, darling. Make it a big one.’

‘That’s a J & B whisky,’ Joe whispered to Scott. ‘He gets mad if bartenders don’t know it. Luckily this one has served him before.’

‘So what’s the news with you, Spike?’ one of the other hacks asked, and Scott’s nickname was explained to Truman Capote.

‘Have you been spiked recently?’ he asked, with a lascivious twinkle.

‘Actually, I have,’ Scott began, before cottoning on to the innuendo. ‘Yeah, yeah, have a good laugh, boys.’ He waited till they had stopped chortling before he carried on. ‘I was going to ask if you guys know any magazine editors who might be interested in a new journalism piece about the drugs trade in Italy? My editor won’t touch it.’

‘Drugs? Naughty, naughty. Have you been doing personal research?’ someone asked.

‘I don’t suppose you could get me a little something, could you?’ Truman Capote asked. ‘Some
co-ca
maybe?’

‘Sure,’ Scott agreed. ‘I’ve got some in my office. We could stop there afterwards if you want.’