had made no declaration; nor had he suggested a meeting. It sounded almost like a farewell.
I miss you and think of you constantly. We are moving off tomorrow. I shall be stationed in Libya – I don’t know for how long, nor do I know how easy it will be to write once I’m there. I’m sorry I had to leave so suddenly. You must understand – I am a career soldier and I have my duty to perform. But I regret how we had to part.
I keep your picture with me at all times, next to my heart – just as I promised.
Take care of yourself,
With love
Ludovico.
‘He was a good catch,’ said Giovanna, adding another letter to the pile. ‘I’m surprised he’s not arranged to see you over Christmas.’
‘Maybe he’s busy, fighting the war,’ Isabella replied sarcastically, pushing a photograph into an envelope and sealing it.
‘Still…’ her mother went on, ignoring her daughter’s tone, ‘you should keep up with his parents. Go and see his mother, the Baroness, and ask her how he is.’
‘No,’ said Isabella firmly. ‘She was never very friendly to me.’
‘Well, she should be – you’re a movie star. Her son is just a soldier. He’d be lucky to have you.’
‘He’s not just a soldier. He’s an officer – and an aristocratic one at that.’
‘Exactly,’ said her mother, licking an envelope and sticking it down. ‘You go and see her. Just think, you could become “La Baronessa” one day.’
The following day, against her better judgement, Isabella found herself standing on the marble steps of Ludovico’s parents’ grand palazzo. Wearing a smart dark-red dress and her best fur coat, she fiddled nervously with her leather gloves, regretting she had allowed her mother to talk her into the visit. She was about to turn tail and leave, when the butler opened the door and ushered her into the grand salon.
The spectacular high-ceilinged room was decorated with florid paintings of fat-bottomed cherubs frolicking with bare-breasted women in classical dress. A pair of gilded sofas sat on either side of an ornate marble fireplace. Uncertain if she should sit uninvited, Isabella hovered anxiously by the long windows overlooking the elegant formal gardens.
The sound of high heels on a marble floor presaged the entrance of Ludovico’s mother. She swept into the room, her silver hair coiffed to perfection, a tight-fitting grey dress emphasising her slender frame.
‘You asked to see me?’ The Baroness stood in the doorway, studying Isabella disdainfully.
‘I just wondered if you’d heard anything,’ Isabella asked, her voice uncharacteristically tentative, ‘from Ludovico… as it’s Christmas.’
‘Well, if I have, I don’t think it’s any of your business.’
‘It’s just that I haven’t heard from him since October.’
Ludovico’s mother sat down wearily, gesturing to the silk-covered sofa opposite. ‘You’d better sit down.’
Isabella sat nervously on the edge of the seat, fidgeting with the buttons of her dress. ‘He wrote to me from Sicily,’ she began. ‘He said he was about to move on… to North Africa.’
‘Yes.’ His mother pursed her rouged lips.
‘I just wanted to know… if he’s all right.’
‘As far as I know.’ The Baroness stared down at her manicured hands.
‘He explained it would be hard to write from Libya.’
‘Did he?’ She looked up at Isabella. ‘Well, he’s written to me.’ She emphasised the word.
Isabella bit her lip nervously.
‘You might as well know,’ his mother went on, her voice conveying profound irritation, ‘Ludovico’s commanding officer, Marchese Alfonso di Castelnuovo, made it quite clear that he should dispense with this unsuitable liaison.’ She spat out the word as if it were an unpleasant taste in her mouth.
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Isabella asked defensively. She could feel her eyes prickling with tears of humiliation.
‘A man has a duty – to his country, in particular. Ludovico is a serving army officer. He has a reputation to maintain. He can’t be seen in the company of an actress.’ Again she spat out the word. ‘We are at war, you know – or maybe you don’t understand that in your strange little film world.’
Isabella had never heard anyone speak so harshly – either to her, or about her profession. She felt reprimanded, like a naughty child at school. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, suddenly rising to her feet.
‘Yes, it’s better that you go.’
When Isabella reached the door of the grand salon, Ludovico’s mother called after her. ‘It would never have worked between you – your backgrounds are too different. Please don’t come back.’
Isabella hurried down the long drive and climbed into her car, slamming the door.