At least now she knew the truth: his last letter had been a goodbye, perhaps demanded by the army, or more likely by his parents. She was not good enough, not aristocratic enough, to be the young Baron’s wife. Humiliated, she quickly drove back home, where she ran upstairs and locked herself in her bedroom. As she lay sobbing on her bed, she heard a knock at the door.
‘Isabella… Isabella, what’s happened?’ It was her mother.
‘Just go away… please.’
‘Oh Isabella, don’t be silly… let me in.’
‘No! I should never have listened to you. I knew it was a mistake to go there. His mother hates me. She told me to go away and not come back. I’m not good enough for him, apparently. Please just leave me alone.’
She lay in the dark, listening to her mother’s retreating footsteps.
The following morning, Isabella emerged wearing slacks and a sweater, her make-up done, her hair perfectly arranged. In the dining room, she drank a cup of coffee and sifted through her mail in silence.
Her mother, sitting at the other end of the table, looked up from the newspaper. ‘Are you feeling better this morning?’
‘Of course,’ said Isabella crisply. ‘I have a busy day… it’ll take my mind off things.’
‘Good.’ Her mother poured herself another cup of coffee. ‘Are you filming?’
‘No, photographs – but I am going to the studios. “Today we are knitting!”’ she announced, with an ironic smile.
The Ministry encouraged actors who worked for Cines, the State-sponsored production company, to take part in staged photographs. These were then sent out to the press and film magazines to cheer the population. The pictures showed them performing everyday activities like knitting scarves and hats for the troops in Russia, or shopping on a bicycle, their baskets filled with produce.
‘But you hate knitting,’ her mother pointed out.
Isabella drained her coffee cup and stood up to go. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Isabella did indeed hate knitting. She also rarely shopped for food – her housekeeper or her mother did that. And yet, apparently, these were the photographs that people wanted to see. Photographs that proved what delightfully ‘ordinary’ people the stars really were. Isabella convinced herself that it was harmless publicity, and yet there was a dishonesty about it. Ordinary people’s baskets were not filled with produce from the markets; in fact, they were increasingly empty. Actors like Isabella were spared the worst of this hardship – after all, they had enough money and could buy food on the black market. Besides, the restaurants they frequented with their influential friends had an almost limitless supply of food and drink, which the general population could only dream of.
Another PR photo-shoot had been arranged a few days later by the minister, Alessandro Pavolini. Isabella and several other actresses were to visit wounded soldiers in a military hospital just outside Rome. To ensure they arrived at the hospital in good time, they were to be collected by taxi.
‘No Doris today?’ asked Isabella, as she climbed into the back seat.
‘No,’ said Elsa De Giorgi, making room for her. ‘She’s coming down separately, apparently – in Alessandro’s car.’
‘Trust her,’ said Isabella, settling into her seat and smiling at the others.
The women were all immaculately dressed, wearing fur coats and hats, as if they were off on a glamorous outing.
‘I wonder who they’ve lined up for us this time?’ asked Isabella. ‘The last visit we did, the soldiers were so handsome they could have been chosen by Central Casting. I don’t think any of them had anything worse than a broken arm.’
‘Our brave soldiers!’ said Elsa sarcastically. ‘So talented and clever that they never even get injured!’
When the actresses arrived, they were surprised to find themselves shown into a ward filled with badly wounded men. One bed was surrounded by bulky studio lights, their cables trailing across the floor. A studio movie camera had been set up on a tripod pointing at a heavily bandaged man. Nurses trying to attend to him were having to step over the cables, and squeeze past the film crew, idly standing around, waiting for the director to start.
‘What’s going on?’ Elsa demanded.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ said the unit manager. ‘We’re shooting a movie, signora.’
‘We thought we were here for photographs,’ protested Isabella. ‘Not a movie.’
‘Those are my orders, signora,’ said the director apologetically, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I’ll run you through your lines.’
‘What lines?’ Elsa asked.
‘Look,’ said the director wearily, ‘Pavolini will be here soon. Just co-operate… all right? Then we can all get home a bit quicker.’