lowered her voice, gesturing to the film crew angrily staring at the slavering dog, ‘they can’t afford such luxury. You should show more respect.’
Isabella could feel her cheeks burning with fury and indignation. But Elsa ignored her, throwing the last pieces of the chicken carcass to the dog, finally licking her fingers, one by one.
‘The dog was hungry too, doesn’t he deserve a treat?’ Elsa gathered up her belongings. ‘I can see why they call you the tyrant,’ she called back, as she headed for the door. ‘Maybe you should learn to mind your own business.’
That evening, Isabella was due to attend a dinner at the Acquasanta Golf Club, south of Rome. This prestigious club had been laid out by a British groundsman just after the First World War, and its greens were considered to be amongst the most beautiful in the world. The clubhouse itself was a peach-coloured villa, with an elegant lounge decorated with chintz and antiques, and terraces overlooking the greens. The arching pines and meticulous landscaping gave one a sense of being in the middle of the countryside, although only a few miles from the busy centre of Rome. Isabella had been a member of the club for several years and enjoyed her time there, playing bridge, golf and tennis. But at the start of the war, Count Galeazzo Ciano, who was both Mussolini’s son-in-law and the Minister of Foreign Affairs, had adopted it as his unofficial headquarters. Now he held court there, surrounded by senior Fascists, aristocrats and movie stars. Isabella felt the whole atmosphere at the club had changed for the worse. That evening’s dinner was to be hosted by Ciano, and she regretted accepting the invitation.
‘I really don’t want to go,’ she said to her mother, while she powdered her face at the dressing table. ‘I’m tired after a day’s filming. Frankly I’d rather just go to bed.’
‘You must go,’ her mother insisted, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘These people are important – Count Ciano is Il Duce’s son-in-law, for heaven’s sake. You’re lucky to be invited.’
Isabella looked at her mother reflected in the dressing-table mirror.
‘You think so, do you? Do you have any idea what he’s like?’
Her mother shrugged.
‘He’s too fat,’ Isabella said, ‘and he has a voice like a clucking hen.’
Her mother laughed. ‘You’re very wicked.’
‘Well it’s true. He’s a ghastly person.’
‘Well, it’s your duty to go,’ her mother insisted, ‘and wear something glamorous.’
‘Isabella, darling.’ Ciano kissed her on both cheeks when she arrived, and whispered into her ear, ‘I hear our friend Elsa has been a naughty girl.’
Isabella looked at him, surprised. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh come on – everyone’s talking about it – the chicken in the canteen…’
‘Oh that. Yes, it was rather disgraceful.’
‘Il Duce heard about it,’ said Ciano, giggling. ‘He was furious, apparently.’
‘Oh dear,’ replied Isabella.
‘“Heads will roll!”’ Ciano’s impersonation of Mussolini was remarkable. ‘I fear salaries will be capped,’ Ciano went on. ‘He was apoplectic, shouting at anyone who would listen: “They’re paid too much.” He’s even talking of banning you all from driving to the studios. “They can all take the bloody tram from now on,” he said. Wouldn’t that be funny?’
Isabella smiled uncertainly. ‘Yes,’ she said nervously. ‘Screamingly funny.’
There was something slightly unhinged about Ciano, Isabella thought. Over dinner, where he insisted on sitting next to her – so he could ‘keep an eye on her’ – he ordered course after course, ostentatiously demonstrating his generosity to his ‘friends’ – the sportsmen and aristocrats keen to toady to the authorities and be on the edges of power. Once, as the main course was cleared away, Ciano’s hand delved beneath Isabella’s silk dress, and slid up her stockinged thigh, only stopping when his fat little fingers touched flesh. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, making Isabella jump. But when his fingers began to inch towards her underwear, she gasped audibly.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the man on her right – a tennis player, himself with a reputation as a ladies’ man.
‘Yes, perfectly,’ she replied weakly.
Ciano smirked, as his fingers slithered back down towards her knee, which he patted affectionately.
At the end of the evening, Ciano insisted on driving her back to her villa.
‘But I have my car here,’ she argued.
‘My people will bring it back for you.’
Nervously, she climbed into the back of Ciano’s chauffeur-driven black Alfa Romeo. He sat beside her and leant towards her, clearly hoping she would respond. She shifted away from him, moving closer to the