clear he was keen. I’d love to see you again, he’d written.
An invitation to appear at the Venice Film Festival in September presented her with the perfect opportunity. Fuel shortages made driving to Venice difficult – and besides, stars were now being encouraged to use public transport as a show of solidarity with the general population. If she took the train to Venice, she could break her journey in Ferrara, the location of Vicenzo’s film. As she settled into her first-class carriage, she mused on the wisdom of her decision. She had no idea what sort of reception she might get: it was possible that Vicenzo might have forgotten her already – it had, after all, been five months since they’d last met. Perhaps she had been deluding herself all this time.
En route to Ferrara, the train stopped in Florence. She leant out of the carriage window and called out to a paper boy. ‘Do you have a copy of La Stampa?’ she asked, offering him a few coins.
He handed her the paper, and as she sat back down in her seat, it occurred to her that she had never been to Florence. She had lived in Italy for ten years and in that time her life had revolved completely around work, spending six days a week in a darkened studio in Rome. Perhaps now would be the time to get off the train and explore this beautiful city. The idea seemed momentarily enticing, but before she could make the decision, the guard had blown his whistle and the train pulled out of the station.
As they headed north, clattering through the Tuscan hills, Isabella read the paper. It carried depressing news of the war. Italian troops had been withdrawn from Libya to Tunisia with huge losses. Further down the front page was a devastating headline:
British Murder Cream Of Italian Youth
An Italian hospital ship called the Arno had been torpedoed and sunk in the Mediterranean by British aircraft. Isabella, who was not a particularly political animal, wondered about this story – surely it was illegal to blow up a hospital ship full of injured men.
For the first time in months, she thought about Ludovico. Her obsession with Vicenzo had almost driven her ex-lover from her mind. Now she wondered if he had been on the Arno, or was one of the soldiers battling hopelessly against the British in the North African desert.
Forty minutes later, the train pulled out of Bologna heading for Ferrara. Leaving the apricot-coloured city behind, it travelled through soft rolling hills and fields of wheat, burned dark gold by the sun.
Isabella gazed at the passing countryside, intermittently trying to concentrate on her newspaper, but the closer the train got to Ferrara, the more nervous she became, and she spent the rest of the short journey filled with indecision about the wisdom of visiting Vicenzo. Firstly, he might have forgotten her – a kind note in a basket of flowers sent months before was not the same as an actual invitation. Secondly, she would be bound to meet Clara Calamai, the actress who had won the part, and it might be awkward. Actors could be possessive of parts they had won, and she might resent Isabella’s presence on set. It was also possible, given Vicenzo’s reputation, that he would now be in a relationship with his leading lady. Finally, Isabella would have to face Massimo Girotti – the man who had knowingly, or otherwise, sabotaged her chance for the part. She could still recall him smirking when she had left the ballroom at Hotel Flora.
The guard announced Ferrara would be the next stop. Isabella’s head told her she should stay on the train and continue straight on to Venice. But as the train drew into the station, she took an impulsive and instinctive decision, gathered up her luggage and got off the train. After all, she reasoned, walking towards the taxi rank, if the encounter went badly she could always get the next train to Venice. She hailed a taxi with a renewed sense of determination.
‘The whole of Ferrara is excited about the filming,’ said the taxi driver. ‘The bar they’re using is on the outskirts.’ He studied Isabella in his mirror: she looked elegant in her cream coat and high-heeled shoes. ‘It’s not a very nice part of town – maybe I should wait for you, yes?’
‘Oh that’s kind, but I’ll be all right. I’m meeting someone there.’
The bar was just as the driver had described – a