shabby building on one side of a piazza. A crowd of eager onlookers had been fenced in on the opposite side of the square. They parted as Isabella approached them, muttering amongst themselves. Many recognised her and asked for her autograph. She stopped for a few moments and graciously signed their autograph books, before walking across the piazza. Harsh light spilled out from the windows of the bar, which was surrounded by tottering piles of metal camera cases, film lights and foldaway chairs. A group of technicians hung about outside, smoking and chatting quietly. They recognised Isabella as she approached, standing up awkwardly and stubbing out their cigarettes beneath their shoes, like naughty schoolchildren caught out by a teacher.
‘Hello everyone,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Don’t mind me, Vicenzo invited me.’
They visibly relaxed; one or two lit up again and a young props assistant took her suitcase and picked up one of the foldaway chairs. ‘He’s still shooting a scene,’ he said, offering her a seat, ‘but they’ll be finished soon. It’s nearly six o’clock.’
They made whispered conversation, while in the background she could hear the familiar sounds of a film in production – the clapperboard at the start of each shot, the raised voices of the actors, punctuated by the comments of the director.
‘You must hit her, Massimo,’ Isabella heard Vicenzo shouting. ‘You hate her now, remember…’
She heard a slap, and then a woman – presumably Clara Calamai, the actress – crying out. The technicians glanced uneasily at one another.
‘Cut, cut!’ Vicenzo said irritably. ‘Harder, Massimo. Really hit her – two or three times.’
‘But if I do that, I’ll kill her!’ the actor protested.
Finally, a voice called out: ‘It’s a wrap.’ The film lights spilling out from the bar were instantly extinguished, and slowly the crew emerged into the evening sunlight – among them Clara, her face red and raw. It was obvious she had been crying. She glanced briefly at Isabella, before walking hurriedly towards a caravan that had been set up on one side of the square as a dressing room.
As the crew packed up the equipment into the metal boxes, Isabella could hear Massimo Girotti arguing with Vicenzo from inside the bar. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it was clear from the actor’s raised voice that he was angry. Suddenly she felt like an intruder. A film set was a private, secretive place reserved for the family of actors, and not for casual visitors. She began nervously to look around, searching for another taxi, but the only people in the square were the eager onlookers. If she were to leave now, she would have to run the gauntlet of the fans, carrying her suitcase. She felt trapped and awkward, regretting she had not stayed on the train.
‘Little Bella!’ Vicenzo’s voice interrupted her thoughts. He was standing in the doorway to the bar, wearing dark-blue jeans and an open-necked black shirt, his dark hair flopping over his forehead. He rushed towards her, put his arms around her and kissed her on both cheeks, before standing back, his hands on her shoulders, just as he had done that day in Hotel Flora, gazing at her intently. ‘You came! You actually came!’ He sounded so delighted that all her anxieties melted away.
‘I did,’ she said shyly. ‘I hope it’s all right – I don’t want to interrupt.’
‘You’re not.’ He lit a cigarette and exhaled. ‘We’ve finished for the day – it’s perfect timing.’
Girotti followed him out of the bar, shading his eyes against the evening light with dark glasses. He looked tired, Isabella thought, his shoulders slumped. He too lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, before noticing Isabella.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Just passing through,’ she replied casually. ‘I’m on my way to Venice – to the film festival,’ she added superfluously.
He didn’t reply. He just shrugged, before shuffling across the square and into his caravan, slamming the door behind him.
‘It’s been a difficult day,’ said Vicenzo. ‘But we’re getting there.’
‘I see,’ said Isabella, nodding towards the pair of caravans. ‘I hope they don’t mind me being here.’
‘Why should they?’ he asked. ‘Now, I insist that you have dinner with us. You can’t get to Venice now – it’s far too late. Besides, we have a big villa here for the artists, with plenty of room. Please say you will stay?’
She blushed with pleasure. ‘I’d love to, thank you.’
Vicenzo looked around for his assistant. The tall girl Isabella remembered from the hotel appeared magically at his