side, clipboard in hand.
‘Anna, could you please take Signorina Bellucci to the villa and arrange for her to have a room? She is joining us for dinner this evening.’ He turned to Isabella. ‘Darling, I must sort out a few things here – but we’ll meet later, yes?’
During the drive with Anna to the villa, Isabella thought about what she had just witnessed. She had been in the film industry long enough to know that directors could sometimes push their stars to the limit. She had experienced some demanding parts herself, but what Clara and Massimo had been asked to do was different. It was as if they were being asked to really inhabit the parts they played. Massimo must really love, but also hate, Clara. She must really feel pain – not just pretend to do so. It was disconcerting, and yet they should remember, Vicenzo was an artist, a true visionary, and it was the actor’s duty to interpret the director’s vision. They were lucky, she reasoned, to be in the presence of such a talent. And the thought that this man – this genius – had been so delighted to see her was thrilling. Here was a man she could really admire, a man she could adore. A man who was worthy of her love.
She could feel herself falling hopelessly under Vicenzo’s spell.
Six
Florence
August 1942
Florence had become a scalding cauldron and the buildings throbbed with heat. Pedestrians clung to the shadows, retreating to their apartments in the early afternoon, reappearing only when the sun had begun to go down. The university term now over, Livia and Elena filled their days with visits to cooling museums and occasional strolls in the Boboli Gardens.
One afternoon, they emerged from Palazzo Pitti into the bright sunshine, arm in arm, and headed north across the river.
‘It’s so hot,’ Livia said, ‘I think I’ll just go back home, do you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ replied Elena. ‘It’s a good idea – I need a sleep too.’
They crossed the Ponte Vecchio, stopping from time to time to admire the jewellery displays glittering in the shop windows.
‘Are you staying in Florence for the rest of the summer?’ asked Elena.
‘I doubt it,’ said Livia. ‘We’ll have to go back to the villa and see my grandfather, and I think my mother wants to visit some friends. What about you?’
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ Elena said wearily. ‘Papa has to work, and Mamma won’t leave him. Besides, we have no friends we can stay with.’
Livia felt a tinge of guilt. Her life could sometimes seem so much more interesting than Elena’s. She wondered if she should invite her to join the family in the country, but her mother could be difficult about spontaneous gestures involving people she didn’t know.
‘Have you heard from Cosimo?’ Elena asked, changing the subject.
‘No,’ complained Livia, as they walked into a small stationery shop. ‘It’s been months. I do worry about him – have you heard anything?’
‘He wrote to his mother a few weeks back. I only know because she told my mother about it. But it was one of those letters, you know, where he wasn’t really telling the truth.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh it was all, “I’m well, I’m doing fine, it’s not as bad as I thought…” All nonsense, of course. My father says it’s the most ill-judged military campaign in history. Even Hitler doesn’t want us in Russia.’
Livia had been examining a small notebook covered in turquoise marbled paper, wondering if she could afford to buy it; she now looked up at her friend tearfully. ‘Poor Cosimo. I think about him every day, you know. But I feel so helpless. What can we do?’
Elena shrugged. ‘Nothing… nothing at all.’
The shopkeeper cleared her throat, clearly irritated by the girls’ reluctance to buy anything.
Livia returned the notebook to the display. ‘Elena, we’d better go,’ she said quickly. ‘Let’s get together tomorrow. I don’t think I can bear another museum, but we could go back to the Boboli Gardens – at least there’s a bit of shade there.’
‘I’d like that,’ Elena said, kissing her friend. ‘See you tomorrow then.’
The moment Livia arrived back in the apartment, her mother started complaining. ‘It’s so hot it’s almost unbearable,’ Luisa exclaimed, mopping her forehead and peering at the thermometer she kept on the windowsill. ‘It’s forty-one degrees!’
Livia moved the thermometer into the shade. ‘I don’t think it’s quite that hot, Mamma, but it is very warm, I agree. What’s that odd smell?’ she asked, looking round the kitchen.
‘It’s this,