her head discreetly in acknowledgement, and looked around the parking lot for her black open-topped Mercedes.
‘Do you remember where I parked my car?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, signorina… it’s just over there, by the gate.’
‘Oh yes, thank you. I was thinking about something else this morning, and I’d quite forgotten.’
‘Have a good evening, signorina,’ he said, delighted to have been singled out for this ‘chat’.
‘And you,’ she called back over her shoulder.
She threw her handbag onto the passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition. It always gave her a thrill to hear the roar of the engine. She remembered the first time she had ever driven a car – it was just after she had been signed to the studio, aged sixteen. Isabella had been ‘discovered’ while walking with her mother in the parkland surrounding Villa Borghese, Rome’s famous art gallery. Until that moment she had never considered acting, nor any kind of performing as a potential career; on the contrary, she was a serious, academic child with a knack for mathematics and languages. Born in Argentina to an Italian mother and an Argentinian father, she and her mother Giovanna had returned to Italy after her parents’ marriage collapsed. Her father had had a nervous breakdown, and her mother was determined to provide a better life for herself and her child. Back in Rome, they had moved into the small, shabby apartment of Giovanna’s mother and widowed sister, and there the four women had lived for the rest of Isabella’s childhood.
When a young director searching for a ‘new face’ for a film project spotted Isabella in the park, her mother realised it was an opportunity Isabella couldn’t afford to miss. This was just the kind of chance she had been hoping for when they ran away from Argentina, and offered an escape from their poverty. After a successful screen test, Isabella had been quickly signed to the studio, which schooled her in elocution and etiquette, before casting her in what would be the first of numerous films – with sometimes as many as six shot in a single year.
Isabella drove her Mercedes out of the studios and headed up the Via Tuscolana towards the centre of Rome. It was Saturday evening, and she was looking forward to Sunday, her only day off a week. With the roof down, she enjoyed the sensation of the wind whistling through her dark hair. She felt relaxed, driving with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting along the edge of the door. She now lived in an area of the city called Parioli, adjacent to Villa Borghese and its parkland. It was filled with wealthy and ambassadorial residences – most with three, or even four storeys, stuccoed and painted in various shades of terracotta, apricot and cream.
Isabella’s house was called Villa Rosa and, as its name suggested, was a shade of pink that cheered her the moment she first saw it. Sandwiched between two much larger properties, the house was a low two-storey building, with a row of arched windows on the ground floor overlooking a terrace at the back, beyond which stretched a private garden – something of a luxury in Rome. It had the advantage of being surrounded by high walls, which provided both security and seclusion – a key consideration for the stars of Cinecittà who were often dogged by fans curious to see the homes of their screen idols.
The house itself was not grand, but Isabella immediately realised it had enough space for both herself and her mother Giovanna, who having persuaded her daughter to become an actress, saw Isabella’s success as something of a personal achievement. To share in her daughter’s prosperity was her right, Giovanna felt, and Isabella would not have dreamt of refusing her mother – however overbearing she could be.
When she had first viewed Villa Rosa, Isabella was delighted to discover a small cottage in the garden, which seemed ideally suited for her mother. But Giovanna made it quite clear that her rightful place was in the larger house, and the cottage was now home to a married couple who worked as housekeeper and gardener.
Now, as she approached her pale-pink house, Isabella tooted her horn and almost immediately the large metal gates swung open. She swept into the drive, the gardener closing the gates behind her.
‘Buonasera, signorina,’ he said, taking the keys from her.
‘Buonasera, Giuseppe.’
She scanned the front garden, with its flower borders and lawn, overshadowed by two arching pine trees.