Isabella returned to Rome after the Venice Film Festival feeling tired and distracted. With no new film project to concentrate on, she found herself dwelling on the evening she had spent with Vicenzo in the villa in Ferrara. He had made such a fuss of her in front of everyone, insisting she sat next to him at dinner, directing all his conversation towards her. It made her feel special, and she began to truly believe that he was deeply attracted to her. To Isabella’s relief, it became clear during dinner that Clara Calamai had no personal interest in Vicenzo. In fact she had almost completely ignored everyone that evening, and instead was deep in conversation with her leading man. Perhaps she and Massimo Girotti were having an affair – it would certainly explain Girotti’s earlier fury with the director. It was bad enough, Isabella thought, having to hit an actress across the face, but when that actress is the woman you love, it would be intolerable.
At the end of the evening, as the group began to break up, drifting off upstairs in ones and twos, Isabella lingered at the table. She wondered if Vicenzo might try to seduce her – in fact, she rather hoped he would. But he didn’t, joining in with the banter of the remaining film crew – the hard drinkers who enjoyed the late nights after filming. Eventually, Isabella realised that Vicenzo would never make the first move, so she left the table, saying it was time for her to go to bed.
She hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, hoping he might follow her, and when she saw him coming into the hall behind her, her heart began to race in anticipation.
‘Well, goodnight little Bella.’ He cupped her face in his hands, and gazed deeply into her eyes. ‘You must be tired after your journey.’
‘I’m not that tired,’ she said teasingly.
To her disappointment, he kissed her chastely on the cheek. ‘Sleep well,’ he murmured. He then returned to the dining room; she heard the sound of male laughter, and a cork being removed from a bottle.
She waited in her room for half an hour, hoping he would come to her. Finally she undressed and got into bed. Perhaps, she reasoned, he didn’t want to embarrass her in front of his colleagues. Or maybe he was just an old-fashioned gentleman.
When she woke the following morning and went downstairs in search of him, she found a note addressed to her on the hall table, written in his elegant graphic script.
My little Bella – it was wonderful to see you. We had to leave early and I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye. Enjoy Venice and let’s meet back in Rome…
In Rome, she waited eagerly for his return to the capital and, true to his word, as soon as his film project was completed, he phoned her one evening.
‘I’m back at last,’ he said, ‘and wondered if you’d have dinner with me.’
‘I’d love to,’ she replied enthusiastically.
‘Tonight?’
‘Oh dear.’ She couldn’t keep the regret out of her voice. ‘I can’t tonight. I have another engagement.’
‘Tomorrow then?’
She was nervous of seeming too eager but was desperate to see him. ‘Yes,’ she said – too quickly.
‘I’ll pick you up at home, at eight o’clock.’
That evening’s ‘engagement’ was a dinner hosted by Count Ciano at the Acquasanta Golf Club. Work had kept her away from the club over most of the summer – which was convenient, as Ciano’s overt flirtations had become tiresome. She loathed his attention, and yet to display any irritation or displeasure would be career suicide. Instead, she walked a tightrope between charming indifference and politeness. It infuriated her, because the club had always been something of a second home – a refuge from the film industry and her mother, where she could enjoy a game of golf or tennis, and in the evenings play cards. But since Ciano’s arrival, the atmosphere at the club had become increasingly oppressive. Instead of the usual games and idle chat, members hovered nervously around the bar, hoping to be part of Ciano’s court.
When she arrived, Isabella hung back, standing to one side of the room. The Count was surrounded by his usual coterie of adoring followers, including one or two representatives of the German Embassy in Rome – stiff men wearing Teutonic jackets and wing collars. Ciano was in the middle of a long diatribe about the Africa Campaign and the battles that were currently