raging in Egypt between the Anglo-American ‘Allies’ and the ‘Axis powers’ of Germany and Italy.
‘We have virtually no transport, nor munitions,’ he said in an almost amused fashion, sipping a large whisky. ‘Really it’s quite absurd. How Il Duce thinks he will bring the whole campaign to a successful conclusion is beyond me. He spent three weeks over there in the summer, thinking he would be making a triumphal march into Alexandria, before he had to admit defeat and slink back to Italy.’
The Germans laughed. It was widely known that Hitler disdained his Italian counterpart.
Isabella, observing from the shadows, was struck by Ciano’s disloyalty. He loved to entertain and be the centre of attention – that was his weakness. The more his audience laughed, the more indiscreet he became.
‘The Allies have appointed a new man, a funny little chap called Montgomery,’ he went on, tipping whisky down his throat. ‘It’s obvious they’re not giving up the Suez Canal without a struggle. What with that and Stalingrad, it’s not looking good, it really isn’t.’
One or two of the Italian guests began to mutter and shift uncomfortably in their seats.
Ciano looked around, beaming at his audience, and noticed Isabella. ‘Isa, darling,’ he began. He had taken to calling her ‘Isa’ and she hated it. ‘What on earth are you doing over there? Come and sit by me.’ He patted the leather sofa next to him, and two young actresses, who had been sitting on either side of him, were moved to make room for ‘my favourite’. The women seemed unconcerned, happily joining a group of German embassy officials, laughing on cue and fluttering their eyelashes. The men appeared delighted, whispering into their ears, their hands sliding up the young women’s thighs.
Isabella dutifully took her place on the sofa next to Ciano, while inwardly resenting the assumption that actresses were there for the taking.
‘What are you doing about the strikes in the north?’ one of the guests asked him.
‘It’s a problem, I admit,’ Ciano said. ‘Genoa is full of discontent. Il Duce is unhappy about it. “They are afflicted by moral weakness,” he says.’
‘Perhaps it’s the relentless bombing that’s making them so unhappy,’ ventured one of his entourage. ‘After all, I hear the Allies have been attacking them mercilessly.’
‘Possibly.’ Ciano replied. ‘In any case, the Neapolitans are Mussolini’s favourites. He respects their fatalism, caused by years of hardship. They have even composed some ironical songs about the English which they sing loudly during bombing attacks!’ He laughed gaily, his audience dutifully following suit.
As the evening wore on, Isabella thought wistfully of Vicenzo and his sensitive, fascinating conversation. By contrast, Ciano was an egotistical bore. By nine o’clock, she’d had enough and made her excuses.
‘Count, I’m so sorry, but I suddenly have a blinding headache. I really think I should go. Will you forgive me?’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Ciano sulked, ‘you can’t leave now – we’ve not had dinner yet.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘but I really must go.’
She turned at the door of the club room to wave goodbye, but Ciano was already deeply engrossed in another of his own anecdotes.
The following day, Isabella eagerly anticipated her dinner with Vicenzo. He had promised to collect her in his car at eight o’clock, and late in the afternoon, her mother found her, dressed in a slip, trying on various outfits. Those she had rejected lay in an abandoned tangle on the bed.
‘Wear this,’ her mother advised, extracting a fitted dress made of fine scarlet wool from the bottom of the pile. ‘It’s very ladylike, but sexy; men like that.’
‘I’m not sure.’ With one hand Isabella held the red dress up to her body, while clutching a pale-grey suit with the other. ‘I was thinking about wearing this.’
‘Oh no!’ Her mother snatched the suit away. ‘You’ll look like someone’s mother in that.’
Vicenzo arrived on the dot of eight, while Isabella was putting the finishing touches to her make-up. He tooted his horn and swept into the drive. From her bedroom window she watched him walking towards the house. Her heart beat loudly in her chest as she picked up her handbag and gave herself a final look in the mirror. Her lipstick matched the red dress perfectly. As she walked along the landing, she heard the front door opening, and Vicenzo beginning to chat amiably with her mother. At the top of the stairs, she coughed discreetly to attract his attention.
‘Goodness!’ he said, glancing up at her. ‘Very femme fatale.’