as the wine was served. ‘I saw the Venus and Cupid exhibition. I particularly enjoyed the painting by the German artist, Lucas Cranach.’
‘I loved that exhibition,’ Isabella said, ‘although I can’t remember the Cranach offhand.’
‘You’ve seen it?’ he asked, clearly surprised. ‘So you’re an art lover then?’
‘Oh yes,’ Isabella replied, mildly irritated to be so patronised. ‘I don’t pretend to be an expert, but I go to the gallery quite often. I live just across the park.’
‘I must call in and see you when I’m next there,’ he said.
The following day, Isabella received a note from Wolff, inviting her to dinner. She instantly regretted being so charming the evening before. Why did powerful men always presume that actresses existed purely for their pleasure? But to refuse him could be dangerous. It would draw attention to herself and risk his anger. Equally, it would be madness to agree to meet him.
She wrote back explaining she had contracted the flu and would be forced to stay in bed for the next week.
A bouquet of flowers arrived the following afternoon with a note.
I hope you get better soon – perhaps we might meet at the gallery?
Having told the lie, she felt trapped in her house, for fear that he or one of his henchmen might be outside, spying on her. But after a couple of days with only her mother, aunt and grandmother for company, she decided to risk leaving the villa, in order to seek out the one person who always gave her solace.
It was a hot, humid afternoon in August when she set off for Vicenzo’s house wearing a cap-sleeved gingham dress and gold sandals. When she was halfway across the park, it occurred to her that he might not even be there. His family usually spent the summer on their estate on the coast, and she knew he had already sent on most of the staff. So she was relieved, as she walked up the drive, to see the dogs lying as usual in the cool of the porch. If they were there, so must be Vicenzo. The dogs stood up as she approached, and gently nuzzled her hand.
‘Good boys,’ she said gently. ‘Where’s your master?’
The dogs lay back down with a sigh and closed their eyes.
Isabella knocked on the door, but there was no reply. She walked around the side of the house, surprised at her boldness. Perhaps he had fallen asleep in the garden, she thought.
The house appeared silent, but as she approached the back terrace, she heard a woman’s laughter – his sister, Luciana, perhaps. As she turned the corner, she saw Vicenzo sitting on a cane sofa next to a young woman. She had blond hair and wore a white figure-hugging dress. Isabella recognised her immediately as a young actress, recently contracted by Cinecittà. Vicenzo was in full flow, clearly in the middle of an amusing anecdote, and the girl was laughing gaily – gazing up at him enraptured.
Isabella stood for a few moments observing the pair jealously, but the blonde soon noticed Isabella out of the corner of her eye; she nudged Vicenzo who leapt to his feet.
‘Isabella, darling. I didn’t know you were here.’
‘I did knock,’ she said nervously, ‘but there was no answer. The dogs were lying on the doorstep, so I presumed you were at home. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I should go.’
‘No, stay. You know Miranda, don’t you?’
‘We haven’t yet been introduced.’ Isabella smiled frostily at the girl. ‘But it’s nice to meet you.’
The girl smirked.
‘Miranda and I were talking about a possible part in my next film,’ Vicenzo said disarmingly, ‘although when I will have a chance to make it, I don’t know.’
The girl was young – no more than eighteen or nineteen. Her skin was fresh, her eyes clear and very blue. She was delicate and gamine.
‘I’m interrupting, I should go.’ Isabella suddenly felt uncomfortable. She retreated, hurrying around the side of the house, but Vicenzo followed her.
‘Isabella cara, wait.’ He grabbed her arm and swung her round to face him. She had tears in her eyes. ‘It’s not what you think,’ he said.
‘No? I think perhaps it’s very much what I think.’
‘It’s not,’ he insisted.
‘So you don’t like that girl?’ she asked. ‘She’s very beautiful.’
‘She’s pretty enough, yes, but no prettier than you. And yes, I like her, but no more than that.’
‘There has to be some reason,’ Isabella said, fighting back the tears, ‘why you don’t love me.’
‘But I do love you.’ He took