The Affair (11 page)

Job done, he drove down to the Via Margutta for a look around. Rock ‘n’ roll music was blaring from some windows above a large art gallery. He saw an entrance round the side and when he walked up the steps, no one gave him a second glance, even though his sandy hair clearly signalled he wasn’t Italian. Some guests were swaying to the music in a world of their own. Others sat dazed and saucer-eyed, staring into space. Yet more chatted with high animation and screeched with laughter. Scott hadn’t ever tried drugs and didn’t know anyone who had, but he’d read enough on the subject, especially in Norman Mailer’s articles, to realise this was the kind of behaviour you might expect. He was pretty sure he’d be able to get some of these people to talk, and the best thing was they’d be unlikely to remember the conversations next morning.

That’s what he would do. He would start investigating the Ghianciaminas, slowly and carefully building up a dossier of information until he was ready to publish. After it was in print, he’d have to leave the city and seek a posting elsewhere, probably with another paper. In the meantime, if he could keep his editor happy with a few stories about Elizabeth Taylor, that was all to the good.

‘
Vorresti LSD?’
a tall, slender girl offered.

‘Sure, why not?’ he replied, thinking he might as well get to know what it was like. She gave him a sugar cube and told him to let it dissolve on his tongue. After just a moment’s hesitation, he popped it in his mouth. He hadn’t expected to notice much difference but half an hour later he realised he felt immensely content with the world. Everyone at the party seemed extraordinarily good-looking and the music was the best he’d ever heard. He wandered round without talking to anyone, simply soaking in the vibe.

So this is it!
he thought in a moment of self-awareness.
It’s good stuff. Well, I’ll be damned.

In October, the temperature in Rome dropped by ten degrees and cold blustery rain set in. Instead of lounging on the grass inside Cinecittà’s main entrance, people sprinted from one building to another with coats held over their heads to protect their ancient Egyptian makeup and hairstyles. Huge puddles formed in the uneven pathways and girls shrieked as they stepped on loose paving stones, causing muddy water to splash up their bare legs.

Diana was invited to watch what Hilary called the ‘dailies’ – footage that had already been shot – in a screening room. She wasn’t sure why they wanted her there but Walter explained that if there were any dreadful mistakes they could fix them in editing.

‘In the worst-case scenario we can reshoot scenes but I’m hoping that won’t be necessary. On most films you can watch dailies at the end of the day they were shot – hence the name – but we have to courier the film stock back to LA for processing. We pack up the cans every night and send them off then it’s a week before the so-called “dailies” get back to us, by which time the sets have been taken down. So if something hasn’t worked out, it’s a complete pain in the proverbial.’ He smiled as he spoke, and Diana wondered if anything on set ever rattled his composure. She’d only ever seen him in good humour but he obviously had a dark side if Helen was right about him shooting his wife’s lover.

They took their seats, the lights were switched off and the projector cast a big white circle onto the screen, then diminishing numbers flashed up … 3, 2, 1. She saw the clapperboard slowly closing and a big cross appeared, before an image of Elizabeth Taylor and Rex Harrison. The sound had been synched on but there was no background music or sound effects so their voices seemed curiously flat. They watched one short sequence in which Cleopatra argued with Caesar, then the clapperboard came up again and they were in an entirely different and non-sequential scene.

Diana found it hard to follow the short snatches of action but she was impressed by Rex Harrison’s acting. He was easily plausible as Caesar, a man struggling to hold together the vast Roman empire but facing insurmountable problems due to the geographical distances and implacable enemies. Elizabeth Taylor, on the other hand, was simply playing Elizabeth Taylor. With her curious Anglo-American accent and modern looks, she bore no resemblance to the first century BC queen Diana had studied. Her extraordinary beauty and sexually charged acting were pure Hollywood.

The film was going to be a love story, not a historical documentary. Would cinemagoers have been interested in watching the true Cleopatra story of the woman who married her brother, ordered the deaths of her rivals, defeated foes in battle and bribed the Egyptian people to win their loyalty? To Diana’s way of thinking, the fact that, far from being beautiful, she had been hook-nosed, strong-jawed and stick-thin yet extremely quick-witted, made for a more entertaining story. But as it was, she could see that this was going to be a sentimental movie designed to showcase its star. There was nothing she could do to change that.

When the projector was switched off and the lights came on, they sat discussing what they’d seen, and Joe Mankiewicz suggested a couple of fill-in shots. The cameraman agreed and someone wrote it down. No one asked Diana’s opinion.

‘Great work, everybody,’ Walter beamed, and the group dispersed. Sheltering under a studio umbrella, Diana hurried back to the production office, wondering whether there was any point in her attending the dailies. They would never reshoot anything based on her opinion; that much was clear.

‘I’ve just been booking a trip for you,’ Hilary told her as she walked in and threw her wet brolly into a rack. ‘Joe wants you to check the sets they’re building in Ischia. I thought I’d ask Ernesto to go with you because he knows the people there. You OK to leave tomorrow?’

‘Yes, that would be fine.’ She sat down at her desk, racking her brains as she tried to remember where Ischia might be. ‘How long will I be away?’

‘Depends what you find, but no more than a week I’d say. Just long enough to tell the set builders what they’re doing wrong.’

Diana glanced over towards Hilary’s desk. It would feel odd to leave Rome without letting Trevor know where she was going. ‘Did the courier arrive from London?’

Hilary pursed her lips sympathetically. ‘Nothing for you. Hasn’t he replied yet?’

Diana shook her head.

‘Call him. Go on, I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.’ She got up and gave Diana a quick pat on the shoulder. ‘Stick to your guns but tell him you miss him. And good luck!’

Diana looked at the clock. Trevor was probably sitting at his desk over lunch. She placed the call through the operator and, almost as soon as it rang, she heard her husband’s voice on the end of the line. His secretary must have gone out.

‘Hello, it’s me. How are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I wrote to you. Did you get the letter?’

‘Yes, I got it.’

‘Why haven’t you replied?’ Diana asked.

‘I don’t know what you want me to say. Of course I miss you, but this wasn’t my decision.’ His tone chilled her. Suddenly she felt cross with him for being so unsupportive but she knew that nothing would be resolved if she lost her temper.

‘I’m going to Ischia tomorrow to check the outdoor sets. They’re building boats for the sea battle of Actium.’

‘No doubt that will be educational,’ he commented drily, then added ‘I’m sorry, but it’s hard for me to get excited about it from back here in rainy London.’

There was a long pause, then they both began to speak at once – him to say he had a tutorial to prepare and her pleading ‘Don’t shut me out, Trevor. Please come over to Rome, or at least write to me.’

‘Diana, it’s only a few weeks till Christmas. We can talk then. I don’t see any point in coming out beforehand to sit on my thumbs while you prance around with the stars.’

He was immovable. She had no choice but to agree that they would talk on her return. When she came off the phone, she sat for several minutes with her head in her hands. She knew him well enough to sense that, behind the curt tone, he was depressed and lonely. It had been selfish of her to leave him. She couldn’t blame him for his attitude but wished that he would at least support her now she was there. She was having the time of her life, and didn’t for one moment regret the decision she’d made.

Scott’s editor was pleased with the ostrich feather story but next time, he said, he wanted a picture of Elizabeth Taylor in the dress, and preferably while it was on fire.

‘Rome is crawling with photographers. Surely that’s not too hard to organise?’

Scott went to visit Jacopo Jacopozzi, the amiable chief of Associated Press in Rome. The walls of his office were covered in pictures of popes and presidents, movie stars and politicians.

‘You want it, we got it,’ Jacopozzi told him. ‘I’ve got people covering Elizabeth Taylor from the moment she steps onto her verandah for breakfast until her car takes her home from a restaurant at night. I can get shots from inside the film set, or whichever nightclub she happens to be in. Just say the word.’

‘Did you get the ostrich feather dress?’ Scott asked.

‘Sure,’ he shrugged. He flicked through some files on the desk in front of him and pulled out one that showed Elizabeth Taylor leaving the Grand Hotel in a white dress, with Eddie Fisher by her side. ‘Tazio Secchiaroli himself got this one. You’ve heard of him? He’s our best man. He’s getting more famous than the stars themselves, but he’s not cheap.’

‘How much to use that photo, for example?’

They discussed the rights needed, the print run, the size at which it would be used, and when Jacopozzi was finally pinned down to a price, Scott whistled in astonishment.

‘That much? I’ve got a budget less than a tenth of that.’ He named his figure.

‘It can’t be done, my friend. My photographers are bleeding me dry and I have a family to feed.’ The expensive clothes and swanky office belied his penury.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Scott tried to negotiate an affordable price but it was obvious they weren’t going to agree. Jacopozzi had plenty of business and no need to compromise, so they shook hands and Scott retreated to think of another plan.

That evening he sat outside a café on the Via Veneto watching the
paparazzi
at work. There was a lookout at either end of the street checking inside approaching cars and calling up or down the hill to alert colleagues to celebrities. Scooters were parked in the road, ready for a quick take-off. Scott watched as Richard Burton and his wife Sybil emerged from one car and walked into the Café de Paris.

‘Who are you planning to fuck on
Cleopatra
, Richard?’ one of the photographers yelled at him in English.

Another darted in front of them and a flashbulb exploded right in their faces.

Burton looked tight-lipped but didn’t rise to the bait. It made a photo much more valuable if the subject was yelling or shaking their fist and he knew better than to give them that prize.

Scott noticed that one photographer was standing apart from the crowd on a set of steps further up the street. He took several shots of the Burtons and Scott guessed they would work well from that angle. Draining his beer, he left some money on the café table and approached the man.

‘I’m Scott Morgan of
Midwest Daily
in the States. And you?’

‘Gianni Fortelesa.’

‘I’m looking for a photographer. Would you be interested in coming to the office tomorrow to show me some of your work?’

He realised straight away that he’d chosen well because Gianni’s face lit up. It was a competitive world out there on the street and he seemed keen and hungry. What’s more, he spoke good English.

‘I can’t pay Associated Press prices, but I can give you a retainer and a fee per picture. Bring the shots of the Burtons you took tonight and I’m sure I can use one of them.’

Next day the deal was struck and Scott wrote a quick story about Richard Burton to accompany Gianni’s best photo. He wrote that Burton had only got the role after Stephen Boyd dropped out and neither Marlon Brando or Peter O’Toole were available. The producers had to buy him out of the Broadway show
Camelot
,
where he was playing King Arthur to Julie Andrews’ Guinevere. He was a renowned womaniser who was said to have had affairs with Claire Bloom, Lana Turner, Angie Dickinson and Jean Simmons (while she had been married to his friend Stewart Granger). Sybil, his wife of twelve years, normally turned a blind eye.