The Affair (9 page)

Helen tried on a pretty black and white sweater with a geometric pattern but put it back on the rack.

‘Why don’t you get it?’ Diana asked. ‘It suits you.’

‘I’m broke until payday. Going out every night is costing me an arm and a leg.’

‘Let me treat you,’ Diana said. ‘I insist. It’s a gift to thank you for being so helpful today. I’d have walked out without finding anything if you hadn’t been here.’

Helen protested but Diana simply picked up the sweater and added it to her pile on the cashier’s desk. As she wrote a travellers’ cheque to cover the bill, she felt a twinge of guilt about Trevor. Of course, this wasn’t just her money – it was his as well. He was paying all the bills at home. She would write to him that evening, as Hilary suggested.

Back at the Pensione Splendid, she sat on the bed and poured out her feelings on paper. She told Trevor first and foremost how much she missed talking to him. She hadn’t yet been to see the Forum or the Colosseum because he was the one person she would want to see them with. She told him she knew it was shallow and frivolous to work on a Hollywood movie but that it was an education of a different sort – an education in human nature. She described Joe Mankiewicz and the way he was writing the script for each scene the night before they shot it. She wrote about Irene Sharaff and the criteria she used to design Elizabeth Taylor’s costumes, such as displaying the ‘renowned mammaries’. She told him about the Indian elephants and the fact that the circus owner who supplied them was now suing Twentieth Century Fox for ‘insulting his elephants’. The letter spilled over many pages. It made her feel close to him to be able to express everything that was on her mind and she prayed that he would read it and try to understand.

At the end, she begged him to write back soon, using the studio’s courier service, or to telephone her at the office, and if she wasn’t there someone would take a message and she would call back. And then she couldn’t think of anything more to say so she signed off with all her love and lots of Xs underneath. There was a pain in her chest, in exactly the same place as her heart.

Scott spent two days in a morphine fug, while doctors and nurses came and went, occasionally stopping to perform some unpleasant procedure. His nose had been broken and there were strips of plaster across it and great wads of cotton wool stuffed inside so that he could only breathe through his mouth. His ribs were strapped up and his left wrist was also broken and in plaster. He vaguely recalled one of the men stamping on it. He had a catheter and he knew there was blood in his urine from all the kidney punches and kicks he’d taken, but the doctor assured him the ‘trauma’ would heal in time.

As well as bruising and swelling, there were many contusions on his face and body, and a nurse said they must have used a
pugno di ferro
. He’d never heard the term, but from her mime he realised she meant a knuckleduster. What kind of person carried one of those around on a normal weekday morning? That suggestion shook him, but when he examined a cut above his forehead, he could see the indentations of metal knuckles, so it must be true.

Two
carabinieri
came and he told his story slowly and carefully, remembering every detail of his conversation with the girl and giving a precise description of her brother. He hadn’t seen the other two attackers clearly but thought they had been wearing leather jackets. But when he mentioned the name Ghianciamina, and the fact that they lived in Piazza Navona, the
carabinieri
glanced at each other.

‘I think you must have misheard, sir. There is a family of that name but they are a very prominent family of good character.’

‘I can show you the exact house where they live,’ Scott insisted. ‘Take me there and I’ll identify the man who did this.’

One of the policemen produced a loose-leaf folder. ‘There’s no need, sir. We’ve brought pictures of all the violent criminals in the city and you can go through and point to the men who hurt you without getting out of your bed.’

Scott began to flick through. They were rough-looking, dark-skinned young men, aged between fifteen and twenty-five, all of them scowling out of police mugshots. ‘My attacker was dressed smarter and his skin was paler than these men,’ he said, but continued to work through the folder until he reached the end. ‘Nope, none of them. Can we go to Piazza Navona now?’

‘The doctors say you can’t be moved. Don’t worry, because we are asking shopkeepers and bartenders in the street and we hope there will be witnesses. You’re sure your wallet was not taken? Often, there is robbery involved.’

‘My wallet is here,’ Scott said, pointing to the cabinet by his bed. ‘I wasn’t being robbed. It was because I was talking to the girl, Gina.’ He was frustrated that he had given them a name and an address and was not being taken seriously. ‘For crying out loud, don’t you guys want to catch him? What’s the problem? Are you going to wait till he does this to somebody else?’

‘At least you are alive,’ one of them said quietly. ‘Your bones will heal.’

Scott stared at him, too surprised to respond.

The nurses had asked if he wanted a family member to be contacted but he decided it would cause too big a furore to call his mother and father in the States. They’d fly over and make a huge fuss and want to stay on for weeks while he recuperated. Scott knew this because he had been beaten up once before. A local gang attacked him on the way home from school and he’d fought back, which meant he’d come off worse than his friend who’d run away after the first punch was thrown. His mother had reacted with hysteria and insisted on collecting Scott from school in the automobile for the rest of the semester, not letting him go out with friends in the evenings either. Getting beaten up was just one of those things that happened to guys from time to time – hopefully not too often.

Still, he shuddered every time he thought of the knuckleduster, and the fact that it had been three against one. They had wanted to inflict serious harm and hadn’t cared whether he lived or died, and that was chilling.

One young nurse, Rosalia, seemed especially concerned that he didn’t have any visitors and began to linger by his bed to chat with him while she was on duty. She was a little plump around the hips but had sexy dimples in her cheeks so he began to flirt.

‘Rosalia, do you think I will ever get a girl again? I’ll look horrible with all my scars and a crooked nose. Will I have to check myself into a monastery?’

‘You’ll do fine,’ she replied. ‘It’s personality that counts.’

‘OK then, I’m doomed,’ he said. ‘I’ve never had a personality. I always relied on my gorgeous face to get the girls.’

‘Maybe you will be a nicer person now,’ she suggested. ‘You’ll have to be very sweet to girls, buy them presents and be a gentleman.’

‘I’m going to be real lonely when I get out of here. I’ll be stuck in my little apartment recuperating all on my own. I’ll miss our talks. I don’t suppose …’

It didn’t take much to persuade her to have dinner with him after he was discharged. It would be handy to have a nurse around, he thought, just in case he needed more painkillers. Surely she’d be able to get spares from the hospital dispensary? Meanwhile, flirting with her helped to pass the time.

His secretary came to visit, bringing some paperwork he had to sign. He explained about his frustration that the police wouldn’t act over the attack but when he mentioned the name Ghianciamina, she was visibly startled.

‘Scott, you must listen to me. They are Mafia, from Sicily, and you must not try to press charges against them because the police will not be able to protect you. Come back to work, forget what happened and stay well away from them. Otherwise, you will have to leave Rome.’

‘You’re joking! So they get away with it? No way.’

‘Yes, that is exactly what I mean.’

‘What kind of a country
is
this?’

Scott knew they had Mafia back home in New York and Chicago because occasionally the details of some internecine war hit the headlines, but the American police did their best to lock away the worst offenders. Here in Italy they seemed happy to let them roam the streets. It was outrageous.

He lay back against his pillows. No way could he let them off the hook. Somehow, he had to get revenge, but he’d have to think of a way of achieving it that didn’t compromise his own safety. He decided he’d sleep on it.

On the 14th of October, Walter Wanger dropped by the production office to invite Diana to a party hosted by Kirk Douglas to celebrate the anniversary of the release of
Spartacus.
‘He said to bring our top people. Elizabeth is coming, of course. See you later, my dear.’

Diana felt shy about going, but Helen offered to come round to her
pensione
to do her hair and makeup so she would look her best. She sat in a chair by the window as Helen smoothed a creamy base all over her skin and chattered nonstop about the stars who might be there.

‘You know Roddy McDowall, who plays Octavian?’ she giggled. ‘I had an embarrassing encounter with him when we first arrived in Rome. There was a welcome party and I got a bit tipsy. They tried to find a studio car to take me home but the only one available was already booked to take Roddy back to his villa. Anyway, he offered to drop me off and in my drunken state I got the impression that he must like me so just before we reached my place, I leant over and tried to kiss him.’ She cringed at the memory.

‘What did he do?’ Diana mouthed in sympathy.

‘He was very sweet. He put his hands on my shoulders, like this …’ she demonstrated. ‘And he said with a twinkle, “I should tell you that I dance on the other side of the ballroom, darling.” Of course, I didn’t know what it meant exactly but the next day someone told me that he is here with his boyfriend John Valva. He got him a part in the film, as a centurion.’

‘Has he said anything to you since? Do you ever have to do his makeup?’

‘I haven’t, no, thank God. But next day I bumped into him in the corridor and he gave me a huge wink.’ Helen laughed. ‘That’s how I know he’s a nice person. He’s virtually Elizabeth Taylor’s closest friend in the world. And to think I nearly kissed him!’

‘What a shame he’s not interested in girls. Otherwise I’m sure he would have pounced on you!’

‘Everyone here is already taken.’ Helen began ticking them off. ‘You know about Elizabeth Taylor, of course: on her fourth marriage and she’s not even thirty! Rex Harrison is here with Rachel Roberts, the actress. Do you know her?’ Diana shook her head. ‘You’d recognise her if you saw her. She’s an alcoholic, they say. Anyway, they’re engaged and getting married soon, even though it’s only two years since Kay Kendall died. She was supposed to be the love of his life, everyone said at the time, but I suppose he must have got over her. Richard Burton is here with his wife Sybil; they’ve been married for twelve years. You know about Walter Wanger, don’t you?’ Diana shook her head. ‘He’s married to Joan Bennett, the actress, but he found out she had a lover and shot him in the privates. He went to jail for a while, but not long. They haven’t divorced but I haven’t seen her here in Rome. I can’t imagine all is well in that marriage.’

‘Good grief!’ Diana tried to assimilate this information with the very suave elderly gentleman she had met. ‘How about Joe Mankiewicz? Is he married?’

‘Not at the moment. He’s too old for me, though. Hey, when is your husband coming out? I’d love to meet him. Is he very dishy?’

Diana laughed. ‘He’s not at all what you would call “dishy”. He’s a very nice man, though …’ She hesitated, wondering whether to confide about her marriage problems but decided against it. Helen was too loose-tongued and she didn’t want everyone knowing her business. ‘He’s very busy at work but I hope he’ll be able to come out before long.’

Diana hardly recognised herself in the mirror after Helen had finished. There was mauve eyeshadow smeared on her eyelids and up towards her brows, in a tone that complimented her new lilac dress, and somehow it brought out the greeny-hazel of her eyes. Her shoulder-length brown hair was stacked high on her head and fixed in position with masses of sticky lacquer. She worried that it might act like flypaper, but Helen assured her that never happened. They caught a taxi together to the Grand Hotel on Via del Corso, then Helen continued on to a
pizzeria
where she was meeting some American actresses from the set, the same crowd Diana had met before.