The Affair: An enthralling story of love and passion and Hollywood glamour

‘Don’t worry,’ Ernesto patted her hand. ‘Tomorrow morning, I will take you to the script meeting and you can meet everyone there. It’s at ten o’clock.’

‘You seem very well-connected. How did you get involved with the film?’

Ernesto explained that Cinecittà studios recommended him because he had worked on dozens of films there. He was good at finding locations, sourcing unusual items or materials that were needed, and striking deals with local businesses for supplies.

‘I am a businessman, and I know a lot of people. That’s all you require to do my job.’

‘Your English is excellent. That must help.’

‘I make deals with lots of English people and I need to be sure they are not cheating me,’ he grinned. ‘Many have tried.’

‘What other films have you worked on?’

‘Dozens! You know the opening shot of La Dolce Vita when a helicopter carries a plaster Christ over the rooftops? Who do you think hired the helicopter and oversaw the making of the statue?’

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t seen it.’

‘But you must! I will take you some time. There must be a cinema somewhere that is still showing it and we will go together.’

Diana began to search her mind for an excuse, but he pre-empted her, holding up his hand.

‘Don’t worry. I know you are married. I am not a Casanova type. You and I are going to be good friends, that’s all.’

She smiled. ‘Excellent. I need some friends out here. I’m going back to my pensione now as I’m getting rather tired, but I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘How are you getting home? Let me give you a lift.’ He stood up and pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket.

‘I was going to get a taxi. Don’t worry. It’s not far. I’m only in Piazza Repubblica.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of letting you take a taxi alone at night. Nice girls would never travel unaccompanied.’

‘Oh my gosh!’ Diana exclaimed. ‘Well, in that case …’

She said her goodbyes to Helen and the other girls, then followed Ernesto out to the street. She’d been expecting a car and was taken aback when he climbed onto a Vespa motor scooter and gestured for her to get on behind. What option did she have, though?

‘I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been on one of these.’

‘You just climb on and put your arms round my waist. It’s easy.’

She gathered up her full skirts and straddled the scooter, wondering how on earth other girls managed in those tight short dresses. She placed her hands loosely on the sides of Ernesto’s jacket, but when the scooter started to move, she gripped more firmly. Her skirt billowed out on one side and she tucked it under her thighs. The breeze blew her hair back off her face and she closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation. When she opened them, they were going past a beautiful church.

She was in Rome, in 1961, riding home on the back of a Vespa. The life she had been waiting to lead felt as though it had finally begun.

Chapter Seven

Ernesto came to the production office to collect Diana at five to ten the following morning to take her to the script meeting.

‘Are you absolutely sure I’m supposed to come along?’ she asked.

‘Of course. You must be there. You can actually make a difference at this stage.’

The director’s office was in a building opposite the main gate. A dozen people were sitting smoking and drinking coffee, among them Walter Wanger, who leapt to his feet and rushed over to embrace Diana.

‘Sweetheart, you made it! It’s terrific to see you. Let me introduce you to everybody.’ He went round the room, pointing out John De Cuir, the set designer; Hilary Armitage, the woman she already knew from the production office; Leon Shamroy, the director of photography, whom she recognised as the man in the Hawaiian shirt she had seen on set; as well as some production managers, continuity girls, and various others. Diana desperately tried to remember their names. The door opened and in walked a man with an open, friendly face that seemed familiar. He was smoking a pipe.

‘Joe, meet Diana, our new historical advisor,’ Walter called. ‘I asked her along today to see how she can be of use to you.’ This was a lie, of course; Walter hadn’t asked her at all. ‘Diana, this is Joe Mankiewicz.’

She shook hands with the director and realised she had read an interview with him in the Sunday Times; she recalled him from the photograph. He’d struck both her and Trevor as being very bright and articulate.

‘Welcome on board,’ Joe said, then sat on the edge of his desk and held out a sheaf of typewritten pages to a girl called Rosemary Matthews, who began to distribute them. ‘Give Diana a copy as well,’ he instructed.

She liked the smell of his pipe tobacco, which was like new-mown hay compared to the stale harshness of cigarette smoke. Everyone smoked here, male and female – she had yet to meet anyone who didn’t.

‘Joe rewrites the script every night,’ Walter explained. ‘We weren’t happy with the last draft. As soon as you get your copy in the morning you should read it through and tell Hilary if you can see any major problems. You’ll have to be quick, though, because we start rehearsing right after this meeting and we start shooting about noon.’

‘On the script you’ve just written?’

Joe nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s crazy but I’ve known crazier things to happen on movies. You’ll get used to it.’

They began to discuss a scene they wanted to shoot the following week down on the Anzio coast, in which Cleopatra is encamped facing Ptolemy’s troops and trying to work out how to reach Caesar to ask for his help. Joe asked Diana about the way the troops would have been positioned and she was relieved that she knew the answer and could draw a sketch for him on the back of one of the sheets of script.

He nodded, pleased. ‘OK, we can use the natural curve of the bay for that bit and have the cameras here.’ He pointed to a spot on the paper and all heads bent to look.

‘Any dialogue?’

‘I’ll keep it short,’ Joe said.

Ernesto leaned over and told her in a whisper that they avoided dialogue on exterior shots as much as possible because they would have to dub it later, which could be hit-and-miss.

‘Does anyone know if Miss Taylor is coming in today?’ someone asked.

‘Nobody called to say she isn’t,’ Walter told them.

‘Have you checked the calendar? Is it a red-letter day?’ another voice called, and there were snorts round the room, which Diana didn’t understand. She’d have to ask someone later.

They ran through the parts of the script they’d been given and Diana attempted to skim read but it was hard to comment without knowing the context. No one had any criticisms. They just talked about camera angles. It seemed more of a technical meeting than anything else.

Joe got up to leave, but turned for a word with Diana on the way out. ‘Will you leave a message at the production office to say where you’re going to be every night? In case I need to call you about something while I’m writing.’

Diana agreed that she would do, and glowed with importance. The director was going to consult her while he was writing the script! She would be on call, like a doctor.

Brimming with pride, she made her way over to Walter to ask about her other responsibilities. How did he see her role?

‘I want you to have a look at all John’s wonderful sets and discuss with him if there are any little details that could make them just a tiny bit more authentic.’

John De Cuir scowled, making it obvious he didn’t want any interference.

‘Introduce yourself in the props and costume departments and see if they want any advice,’ Walter continued. ‘Talk to people in makeup and hair. You’re the lynchpin, communicating with people across the set and raising the intellectual level of the movie.’

‘I’ve already written some notes on the outdoor sets I saw yesterday,’ she volunteered. She’d brought them with her in her handbag and started to open it.

‘Wonderful!’ Walter clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Give them to Hilary and she’ll make sure the right people see them. It’s great that you’ve got off to a flying start. Is your pensione comfortable?’

‘Charming, thank you.’

‘Good, good. Well, I better get going, but I’m really glad you are with us.’

Ernesto appeared by her side again. ‘They have some stills here from the scene that was shot of Miss Taylor at the altar of Isis. Do you want to have a look?’

Diana went over to a table by the window where the photo­grapher had laid them out. They showed Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra in front of the cauldron that Diana had seen in sound stage 5. Her appearance was completely wrong; Trevor would snort with derision if he could see it. She was wearing a low-cut evening gown, whereas Cleopatra would have worn a long high-necked tunic with coiled ropes of pearls round her neck. In that era, pearls would have been the most desirable jewel, their equivalent to diamonds, and it was known that Cleopatra was especially partial to them. Her hairstyle was wrong as well, with a fringed bob style, as was the heavy black eye makeup that curved outwards at the corners. Ancient Egyptians had used black kohl on their eyelids to protect their eyes from the sun’s rays, but it wouldn’t have been stylised like that.

‘It’s all wrong,’ she whispered to Ernesto.

He grinned. ‘You’re welcome to tell Irene Sharaff your views but take a suit of armour! She has a reputation for not welcoming criticism.’

‘Everyone keeps telling me to give my honest opinion and then they proceed to disregard it. I’ve no idea why I’m here. What am I to do for the next six months?’

He rubbed her arm sympathetically. ‘You could relax and let me show you around Rome. Or you could talk to the key people with some tact and see if you can persuade them to make minor changes to their designs. Personally, I recommend you do both.’

Before leaving the meeting, she took her notes from the previous day over to Hilary. ‘Walter said to give these to you.’

Hilary glanced at them and seemed puzzled. ‘Did he? OK. Thanks.’ She tucked them under her arm.

Ernesto hurried off and Diana returned to the office to read the script properly, but it was invented dialogue without any facts she could correct. When she finished, she decided to walk out to the back lot, where she’d been the day before, and work her way along an avenue that was marked on the map as having several workshops. The first ones she came to contained huge pieces of scenery, most of them in white marble with gold leaf decoration. There were some enormous unguent jars that looked fine from a distance but close up she could see they were papier-mâché and liable to topple over if the wind blew. She saw gold-painted cat-goddess statues but from the wrong period so she took out her notebook and made a note. There was no one around to discuss them with.

In the next workshop, a couple of Italian men were making Roman standards and she stopped to watch. They’d got the eagle’s feet curling over the SPQR lettering, and they’d inserted full stops between the initials, which was incorrect. She drew a quick sketch in her book to show them the authentic style and held it towards them.

‘It should be like this,’ she said in Italian. ‘The eagle’s feet here, and SPQR down there.’ She pointed with the tip of her pen.

‘Chi diavolo sei?’ one of them responded – ‘Who the hell are you?’ – in a manner that definitely wasn’t friendly.

‘I’m the historical advisor. From the British Museum, in London. I’ve just arrived.’

It was only then she noticed that they had already completed around fifty of the standards, which were all propped up to dry, each with the incorrect design.

‘Why don’t you fuck off back to London?’ one of the men said in accented English. He dipped his brush into a pot of gold paint and carried on with his work.

She held up her hands defensively and backed out of the workshop.

Chapter Eight

When Diana got back to the production office, it was empty. She decided she ought to try to reach Trevor again so she called the operator and gave the number. While she was waiting for the call to be put through, Hilary came in and nodded as she sat down at her desk. Diana considered hanging up and trying again later but at that moment she heard the ringing sound and Trevor’s secretary answered the phone.

‘You’re in luck. I’ll just put you through,’ she said.

‘Hello, it’s me. How are you?’ Diana asked once Trevor was on the line.

‘Surviving,’ he said, and there was a long pause in which neither spoke.

‘Have you thought about whether you could come out here one weekend soon? The weather’s fantastic and it would be nice to go round the sites with you.’

‘I’m too busy,’ came the reply. ‘I’ve been asked to tutor several more students who enrolled at the last minute and I’m up to my ears in assessments.’

Diana sighed. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be able to come back to London because it seems we have to work on Saturdays. I do wish you would come out, Trevor.’

‘It’s a long way and a lot of money just to spend a Sunday with you.’

She knew she was asking a lot, but she desperately wanted to see him and make things alright between them. ‘If you could come on Friday night and stay till Sunday night, or even first thing Monday morning, it would be worth the trip.’

‘I wouldn’t like to cramp your style. My colleagues are warning me that you’ll run off to Hollywood with a movie star and the first I’ll hear of it will be a headline in the Daily Mail.’

She knew he meant it as a joke, but it came across as an accusation. Diana’s eyes filled with tears. ‘That’s silly. I would never leave you.’ She kept her voice low, acutely conscious of Hilary’s presence.

He spoke sadly: ‘Well, that’s what I always thought – and yet it appears you have.’

A tear spilled over and trickled down her cheek. She smeared it with the back of her hand. ‘I’m working, Trevor. I miss you terribly but this was something I had to do. I wish you would try to understand.’

‘I am trying to understand. It’s difficult to get over the fact that you attached no weight to my feelings on the matter. Honestly, Diana, you can’t have it all ways. I wish you hadn’t gone. I’m too busy to visit you. Just let me know when you are coming back. Now, I have some students arriving for a tutorial so I will have to hang up on you.’ He paused then added: ‘Take care of yourself, darling. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, Trevor,’ she said, but he had already replaced the receiver and she could no longer hold back the tears. She covered her face with her hands.

Hilary hurried over to put a hand on her shoulder and placed a packet of tissues on the desk. ‘You poor thing. I couldn’t help overhearing. Was that your husband?’

Diana nodded.

‘He didn’t want you to come out here? I imagine there aren’t many men who would want their wives in a place like this unless they were around to supervise. Don’t cry, dear. He’ll come round. How long have you been married?’

Diana blew her nose. ‘Two years.’

‘Were you a couple for long before that?’

‘Yes, ages. He was my tutor at Oxford and we fell in love, but we kept it secret for a while because the university authorities wouldn’t have approved. It was only after I graduated and started work on my PhD that we told people.’

Hilary perched on the desk, her hand on Diana’s shoulder. ‘Is he very serious and academic? I imagine he must be older than you.’

‘He’s eighteen years older, and he’s fiercely clever, of course, but he’s funny as well. He can always make me laugh.’ She paused. ‘Well, usually.’

‘Tell me his bad points,’ Hilary asked. ‘Does he try to control you?’

‘No, not really. I suppose we’ve never disagreed about anything before. Not anything major. His worst fault is that he is very slovenly to live with. He puts down cups of tea wherever he happens to be at the time and I spend my life clearing up his dirty socks and tattered old history magazines.’ She smiled fondly. He was always losing things because of his untidiness and she would find them in the most ridiculous places. His chequebook once turned up in a windowbox outside the sitting-room window after he’d been watering the plants. ‘Are you married?’ she asked Hilary, glancing down to see that her ring finger was bare.

‘I couldn’t be under any man’s thumb,’ she said. ‘I like my freedom too much so I doubt I’ll ever marry. I feel lucky to have been born in an era when women can earn a good salary doing an interesting job and they don’t need a man to look after them. Throughout history, women have never enjoyed as much freedom as now, have they?’

‘Actually, they were pretty free in Egypt in Cleopatra’s day,’ Diana told her. ‘Women could own properties and businesses. They were educated to as high a standard as men and could choose their own husbands. But if you cross the water to Rome in the same era, the women were the chattels of their fathers and husbands.’

‘Maybe that’s why you were attracted to Cleopatra?’ Hilary suggested. ‘Because you’re an independent sort? Anyway, that husband of yours will have to buck up his ideas. It’s hard on the phone, especially when the line can be so crackly. Why not write him a letter explaining why you had to take this opportunity and asking him to please try to understand? Tell him you love him but this is something you need to do. If he loves you, he’ll come round in the end.’

Diana nodded. ‘That’s a good idea. I’ll do that.’

‘Don’t make the mistake of putting it in an Italian post box, though – they hardly ever empty them. We’ve got a courier service that goes daily to London and you can stick a letter in there. Ask Candy about it.’

Diana handed back the pack of tissues. ‘Thank you for your advice. It sounds very wise.’

She sat down at the typewriter and focused on typing up her notes for the day, then decided to go back to the sound stages and see what was being shot. On the way there, she noticed Helen on the grass swigging a bottle of Coke.

‘Are you having a break?’ she asked, sitting down.

‘They’re not filming today,’ Helen told her. ‘Elizabeth Taylor has her monthly and it’s written into her contract that she doesn’t have to work for the first three days of it.’

‘But that’s ridiculous!’ Diana exclaimed.

‘They keep a calendar where they mark the days so they can try to predict the next one.’

Diana remembered someone at the script meeting asking if it was a red-letter day and guessed that’s what they had been referring to. ‘What if all the women on set did that?’ she asked. ‘I’d love three days off when I have my monthlies.’

Helen nodded agreement. ‘Me too! The idea is that she has to look perfect on camera and she doesn’t believe she looks good enough at that time of the month. What does she think makeup is for? Between ourselves, it’s a running joke that her periods don’t follow a calendar month but seem to coincide with the morning after she’s been out partying.’

‘That’s so unprofessional! I’m amazed she gets away with it.’ Diana remembered that Helen herself had been the worse for wear the previous evening. ‘It was fun last night. Thank you so much for inviting me. I hope you are feeling alright today?’

‘Yeah!’ Helen grinned. ‘I had a great time. We met a bunch of Italian men and were dancing with them. Don’t you just love the way they’re so flirtatious? They’re much more fun than British men.’

Diana thought of Ernesto and agreed. She was getting used to the way his eyes lingered on her figure and he touched her arm and chatted in an intimate fashion, as though they had known each other for ages. It was innocent flirtation and she rather enjoyed it.

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ she asked Helen.

‘No, but I’d love to find one. There are so many handsome men working here, I don’t know where to start. I wish I spoke better Italian because they are the cutest, but there’s an American cameraman I like, and one of the lighting guys.’ She sighed. ‘If only they’d hurry up and ask me out.’

‘I’m sure it won’t take long,’ Diana assured her. ‘You’re lovely and they won’t be able to resist you.’

When she left Cinecittà that evening to go back to her pensione, there was a lone photographer hanging around at the gates.

‘Liz Taylor è lì oggi?’ he called through the open window of her studio car – ‘Is Liz Taylor there today?’

Diana told him she wasn’t.

‘E domani?’

‘Non lo so.’

On the drive into town, she thought what a boring job these men had, waiting around for the few moments in the day when Elizabeth Taylor was driven out of the studio gates, or walked from her car to a restaurant to eat dinner. What was it Helen had called them? Paparazzi. Strange word. It was similar to papatacci, a term Italians used to mean a small mosquito. Perhaps that’s where it came from. They buzzed around on their motor scooters trying to catch the rich and famous in the glare of the flashbulb, like a sting. It didn’t seem a particularly rewarding way of earning a living, but good luck to them.

Chapter Nine

The next time Scott contrived to bump into the beautiful Italian girl, he asked her name.

‘Gina,’ she said quickly, then blushed and tried to hurry past.

Scott turned to walk alongside her, as if he were going in the same direction and it was the most natural thing in the world. She bowed her head, trying to stop anyone seeing her talking to this American boy. Instead of hitting on her directly, he chatted in a friendly fashion. He told her that he had only been in Rome for three months and didn’t know many people so he spent most evenings at home alone. He mentioned that he was a recent college graduate and that he had been a champion athlete. High jump was his best; he could high jump over five feet. Did she want him to demonstrate by jumping over a parked Vespa?

‘No, no,’ she giggled. ‘non è necessario.’

He asked if she liked music, and when she said ‘Sì, certamente,’ he sang a short burst of an Elvis song that had just been released back home – ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’. He could tell she was interested in him because she was laughing, despite her nervousness. Scott liked girls and had long ago realised that if you could make them laugh, you were halfway there. He’d watched other friends hitting on them too obviously and being brushed off or crushed by bitchy put-downs, and that’s when he decided that a slightly clownish approach would work best, by putting girls at their ease.

He wasn’t bad-looking, in his own opinion. One ­ex-girlfriend had told him that he looked like a younger, handsomer version of John F. Kennedy. Unfortunately, that girl later dumped him for one of his best friends from the athletics team, but at least he still had the compliment to cherish. He’d been hurt at the time, but hadn’t been in love with her so it was more to do with pride than heartbreak.

‘Every day I see you go to the church and then the market,’ he told Gina in Italian, and he guessed he must have used an awkward sentence structure or got a word wrong because she giggled. ‘What do you do in the afternoon and at night?’

‘I cook for my family,’ she replied. ‘Lunch and dinner. I help my sister with her babies.’ She began to describe how cute the babies were and how one of them had recently said his first word.

‘You’re going to make a very good mother some day,’ Scott told her and she clutched her face in embarrassment. He noted that she seemed more relaxed with him now that they were a few streets away from her home. Was it time to make his move?