by Gill Paul
‘I’m fine. I came out with a couple of girls from the set but they’re off dancing with Italian boys.’ She made a face.
‘So the vitamin injection is still working, is it?’
‘I’ve had to have a few more but I feel so great afterwards that it’s worth it.’
Scott frowned. ‘That must be expensive. I thought the doctor said you would need only one more treatment?’
‘Trust me to be the one that needs more!’ she laughed. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it?’
‘I saw that man – Luigi – in a bar last week openly selling drugs to someone else. He’s a sinister kind of guy. How did you hook up with him?’
‘One of the other girls recommended him.’ The band began to play a popular Italian song ‘Quando, quando, quando’ and Helen started to tap her foot to the drumbeat.
‘Wanna dance?’ he asked. ‘I warn you, I’m not very good.’
‘I’d love to.’ She was already on her feet, grinning broadly. ‘I love dancing.’
She gave a little wiggle from her head to her toes and segued into a version of The Twist, her body languid and the movement flowing rather than tight and jerky.
‘Wow! You sure can move,’ Scott called, and she grinned.
He did his best to keep up but in truth he just wanted to watch her. She had true rhythm in those skinny hips and she kept changing the choreography. Some girls did the same thing from the beginning to the end of a record but she put in her own cute little moves, using her hands, her head, her whole body.
They danced three numbers but when a slow record came on, Scott held his hands up and said, ‘I’ve had enough humiliation. Can we sit down?’
Scott bought some drinks and, once they were sitting down, he asked more about Luigi. ‘Does he deal for a living or does he have a day job as well?’
‘God no, he only deals. He’s busy morning, noon and night. He’s got dozens of customers. You wouldn’t believe how many people in Rome take drugs.’
‘So is he like a boss? Is he Mister Big?’
She considered this. ‘He’s somewhere in the middle, I think. He controls Via Veneto, which must be an important patch, but I once went with him to a house on the coast where there were some guys who were his bosses. He was really nervous. I saw him put a gun in the glove compartment of the car.’
Scott was aghast. ‘Why did he take you with him?’
‘I wondered about that. I suppose he was scared of these men and thought they would have to behave well in front of me. Which they did, by the way. There were half a dozen guys there but one of them gave me a smoke of eroina that made me all woozy. Then they all started laughing at me.’ The words poured out of her and she seemed to have no notion of the danger she’d been in.
‘Jesus Christ, Helen! What were you thinking? You could have been killed or raped. Anything could have happened!’
‘I know. I only thought of that afterwards. At the time, I wanted a fix and Luigi said he would give me one if I came for a drive with him. So I did.’ She shrugged. ‘Thank God you got me off that stuff or I don’t know what would have happened.’
Scott’s brain was ticking. ‘Where was this house on the coast? Can you remember?’
‘It was somewhere past Anzio. We drove through the town then out the other side where a road goes down the coast. That’s where it was. A really big house, right on the edge of the ocean, with palm trees and a swimming pool in the garden. And there was an old tower across the bay.’
‘Do you know who owned it? Did anyone mention a name?’
‘Not people’s names, no.’ Her beehive hairdo was slipping and she repositioned it with one hand. ‘But I did notice that the house was called Villa Armonioso. There was a sign on the gate. Isn’t that odd? The “harmonious villa”, and it’s actually full of drug dealers. Why did you want to know?’
Scott held out his hands. ‘I’m just amazed by the volume of drug trafficking here.’
‘Don’t mess with Luigi if you see him,’ Helen advised. ‘He’s not nice when he turns on you. He’s very cross with me for giving up because he’d been hoping I’d introduce him to lots more people at Cinecittà and maybe even deliver drugs on the set for him. Fortunately, I never got that desperate.’
There was a sudden commotion as the crowds parted and Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton arrived and made their way to a table reserved for them and their group. Roddy McDowall and his friend John were among them. Booze was brought by the bottle rather than by the glass, at Richard’s noisy request.
‘That’s the second time I’ve been with her today.’ Helen told Scott about the scene in the dressing room. He tried to memorise the words she said Elizabeth had used, to reproduce them exactly in the piece he intended to send to his editor later that evening: A source close to Miss Taylor told me that she laughed off being called an erotic vagrant.
Scott kept an eye on the Burton–Taylor table and noticed that Elizabeth was knocking back her drinks just as fast as Richard, and appeared the worse for wear. Her bra strap was sliding down her arm and her hair was tousled. All at once she got up, knocking over a drink, and bolted for the exit, trotting unsteadily on her high heels.
Scott decided to follow. ‘I have to get up early in the morning,’ he told Helen. ‘It’s been great to see you though. Let’s get together again soon.’
‘My appetite’s back. Maybe we could have that dinner?’ she suggested.
‘I’m busy this week but how ’bout after Easter?’ He gave her a hug. ‘Look after yourself, sweetheart. And be careful who you talk to about Luigi or you could find yourself in big trouble.’
‘I know. I will.’ She lifted her face towards his and he gave her a kiss on the cheek. She looked impossibly young, without a hint of a wrinkle, and he felt a twinge of worry for her. Her tongue was too unguarded and she knew some dangerous people.
Outside the club, he found Gianni and asked if he’d managed to take a photo of Elizabeth on the way out.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know whether you will want to use it. Her head was down, her hair was messy, and she was crying.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes. Big crying.’ He imitated.
‘I’ll use it if you’ve got a clear shot,’ Scott told him, then jumped on his Vespa and went back to the office to write his story.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Next morning, an American girl came to the production office looking for Diana.
‘Mrs Bailey? Miss Taylor requests a word, if you have a moment.’
For a moment, Diana couldn’t think who she meant by ‘Miss Taylor’ then it dawned on her. ‘Do you mean Elizabeth Taylor?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does she want to see me for?’
The girl shrugged. ‘She didn’t say. She’s in her trailer over by the back lot.’
Diana stood and picked up her handbag. ‘I’ll come straight away.’
She walked right down one of the main boulevards that ran through Cinecittà. It was busy because thousands of extras were being arranged in place for the scene of Cleopatra’s arrival in Rome. She knocked on the door of Elizabeth’s trailer and waited till there was a call of ‘Come in!’, not wanting to surprise the star in her lingerie.
Elizabeth was sitting in a pink velvet chair, her hair restrained in the netting she wore beneath her Cleopatra wig. Heavy makeup formed a mask over her skin and thick black lines circled her eyes and swooped up to her temples like the wings of a raven. She was wearing the gold chain-mail floor-length gown Diana had seen in Irene Sharaff’s studio, the one that weighed more than twenty pounds, and Diana was sure it couldn’t be comfortable.
‘Thanks for coming. I hope you weren’t in the middle of anything important.’ She motioned for Diana to sit in a folding chair opposite. ‘You must have your work cut out trying to make Joe stick to historical fact. There’s an uphill task!’
Diana laughed. ‘I gave up long ago.’
‘I’ve been asking about you,
’ Elizabeth said, fixing Diana with her purply-blue gaze. ‘Everyone tells me what a great intellectual you are.’
Diana blushed and shook her head. ‘Oh no, not really.’
Elizabeth continued: ‘I’m going away for a few days’ holiday and I’ve completely run out of books. We went to the English language bookshop but I couldn’t find anything I wanted. Have you been there yet? It’s run by two very charming English women who opened late especially for me, so I had to buy a couple of books, but they don’t appeal.’
‘I didn’t realise there was an English bookshop.’
‘Anyway, I wondered if you could lend me a book or two on ancient Egypt? I’ll bring them back after Easter. I hate not having anything to read and I figured you would be the person to ask.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Diana tried to picture the books she’d brought with her. ‘Most of my books are very academic.’ She blushed again. Would Elizabeth think she was insulting her by implying she wouldn’t be able to follow them?
She didn’t appear to mind. ‘Honey, I read everything from potboilers to PhDs so I’d be happy with whatever you reckon is worth reading. I thought I should learn more about Egypt since I’m supposed to be ruling it.’ She gave a throaty laugh and took a long sip from a glass at her elbow that looked as though it contained Coke. ‘Hey, do you want a drink?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. Why don’t I bring over a few books and you can choose what you want? I’ve got some in the office but most are back at my pensione. I could bring them tomorrow.’ Diana thought she might like Grace Macurdy’s Hellenistic Queens, a very readable biography.
‘I’m planning to leave tonight, but I could send my chauffeur to your pensione later. Say seven o’clock?’
‘No problem at all,’ Diana assured her. It was difficult not to gaze at Elizabeth when you were up close. Diana found herself alternating between staring and looking away, which she worried seemed rude, as though she wasn’t paying attention.
An assistant tapped on the door and came in holding the black Cleopatra wig, but Elizabeth waved her away. ‘Not yet. I’ll put it on at the last moment. I need some time alone with Diana. Would you mind?’ The woman left.
‘The weather is perfect for your scene,’ Diana said. ‘It’s just as well because there are seven thousand extras being arranged in their places as we speak.’
Elizabeth picked up the glass at her elbow and took another large slurp. ‘It’s fucking awful timing, coming straight after the Vatican letter. I hope they don’t all hate me. You don’t think they’ll boo, do you?’
Diana was shocked by the swearing but didn’t want to appear naïve by showing it, so she stammered, ‘God, no. I’m sure they won’t. Of course not.’
‘I hope you’re right, but it’s a Catholic country and I’m an “erotic vagrant” after all.’ There was a tremor in her voice and Diana realised she was upset. All the criticism had got to her.
‘We both know how ridiculous that letter was. I work all over the set and I promise you there’s not one person who doesn’t think it was ludicrous. Everyone is completely on your side.’
‘I fucking hope so.’ She gulped her drink thirstily, and it was only then Diana realised it must be alcohol. Elizabeth didn’t seem drunk but now she thought of it there was a slight smell of booze in the air.
‘Everything’s such a mess. I’m sick and tired of worrying about it. I just go round and round in circles.’ She sighed heavily. ‘How’s your complicated love life? Is it as difficult as mine?’
Diana was normally a very private person, but it felt only fair to share her own problems since Elizabeth had been so frank. She found herself wanting to confess, to make their bond more intimate. ‘I have a husband back in London but the marriage is not in good shape. Three months ago I started an affair with someone here in Rome and tomorrow my husband is due to arrive for an Easter break. So it’s pretty disastrous.’
Elizabeth leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. ‘Is your lover Italian or American?’
‘Italian and jealous.’ Diana raised her eyebrow. ‘I should have dealt with the situation much sooner but I’ve been burying my head in the sand. You’re much braver than me.’
Elizabeth threw back her head and snorted. ‘Me? Brave? Hell, no. I’d have done the same as you if I could, but the media made that impossible. I love Eddie – I still do – but Richard simply swept me away, like a spring tide. He’s too powerful and overwhelming. He calls me “Ocean”. Isn’t that beautiful?’
‘Yes, it is.’ Diana remembered a report from the early days of filming that Richard called her ‘Miss Tits’ but didn’t mention it.
‘I’m a pushover when he speaks to me in that incredible poet’s voice and looks straight through me with those sharp eyes that never miss a thing. I’m lost, vanquished, I surrender completely.’ The speech was theatrical but Diana could tell she meant every word. She looked misty-eyed and blinked hard, perhaps remembering that there was no time to redo her lavish eye makeup.
There was a knock on the door and a girl popped her head in to tell Elizabeth that they were ready for her on set. Her assistant held out the wig but Elizabeth waved her away again. ‘They’ll wait,’ she said.
Once they were alone, she said, ‘God, Diana, what shall we women do?’ She reached out and squeezed her hand. Hers was much warmer than Diana’s.
Suddenly Diana felt protective. It seemed mad, when the most famous woman in the world had dozens of servants and hangers-on, but maybe that made it all the more difficult to get good advice. ‘I suppose we need to keep our feet on the ground and think sensibly,’ she said. ‘These are decisions that affect other people besides ourselves so we have to be sure it’s not just a feeling that will pass.’ She was thinking of Elizabeth’s situation and the likelihood that her affair would only last as long as the filming, rather than her own circumstances in which at least there were no children involved.
‘Do you believe your feelings about your Italian lover will change?’ It was a challenge, a moment for truth.
‘No,’ Diana whispered. ‘I don’t think they will.’
‘So go with your heart,’ Elizabeth breathed. ‘People heal in time. I’ve never known heartbreak to last more than a year.’
Diana had read in the papers that Eddie Fisher was crying on the shoulder of anyone who would listen in New York and wondered if he would have recovered in a year.
There was yet another knock on the door. ‘Everyone’s waiting, Miss Taylor.’
She sighed and emptied her drink. ‘Will you give your address to my assistant? She’ll get a chauffeur to pick up the books tonight. And please come see me after Easter to tell me how it goes with your husband.’
Diana promised that she would, and while Elizabeth’s wig was being pinned in place she scribbled down her address and said her goodbyes.
She walked straight over to the Forum set, where thousands of extras were standing in their places. The script called for Cleopatra to ride in with her son, Caesarion, atop a thirty-foot-high sphinx. It was taken from a Plutarch version of events, which Diana didn’t believe for a moment. In fact, when Caesar returned to Rome in 47 BC, he had entered the city in tribal procession to a certain amount of cheering and some jeering taunts about the Egyptian queen who had bewitched him. It seemed implausible to Diana that Cleopatra would have laid herself open to the taunts (or worse) of Romans in the same way, and much more likely that she sneaked in and installed herself quietly.
The camera started rolling and the giant sphinx, with Cleopatra and her ‘son’ on top, moved slowly forward, only clearing the Arch of Titus by a few inches on either side. It came to a halt and six gigantic Nubian slaves climbed up to lift the platform on which they sat. Diana gasped inadvertently as they began to descend the steps. If the platform had been rigid, Elizabeth would have tipped forward and fallen to the ground, but in fact it was on a kind of fulcrum that kept it level.
The script called for a take in which the extras chanted her name at this poi
nt – ‘Cleopatra, Cleopatra’. Diana stood well back and watched the buzz of activity as the camera was positioned and the signal was given for the crowd to start shouting.
‘Leez,’ they called, ‘Viva Leez.’ It was a wall of sound that rose and fell then got louder again. She heard other cries of ‘Baci, baci’ and saw some of the extras blowing kisses. It was a universal affirmation of their support for her with not a hint of booing and Diana wished she could see Elizabeth’s face as it dawned on her that they were emphatically on her side.
Shooting finished but the shouts continued as she was helped down from her perch, the words blurring into one indistinguishable chant.
That’s what fame sounds like, Diana thought to herself. That must be what it’s like when you’re the most famous woman in the world.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Diana decided not to tell Ernesto she’d had a personal conversation with Elizabeth. It might invite too many questions about why the star had chosen to confide in her and, besides, she couldn’t risk him repeating it to his journalist contact. It was a shame, because she was girlishly thrilled by the encounter and desperate to discuss it, but she decided there was no one she could tell without betraying a confidence.
Ernesto was subdued over dinner and begged her yet again to tell Trevor on arrival that their marriage was over.
‘I can’t do that,’ Diana told him. ‘I can’t throw away a six-year relationship in five minutes. But you’re the only lover I want. Please give me time to deal with this in my own way.’
He made love to her with great energy that night – almost like an animal scent-marking his territory – and she felt sorry for what she was putting him through. Were their situations reversed, she would be feeling deeply insecure. She had never lied to him about being married and he had always known when he got involved with her that there would be difficult times ahead, but she hated to see him so unhappy.
Diana arranged for a car to collect Trevor from the airport and bring him directly to Cinecittà. She had some work to do for Joe that afternoon, but she also wanted her husband to see the set before the studio closed for Easter. She was sure he would sneer at the oversized mock-up of the Forum and the undersized Temple of Venus but she felt a sense of pride about all that had been achieved there and hoped he would find some merit in it. Ernesto wasn’t working so there was no risk of bumping into him, else she would have arranged things differently. She didn’t entirely trust him not to make a scene.