by Gill Paul
Helen had a distant look in her eyes. ‘If she could only get you back, she could pretend the rejection never happened and that it was all a misunderstanding. Then she could stop thinking of herself as the kind of girl men always leave.’
‘Is there such a thing as the kind of girl men always leave?’
‘I think so,’ Helen frowned. ‘Don’t you?’
‘No, I think they just need to meet the right person. And maybe stop trying so hard.’
All of a sudden Helen leaned her head in her hands and seemed exhausted. ‘I need an early night, Scott. Sorry I’m not much company.’
‘Hey! I’m just glad you’re on the mend. Let’s go out again in a few days when you’ve got your appetite back. Why don’t you give me your number?’
Helen scribbled the phone number of her pensione on the cover of a matchbook. ‘I won’t hold my breath since you’ve already admitted you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t return girls’ phone calls.’
‘Idiot!’ he grinned. ‘Of course I’ll call. We’re friends. It’s the girls who try to force me down the aisle on the second date I tend to dodge.’
When he dropped her off, he put his arms round her and hugged her tight, then kissed her forehead. She looked very vulnerable as he drove off, and he decided that he would definitely try to see her again soon. Perhaps he would find out more about this Luigi character as well, so he could protect Helen from him.
Every evening Scott had a few beers in one of the bars round the Via Veneto or Via Margutta, where he kept his eyes open and watched the comings and goings, especially the furtive deals in which money was palmed from one person to another and small paper packages given in return. It wasn’t long before he noticed Luigi, the dealer he’d seen with Helen, but this time he was talking to an actor Scott vaguely recognised. They disappeared to the men’s toilet, then the actor left first, glancing around self-consciously, before Luigi sauntered out and stood near Scott at the bar.
‘Bella serata,’ Scott ventured in Italian, and Luigi looked up at him. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘When I feel like it.’
‘The town is full of actors at the moment. Must be good for business.’ Luigi shrugged and Scott continued. ‘I hear they’re all alcoholics or drug addicts. They pretend to be someone else at work during the day then use mind-altering chemicals at night so that they never have to face up to who they really are.’
‘That’s profound,’ Luigi replied. ‘Are you a philosopher?’
‘No, just a businessman,’ Scott lied. ‘Look, I know this is a long shot and I’m sorry if I’m way off target but I saw you going to the gents’ with that guy and I wondered if by any chance you know where I could buy some cocaine? I heard it’s easy to find drugs in Rome. Someone told me that certain bartenders will even supply you from under the counter if they know you, but I haven’t been able to find any like that.’
‘If that was the case, the quality would not be good,’ Luigi scoffed. ‘Every time it changes hands I expect it will be cut with farina. You need to buy from a dealer if you want it to be pure.’
‘You sound like a guy who knows what he’s talking about. Can I buy you a drink?’
‘Sure.’ Luigi made a face as if it was neither here nor there to him and ordered a coffee and a Jack Daniel’s.
‘So how does it work when famous people want to buy drugs?’ Scott asked. ‘Let’s say Elizabeth Taylor fancied a couple of tabs of LSD for a party. How would she get them?’
Luigi gave a sly smile. ‘I imagine she has trusted people she would send out to make enquiries. For all I know, you could be one of them.’
‘Well, maybe I am,’ Scott grinned. ‘So does that mean a dealer could be supplying lots of famous people without even knowing it?’
‘Some, perhaps. Other dealers have more personal relationships with their clients. They know the precise type of product the client prefers, the exact strength and purity, and make sure they supply what is wanted. The client will pay a premium for guaranteed quality.’
‘I bet you know a lot of famous people yourself,’ Scott hinted. ‘Who are your favourites?’
That was the tipping point. Luigi couldn’t resist boasting about the international stars he had dealt with. The names tripped off his tongue in a libellous stream. He said they always sought him out when they were in Rome and he never let them down. Many of them were household names across continents.
‘The Via Veneto is my patch. Anyone who wants to buy anything round here has to go through me.’
Scott took mental notes but knew he could never print any of this information when the only evidence he had was the word of a shady Italian dealer.
‘I’d be honoured if you would sell me a little something,’ Scott said. ‘Just so I can enter their illustrious company. How does it work?’
Luigi glanced round but the barman was serving someone at the other end of the bar. ‘You want cocaine?’ He named an extortionate price for a paperfold of the stuff.
Scott sensed it was several times the market rate and that Luigi saw him as a patsy, but he nodded agreement. He had just enough cash on him. ‘Shall I go to the gents’?’ he asked.
‘Cup the money in your palm and we will shake hands. You must leave the bar immediately afterwards.’
The deal was done, and Scott said goodbye. As he walked down the street, he wondered what to do with the cocaine. He’d never taken it before and was curious to see what it was like but he didn’t want to do it on his own. He’d heard it intensified the sensations during sex and wished he had a telephone number for that long-haired, barefooted girl. He climbed on his Vespa and drove round to the building on the Via Margutta where he had met her but the lights were out and nothing was happening. He couldn’t even ask after her because he’d never discovered her name. It was a shame. She would have been the ideal person for a cocaine experiment.
He stuck the paperfold in his back pocket and drove home to write notes on his conversation with Luigi, for a new section of his journalism article. Shame he couldn’t name all the celebrity drug users Luigi had mentioned. You couldn’t have everything …
Chapter Thirty-Four
‘That’s that, then,’ Candy remarked when Diana arrived at the production office on the morning of the 3rd of April. She threw across a copy of a newspaper with the headline ‘Elizabeth and Eddie Say They Will Get Divorce’.
Diana was shocked that it was all proceeding so fast. She sat down hard in her chair and quickly read the story. It appeared that Eddie had phoned Elizabeth from New York with some reporters in the room and tried to get her to say she still loved him, but she humiliated him by refusing. Next, he was informed by letter that Elizabeth was issuing a statement announcing the end of their three-year marriage ‘by mutual consent’.
‘What about the baby they adopted in January? Maria, wasn’t it?’
‘Neither of them have seen her much because she’s too sick to come to Rome, so I don’t think the poor little mite will even come into the equation.’ Candy folded her arms. ‘But Liz’s other children must get mixed up about who to call “pop”. Look.’ She picked up another paper, an Italian one this time, and showed Diana a blurred photograph of Richard Burton joining Elizabeth and her children for a picnic.
‘So is he leaving Sybil?’
‘Who knows? Sybil is back in London with their girls and she’s keeping quiet about it all.’
Diana realised with a start that it was Eddie she’d been feeling most sorry for, because she liked him, but of course Sybil must be suffering as well. Why did she put up with it? She’d seemed a no-nonsense type so surely she should either come back to Rome and fight for her marriage, or throw Richard out for good?
Without either of their spouses around, Elizabeth and Richard came out of hiding. Almost every night they were photographed going for dinner and then on to a nightclub. At Cinecittà, they sat holding hands and kissing in the bar, or threw cocktail parties in her dressing-room suite or his trailer. When one of Richard�
�s scenes was being shot, Elizabeth sat on the sidelines watching silently. If Diana passed her on her way to the sound stages she beamed and called ‘Hi there!’ She was almost skipping, as vivacious and happy as a lark. They were in love and wanted the world to know.
Is it really so easy? Diana wondered. If I told Trevor that I wanted a divorce, would I be equally happy? She thought not. She knew she would be racked with guilt. If only it were possible to follow her heart without anyone else being hurt in the process. She hated herself for being an adulteress.
When Trevor rang to say he’d booked his flight and was arriving on the 15th of April, only a week hence, Diana knew she had to act. That evening she told Ernesto, pretending she had only just found out herself, and predictably he flew into a wild rage.
‘Where will he stay? Are you going to sleep with him? It’s disgusting. How can you do this to me?’
‘I’ll sleep in the same bed but I promise we won’t make love. We never do.’
‘What about my clothes? My shaving things?’ Ernesto kept everything he needed at her place so he didn’t have to nip back to his mother’s before work.
‘I’m sorry but it would be best if you move them out, just while he is here. I don’t want him to divorce me on grounds of adultery.’
‘What would the grounds of your divorce matter? You are an adulterer, are you not? Why not tell him, and then we can be together without deception?’
Eventually, he calmed down after Diana promised to ask Trevor for a divorce. She agreed for the sake of peace, but the more she thought about it, the fairer it seemed. It was kinder to tell him the worst rather than let him live in hope. Ernesto tried to insist that she should bring it up on the first evening then book him a hotel room, but she refused.
‘I love you, Ernesto,’ she said softly. ‘It’s you I want to be with. You just have to let me handle this in my own way, causing as little hurt to Trevor as possible so that I can live with myself afterwards.’
Finally he was appeased, but she felt deeply troubled. She’d been coasting along trying not to confront the situation but now she would have no choice. The emotions she felt when she considered a separation from Trevor were very raw. He was her family, her only security in the world. That was no reason to prolong an unhappy marriage but she was terrified about what would become of her. Where would she live when filming ended? How would she earn her living? Ernesto was always protesting his love for her but he hadn’t asked to marry her. She understood that he couldn’t propose while she was still married to another man, but he must realise that Diana didn’t have Elizabeth Taylor’s wealth and had to consider how she would put a roof over her head.
Having lots of money must make everything easier, Diana decided, as she read in the newspapers that Richard had bought Elizabeth a hundred and fifty thousand dollar emerald and diamond necklace from Bulgari’s. It could cushion you from many problems – but it brought others at the same time. On the 12th of April, Elizabeth was confronted with a situation created by her fame and one that was difficult to laugh off.
Diana had been expecting to have lunch with Helen but there was no sign of her in the bar so she wandered up to the sound stages. She followed the arrows to the makeup room and was surprised to find Elizabeth sitting with several hair and makeup girls clustered around, including Helen.
‘Hi!’ Elizabeth welcomed Diana, narrowing her eyes slightly as if she recognised her but couldn’t put a name to her. ‘Have you heard the latest? I’ve been condemned by the Vatican. The Pope has declared me an outcast from polite society. What was the exact phrase?’ She picked up a dog-eared newsletter, which Diana saw was L’Osservatore Della Domenica, and slapped it on the arm of the chair. ‘Someone translated it for me earlier. It says I’m an erotic vagrant.’ She gave a throaty little laugh. ‘What a joke! Is there anyone in this room who is not an erotic vagrant?’
They looked at each other and assured her they were all vagrants as well. Helen quipped dolefully, ‘Chance would be a fine thing!’
‘Bloody Catholic Church! Who wants their opinion anyway? A load of celibate old men in dresses telling me I’m not doing a good job of bringing up my children. Fuck the lot of them!’ Elizabeth spoke with bravado but Diana could see from a tightness round her eyes and hear from a wavering in her voice that it had really disturbed her.
She picked up the newspaper to look for herself. It was a letter, clearly addressed to Elizabeth, that began: ‘Dear Madam, When a short time ago you said that your marriage (the fourth to be exact) would last a lifetime there were those who shook their heads in a rather sceptical way.’
By the end of the first paragraph it was implying that her children didn’t seem to count for her, as she focused solely on satisfying her libidinous urges while trailing them around behind her. Diana skipped to the end, where it suggested that her children should be given to a farmer’s wife with a clear conscience rather than left in the care of a capricious princess.
‘These children need an honoured name more than a famous name, a serious mother more than a beautiful mother, a stable father rather than a newcomer who can be dismissed at any time.’ She sucked in her breath, hoping no one had translated that bit for Elizabeth.
The dark eyes were upon her. ‘We haven’t been introduced, have we?’ Elizabeth said.
‘I’m Diana Bailey, historical advisor to the film.’ She reached out her hand and Elizabeth shook it, meeting her eyes with warmth.
‘And tell me, Diana, how is your love life?’
‘It’s complicated,’ Diana said quietly.
‘Aren’t they all, honey?’ Elizabeth drawled. ‘Good luck with your complications. I hope the Vatican doesn’t condemn you as well.’
Diana decided that she genuinely liked this woman. She was vulnerable, confessional and, once you got over being dazzled by her fame and beauty, quite human.
‘I wouldn’t pay too much attention to L’Osservatore. It’s not written by the Pope himself – just a few opinionated cardinals – so it doesn’t necessarily represent official Vatican policy.’
‘Well, I guess that’s something to be thankful for,’ Liz laughed. ‘Maybe they won’t be sending an exorcist to drive the demon spirit from within me quite yet.’ She clasped her hands to her magnificent bosom.
‘It’s very nice to meet you properly,’ Diana said, ‘but I was just picking up Helen for lunch.’
Helen stood reluctantly. She wanted to spend as long as possible bathed in the glow of celebrity, but Diana was ravenous.
‘Bye, girls,’ Elizabeth called after them.
‘You’re looking great.’ Diana put an arm round Helen and hugged her as soon as they were out in the corridor. ‘I’m sorry we hardly ever catch up just now but it’s been all go. My husband is arriving at the weekend.’
She waited to see if Helen would comment but she didn’t seem to be aware of Diana’s affair with Ernesto. Diana hoped that Hilary was the only person on the set who’d realised. Helen had never asked any questions, which seemed to imply that word hadn’t spread beyond the production office.
‘I’d like you to meet him. Will you come for supper with us one evening?’ That would save awkward silences, because Helen’s chatter could fill the gaps.
‘OK,’ Helen said, without much enthusiasm. ‘Why not?’
Chapter Thirty-Five
In the evening of 12th April, Scott was chatting to Gianni at the curve of the Via Veneto when a shiny black car drew up.
‘Sono loro!’ someone shouted, and all the photographers scrambled into position. Rather than joining the throng, Gianni shimmied up a lamppost and yelled at Scott to hand his camera up to him.
The car door opened and Richard Burton got out on the road side then walked round to open the door for Elizabeth Taylor. No one had been sure if they would come out that evening after the Vatican pronouncement, but here they were, large as life and dressed up to the nines. She was wearing a black dress so tight it looked as though it had been glued to her, and Sco
tt noted there were no creases to indicate any underwear. Round her neck was the famous Bulgari diamond and emerald necklace Burton had bought her recently. He hoped Gianni got a good photo because there was plenty he could write about.
Usually the couple hurried with heads down straight into the bar or restaurant they were visiting, but tonight they lingered, making sure every photographer got the shots they wanted. They didn’t respond to reporters who were shouting questions about their reaction to the Vatican outburst, but Scott sensed this was their answer. It was a calculated ‘Fuck you, we don’t give a damn!’ to the cardinals. He warmed to them.
In this day and age, how dare a church single out one individual whose marriage had broken down from the millions of others around the world? Elizabeth Taylor wasn’t even Catholic. She’d converted to the Jewish faith for husband number three, Mike Todd. How rude for a country’s churchmen to lambast a visitor whose presence had brought much wealth and industry to their country. The latest estimates were that Cleopatra would cost twenty-five million dollars. It was the most expensive film ever made by a long shot, and much of that money was being ploughed into the Italian economy and thus into church coffers. Scott decided that was the article he would write: about the ridiculous hypocrisy of the Vatican and the power they still wielded over the Italian government in 1962.
He hung around outside the Grand Hotel until word came from a reliable source that Burton and Taylor were going to the Cha Cha Club after dinner. Scott decided to see if he could get in. Not many of the doormen in Rome knew he was a journalist. They thought he was a smart-looking young American with money so he could still get access to the clubs other journalists were banned from. He was waved straight into the Cha Cha, where he bought a beer and wandered round on the lookout for evidence of drug-taking. To his surprise, he came across Helen, sitting in a corner nursing a drink.
‘Hey, I was planning to call you tomorrow,’ he exclaimed. ‘How are you doing?’
