The Affair

by Gill Paul

  When his secretary went out for lunch, he searched the office for a secure hiding place. First he checked for loose floorboards that he could slide the packet underneath. That was what they did in the movies, wasn’t it? He couldn’t find any, though. He checked behind the filing cabinets for an odd surface that might form a little shelf but there was nothing. The walls were covered in wood panelling and he ran his fingers along it. He noticed that there was an odd piece of panelling by the window shutters that protruded a few inches, as if some part of the shutter mechanism folded into it. He closed then opened them but could see no reason for the panelling to be deeper there. He slipped his fingers underneath and pulled outwards, but it wouldn’t move. Then he tried pulling sideways, towards the window, and still it didn’t move. It was only when he pushed upwards that the panel slid, stiffly, and behind it he saw a cubbyhole about a foot tall and six inches wide. Inside there were several sheaves of paper, stacked neatly and separated by paper clips.

  Scott pulled out the papers and glanced at the scrawled writing that covered them. Straight away he recognised Gregg’s shorthand, the system he had learned, which wasn’t used in Europe. That implied the writer of these papers was American. He sat on the edge of his desk and slowly read the top page, making out the name of a prominent government minister. The author said that on the 12th of January 1960 he had accepted a bribe of four million lire to draft a bill concerning some technicality to do with ships that collect cargo from Italian ports without coming into port themselves. Scott scanned the page but couldn’t make out who was alleged to have made the bribe in question. Behind it there was a customs document covered in tiny print. He flicked through more pages and on top of one sheaf of papers he made out the name Ghianciamina. It was something to do with a meeting with a government official.

  Suddenly he became concerned that his secretary could return at any time. He thrust the sheaf of paper with the name Ghianciamina into his inside jacket pocket and stacked the rest back in the cubbyhole, along with the cocaine, before sliding the wood panel into place. It moved smoothly and Scott wondered who was responsible for the clever piece of carpentry. There was only one explanation he could think of: the dates on the papers were around 1960, so they must have been left by the previous Rome correspondent, Bradley Wyndham.

  All afternoon, Scott sat at his desk, listening to the click-click-ping of his secretary’s typing across the room, and worrying about the documents in his pocket. He didn’t dare take them out to read them but imagined they must be incriminating; otherwise, why the special hiding place? What if he fell off his Vespa or got mugged and they were found in his pocket? He could be in serious trouble.

  Suddenly it seemed imperative that he track down Bradley Wyndham and ask about his research. As soon as it was morning in the Midwest, he called his editor and asked if he could have a forwarding address for Bradley, saying he had found something of his in the office and would like to return it.

  ‘He never gave a forwarding address,’ the editor told him. ‘I was furious. He called on a Friday to say he was leaving, asked me to pay his last month’s salary into a Swiss bank account, and when I rang on the Monday he’d gone. We’ve never heard from him since. It was pretty unprofessional and if he’d asked for a reference I’d have given him his head on a platter.’

  Scott’s stomach clenched. It sounded as though Bradley had upset someone in Rome and been forced to leave in a hurry. What other explanation could there be?

  He looked at his secretary, a grey-haired spinster in her fifties who had also worked for Bradley. Might she know anything, he wondered.

  She shook her head. ‘He didn’t even say goodbye. I came in to work on the Monday as usual and he didn’t appear. I never saw him again.’

  Scott tapped his finger on the desk. ‘Can you think of any way I could get in touch with him?’

  She thought for a moment, then flicked through a Rolodex card file on her desk until she came to ‘W’. ‘I’m sure I used to have his brother’s address. Bradley asked me to ship some Christmas presents to him and he wrote the address on a piece of paper so I filed it afterwards. Here it is. He’s in Ohio.’

  Scott walked over to have a look. ‘You’ve got the phone number as well,’ he said, pleased.

  ‘Yes, they needed it for customs.’

  ‘I think I’ll give him a call later.’

  He waited until his secretary had left for the evening, then he rang the operator and asked to be connected. When a man answered, Scott said, ‘I’m calling from Rome, trying to get in touch with Bradley Wyndham. I took over his job here.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone called Bradley Wyndham,’ the voice said. ‘You must have the wrong number.’ The line went dead abruptly.

  Scott thought about this for a moment. Why the abrupt hang-up? If the person on the end of the line genuinely didn’t know anything, wouldn’t they have asked more questions to make sure it wasn’t a case of a misheard name? He rang back and as soon as the call connected, he said quickly: ‘Tell Bradley I’ve found his papers and I want to meet.’

  The line went dead.

  Chapter Forty-One

  On the 8th of May, the procession scene was being filmed at Cinecittà. Seven thousand extras had to pretend they were watching dancing girls and snake-charmers coming through the Temple of Venus, for a scene that would precede the arrival of Cleopatra and her son on a sphinx. When Diana arrived at the studio, she could hear a sound like the buzzing of a gigantic beehive as the extras flocked into the back lot through a separate entrance and made their way to massive warehouses to be kitted out with costumes, hair and makeup. Some interlopers clustered in a timid group outside Elizabeth Taylor’s dressing-room suite, unaware that she wouldn’t be in that day. Her black eye still hadn’t faded.

  Ernesto was sitting on Diana’s desk chatting to her when Hilary came into the production office, looking harassed.

  ‘The gate man hasn’t been doing a proper check on passes so loads of unauthorised people are getting in and it’s driving me crazy. The place is full of strangers gawping and getting in the way!’ She flopped down at her desk and pulled out a cigarette. Ernesto leapt across to light it for her.

  ‘Can we help?’ Diana asked.

  ‘Actually …’ Hilary inhaled hard and screwed her eyes against the smoke. ‘I don’t suppose you two could get into costume and mingle in the crowd, to watch out for anachron­isms, like newspapers or wrist watches?’

  Diana looked at Ernesto and he shrugged. ‘Why not? When the film comes out, maybe we will spot ourselves on the big screen.’

  ‘We haven’t been fitted for costumes, though,’ Diana said.

  ‘They’re bound to have some spares your size.’ Hilary glanced at them both. ‘Better hurry though. We start shooting at one.’

  Diana giggled as they ran to the costume department. How funny that she was actually going to appear in the film she’d been working on for the last seven months and Ernesto had been involved in for over a year. Of course, she knew it was unlikely she would ever be able to pick herself out of the crowd in the finished picture, but she was tickled to think of the possibility.

  There were loads of unclaimed costumes so she picked an authentic-looking tunic and an imitation pearl necklace, pulled them on, then went to the makeup area to join a queue. There was a strong scent of singed hair as tongs were used to create curls, which were considered more ‘Roman’ than straight hair. When it was Diana’s turn, one of the girls wiped her face with an orange cream, giving her a hasty tan. ‘The hair’s fine. You’ll do,’ she said, glancing in consternation at the queue stretching behind her.

  She had arranged to meet Ernesto in the bar by the sound stages, and he was already standing there in a centurion’s short tunic and helmet. Strangely, it suited him. He had classic Roman bone structure with a sharp nose, and well-muscled legs, just as a centurion would have done.

  He laughed when he saw her: ‘Your arms don’t match your face. It’s as if you’ve
been bleached from the neck down.’

  ‘I’d better keep my arms out of shot in that case. Let’s go and see what we can do.’

  Ernesto offered her a gulp of his beer but when she refused, he drained it and followed her to the back lot. Diana had heard stories of bottom pinching and men pressing themselves against scantily clad girls in the crowd at the rehearsals, but there was none of that in evidence. People stood with serious expressions, watching Joe Mankiewicz where he crouched on a platform in deep discussion with one of the cameramen.

  Diana and Ernesto set to work, making their way through the crowd asking people to remove watches and jewellery. One girl was sporting a modern beehive hairstyle and Diana sent her back to get a wig. One o’clock came and went and no instructions were issued. The heat was sweltering and Diana could feel the heavy makeup starting to melt on her face. She wondered how Elizabeth could bear to wear her makeup and wigs for hours on end. What with the elaborate costumes and the stifling atmosphere of the sound stages, she must be very uncomfortable.

  At last Joe spoke through a loudspeaker, announcing that filming was about to start. He wanted the extras to look amazed by the sights they were witnessing and remember that these were things they would never have seen before. Cues would be given on signs. That was the only acting required of them. Diana heard the familiar commands of ‘Quiet on set, going for a take, roll sound, roll camera … And action!’

  ‘Cut!’ came the order over the loudspeaker, almost straight away. Joe spoke to someone beside him who leapt down from the raised platform and came running over towards the crowd.

  Diana followed him with her eyes. What had gone wrong? Standing on tiptoe, she saw the problem: a stout man with a cool-box strapped to his chest. In the vicinity, several extras were hastily gobbling ice creams. They were allowed to have refreshments between takes but shouldn’t be seen on film, of course.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ Ernesto chuckled. ‘We Romans never miss a business opportunity!’

  ‘Incredible!’ She shook her head as she watched the offender being led off to the side. It didn’t matter so long as he didn’t try to sell ice cream while the cameras were rolling.

  ‘Italians invented ice cream, you know,’ Ernesto claimed.

  ‘No, they didn’t. There are records of something similar in China in 3000 BC, and it’s likely the idea was brought to Italy by Marco Polo.’ She stopped, realising how pedantic she sounded, but Ernesto just laughed and rubbed her shoulders.

  ‘My little brainbox,’ he whispered adoringly.

  Finally, filming started again, and the crowd roared and cooed and aahed, as they were instructed, craning their necks to watch the imaginary procession that had already been filmed. It felt like a real celebration, a proud moment for all involved, something they could tell their children in future. Diana and Ernesto cheered along with the rest of the crowd, and hugged and kissed each other openly. She felt so happy. Life at Cinecittà was exciting, she had a wonderful lover and the sun was shining.

  There were several retakes but no one complained, despite the intense heat. They wanted the moment to last as long as possible. There was even a disappointed groan when Joe called out in Italian to thank them for their involvement and ask them to take their costumes back to wardrobe.

  The women’s changing area was heaving with people so Diana grabbed her summer dress from the corner where she’d left it and made her way towards the production office to change and wash off her makeup. She waved at several people along the way and stopped in the bar to pick up an iced lemonade. Just as she passed the main gates of the studio, a young Italian woman stepped into her path, screeching in anger and gesticulating wildly. At first Diana got the impression she had lost her child, but the woman was pointing and screaming ‘Sei tu!’ which didn’t make sense. How could it be Diana’s fault?

  ‘Hai rubato mio marito. Hai rubato il padre dei miei quattro figli.’

  Her words were hysterical and hard to distinguish. Diana looked around for someone to help her make sense of what the woman was saying, but there were no Italian speakers in sight. Frustrated, the woman opened her bag, fumbled around and pulled out a photograph, which she handed to Diana. It showed Ernesto with a baby in his arms and three small children grouped round him. A little girl was sitting on his knee. Could this be his sister’s kids? Diana tried to remember which one he’d said had children.

  ‘Are you his sister?’ she asked in Italian.

  ‘No, I’m his wife. These are his children. And you are a whore.’

  Diana felt as though she was going to faint. ‘Ma lui non è sposato’ – ‘But he’s not married.’

  The woman held out her hand to show a wedding ring. ‘Ten years we are married,’ she insisted. ‘Ten years. But since January this year my children have hardly seen their papa because he is staying with his English whore.’ She spat on the ground in disgust.

  Diana looked at the photo again, trying to think of some reason why the woman would say all this if it weren’t true. She couldn’t come up with one. But Ernesto had been planning to introduce her to his mother. How could he have done that if he were married? The answer came to her: he would never have gone through with it. He was all talk. What about the girlfriend who broke his heart? Had she even existed? Was anything he’d ever told her true?

  His wife was sobbing now.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Diana told her. ‘I had no idea he was married.’

  Still the woman was crying and Diana didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t her place to offer comfort to this stranger. ‘I will stop seeing him straight away. I’m sorry.’ She handed back the photograph.

  ‘Puttana inglese!’ the woman cried. ‘Sgualdrina!’

  She placed the photograph back in her bag and walked slowly out the gates of the studio, still crying. Diana watched as she made her way across the road to the bus stop, feeling so shocked that for several minutes she couldn’t move.

  Once at the stop, the woman turned to glare back through the gates, and it was only then that Diana found the strength to continue towards the production office.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Diana changed quickly, removed her wig and called for a studio driver to take her back to her pensione. She was still wearing her heavy pancake makeup and eyeliner and the driver tried to joke with her about it but she was lost in her own thoughts.

  I’m such a fool. Why didn’t I guess? How could he?

  It didn’t occur to her to question the woman’s story. Her distress had been genuine and that photograph was proof. She must have grabbed the opportunity to sneak onto the set when so many strangers were there for the procession scene. It was the only way she could catch her husband red-handed with his mistress – her! How could she have been so wrong about Ernesto? Was she such a bad judge of character? More to the point, what was she going to say when he arrived at her pensione later?

  She had a bath to wash off the grime of the day and lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling as the fierce heat of the sun subsided. Her cheeks and arms were tight with sunburn. A faint breeze blew her curtain inwards. She decided she couldn’t face a long, drawn-out argument with Ernesto. She would simply tell him it was over and ask him to pack his things and leave. She didn’t want to hear dozens of excuses. What was it errant men always said in the movies? ‘My wife doesn’t understand me.’ Well, maybe she didn’t, but he’d had children with her and that changed everything as far as Diana was concerned.

  Ernesto didn’t attempt to deny that he was married and a father, but he had a million excuses for his behaviour. ‘I couldn’t help falling in love with you, Diana. During that trip to Ischia, I knew you were the person I should spend my life with. I got married too young and we have nothing in common. My wife is uneducated, simple, but you – you are a genius.’

  ‘You lied to me, and you’ve gone on lying and lying.’

  Ernesto looked pained. ‘I had no choice. I hated lying to you but if I’d told you I was married you wouldn’t
have been with me. I wanted you to love me. I need you, cara mia.’

  Diana clutched her head in her hands, wanting to scream. ‘You could never have married me. Divorce isn’t legal in Italy, yet you tried to make me divorce my husband. Why would you do that?’

  ‘I didn’t want to share you. The thought that this man slept in our bed makes me crazy. Diana, we can still be together. I will leave my wife and we will get an apartment. I want to wake up beside you every morning for the rest of my life.’ He reached out to touch her cheek and she flinched.

  ‘Absolutely not. I can’t believe you’ve turned out to be such a louse. I want you to collect your things and get out, and I don’t want you anywhere near me from now on.’

  ‘Don’t decide so quickly. Take a few days to think it over. Please don’t break my heart.’

  He sounded very upset, but she noticed there was no remorse for what he had done. For Diana it was a black and white decision. ‘There’s nothing to think about, Ernesto. Go back to your wife and children. Tell her I’m sorry. And stay away from me.’

  He began to fold his shirts and trousers and Diana watched, willing him to hurry. It was unbelievable that just a few hours earlier they had been kissing on the film set, delighted in each other’s company, perfectly happy in the moment. How naïve she had been.

  ‘Can I have one last kiss?’ Ernesto asked, his brown eyes sad, and her traitorous body yearned to press against his and feel his lips one last time, but she was too angry.

  ‘Just get out!’ she ordered, and with a reproachful backwards glance, he did.

  Diana poured herself a glass of water then sat on her balcony watching as the light faded and the evening traffic hit the streets. She felt old, cynical and exhausted.

  What’s the big deal? I’ve simply had an affair. All over Cinecittà, men and women were having affairs. That’s what happened on film sets. Most of them went back to the lives they’d had before and forgot all about it. That’s probably what would happen with Elizabeth and Richard, if word on the set was to be believed. But to her, it was a big deal – a huge deal. She felt dirty and used. She was horrified at the suffering she had inadvertently caused to Ernesto’s wife. And she felt sheer rage with him for the damage he had done, both to her and to Trevor. She didn’t cry – couldn’t cry – but she sat on her balcony long after darkness fell, watching the lights of the city and listening to the drone of Vespas speeding their drivers to bars and nightspots. Her love affair was over and life went on.