LITMIR.BIZ

      At ten past eight that evening, a taxi beeped its horn in the street outside Diana’s pensione and she rushed down the stairs. Helen was waving out of the back window. There was an Italian man sitting in the front and at first Diana assumed he was a friend of the driver’s, but he turned round and spoke to Helen in English, telling her that he was going to Trastevere and they could drop him off at the next corner.

      ‘Who’s that?’ Diana asked, after he’d got out and said goodnight.

      ‘Just Luigi,’ Helen said, without any further explanation. Diana assumed he worked on the film.

      ‘We’re going to Via Veneto, where all the stars hang out. Have you heard of it?’ Helen asked. ‘You must have seen it in La Dolce Vita?’

      Diana had to admit she hadn’t seen the film, which had come out the previous year, but she knew that the star, Anita Ekberg, famously danced in the Trevi Fountain. All the papers had shown her picture, buxom and blonde, with her strapless dress looking imminently likely to fall off.

      ‘Here we are,’ Helen announced, as the taxi pulled in to the kerb near the foot of an avenue curving up a hill. It was lined with bars and restaurants with outdoor tables, all of them thronged with customers.

      Diana noticed a group of young men standing beside motor scooters, holding cameras and chatting amongst themselves. Suddenly someone shouted from further up the hill, and they all set off, running on foot like a pack of dogs.

      ‘They’re press photographers,’ Helen explained. ‘It probably means they’ve spotted someone famous up there – maybe it’s Elizabeth and Eddie. Come on, we’re meeting the others at a pizza place round the corner.’

      Diana didn’t have time to ask who the ‘others’ were before they swept into a noisy restaurant full of Italian families. Coloured lights were strung along the walls and a glow emanated from a big oven in the centre. Helen greeted a crowd of nine girls sitting at a circular table and introduced Diana to each one in turn.

      ‘What do you do?’ one of them asked, and they turned away without interest when they heard she was a researcher. Most of them were American actresses who had minor, non-speaking roles as maidservants to Cleopatra, and the talk was of the more famous actors and actresses: what they had said and done that day and, in particular, whether Elizabeth Taylor was likely to come out that evening.

      Diana tried to engage the girl next to her in conversation, but could sense she wasn’t interested. Perhaps it was because Diana’s clothes looked so old-fashioned in comparison to theirs. They all wore evening clothes in Jackie Kennedy styles: colourful shift dresses that stopped at the knee, or white trousers with kaftan-style tops and bold jewellery. Diana had worn a favourite dress of red shiny material with little white dots that was belted round the waist and had a wide full skirt, but it looked completely wrong at that table. The skirt was far too long. None of the others were wearing white evening gloves. She didn’t fit in.

      The girls ordered pizzas. Diana had never tried one before so she ordered a Napoletana, same as Helen. A huge carafe of wine was brought and glasses poured for each of them. Diana took a sip and found it rather harsh. The pizza was divine, though, with chewy cheese melting down into a tomato sauce and something salty she couldn’t identify. Helen went to the ladies’ room and when she came back she fell into her seat, giggling inanely. Diana guessed she had downed her wine rather too fast and wondered whether she should urge her not to drink any more. She felt protective towards this girl from her hometown – but she had only known her a few hours so it wasn’t her place to say anything. In fact, all the girls were giggling as they moved on to the second carafe of wine while Diana had barely touched her first glass.

      The topic of discussion was which aspects of a star’s life it was legitimate for photographers to take pictures of. The girls reckoned that they were only doing their job if they shot the actors as they walked into a party or nightclub all dressed up to the nines but that the paparazzi who hid in the trees round Elizabeth Taylor’s villa and photographed her children in the swimming pool were going too far. Diana hadn’t heard the term ‘paparazzi’ before but realised it referred to the press pack she had seen outside.

      ‘One of them offered me a hundred thousand lire for a shot of Elizabeth on the set,’ a girl told them, and a couple of others concurred.

      ‘Yeah, me too. But we’d get fired if we were found out so it’s not worth it.’

      When they’d finished eating, someone suggested they went to a piano bar and Diana tagged along, although she was beginning to feel tired. There were taxis cruising the street and she planned to pop into the bar for a few moments, to see what it was like, before coming out to hail one. They crowded into a small, dark hideaway with no name on the door, and just inside she spotted Ernesto standing at the bar. He kissed her on both cheeks and seemed genuinely delighted to see her.

      ‘Diana, you must join me for a drink. I insist.’

      ‘I was about to leave,’ she began, but he didn’t pay any attention, calling out to a waiter ‘Due Belline.’

      ‘What’s a Bellini?’ she asked.

      ‘Trust me. You’ll like it,’ he said, and she did. It was sweet, fruity and fizzy and it didn’t taste alcoholic, although she suspected it probably was. The other girls had found a table, where they had been joined by some Italian boys, and she wondered whether she should sit with them.

      ‘How did you become a Cleopatra expert?’ Ernesto asked, and she explained about the subjects she had taken at Oxford and her fascination for the Egyptian queen who was an astute politician and military tactician. He seemed genuinely interested in her PhD research and asked questions about how Cleopatra held on to the throne for almost forty years. Diana enjoyed telling him her own theories about the clever ways Cleopatra won the support of the Egyptian people.

      ‘Don’t you think being involved with a Hollywood movie will undermine your credibility?’ Ernesto asked.

      ‘That’s what my husband thinks,’ Diana confessed. ‘He didn’t want me to come.’

      ‘Of course he didn’t. I am amazed that he allowed you! An Italian husband would have stopped you.’

      Diana raised an eyebrow. ‘In Britain in the 1960s, we women don’t need our husband’s permission to take a career opportunity.’

      Ernesto shrugged. ‘In Italy you would. But tell me, how was your first day on the set?’

      Diana explained that she had no idea what to do. No one had explained what her responsibilities were and she hadn’t met the director or caught up with the producer.

      ‘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

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