The Affair - Gill Paul

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      Now the man was humping against the woman beneath him. Did he know there was a witness? Did that excite him? The fisherman took no pleasure in watching – there was no stirring in his loins – but all the same he didn’t look away. When they finished, she stood to brush the stones from her back, and he could tell from the tone of her voice that she was laughingly complaining of small injuries. The man kissed her, and they spoke in lowered voices, but soon after he turned and walked back up the hill.

      Instead of following, the woman began to stroll along the front, gazing out at the pink horizon, her shoes dangling from her hand. She crossed into the area where the fisherman’s boat was hauled up on shore, and stood there for some time just watching.

      Once the tip of the sun’s brilliant-white dome had slid over the horizon and you could already feel the beginning of the day’s heat, she spun around and began to walk up the shore path directly towards the fisherman. As she got close, he saw that she was a beauty, and a familiar one.

      She was startled when she noticed him, but said ‘Buongiorno’ in an American accent. She watched him, as if trying to gauge how much he had seen, and as she passed she gave him a wink.

      He nodded briefly. She should put her shoes on, he thought. There were fish-hooks on the ground, easy to miss but hard to remove from the flesh. But he didn’t know how to say that in English, so instead he carried on mending his net.

      Some time later, the sun glinted on an object lying in the sand where the couple had been. The fisherman walked down to investigate and saw it was a piece of jewellery made of ­brilliant stones. He picked it up, surprised by the weight. He’d never seen diamonds before but had no doubt that’s what they were. He considered for a minute, then slipped the object in the pocket of his oilskin trousers before going back to his net.

       Chapter One

       London, July 1961

      ‘I have a telephone call from Los Angeles. In America. Just connecting you.’

      ‘I think there’s some mistake …’ Diana protested – she didn’t know anyone who lived in America – but her voice was lost in a succession of clicks and buzzes as the operator pushed plugs into a switchboard.

      ‘I’m putting you through to Mr Wanger,’ said a cheery American voice, and Diana raised her eyebrows in surprise. He was the producer of a film about Cleopatra they had been making at Pinewood Studios the previous winter but the plug had been pulled after its star, Elizabeth Taylor, suffered a bout of near-fatal pneumonia.

      Walter came on the line, his voice sounding as though he was in a cave somewhere far off. She could hear her own voice echo disconcertingly, and kept pausing for the sound to subside.

      ‘We need you in Rome,’ Walter said. ‘We start rolling at the end of September but come as soon as you can.’

      ‘You need me? Whatever for?’ She had spent one day at Pinewood giving him advice on their gaudy sets, and since she had basically told him they needed to start from scratch if they were aiming at historical accuracy, she’d never expected to hear from him again.

      ‘You’ve got a PhD in Cleopatra from Oxford University, you’re the British Museum’s top expert, there’s no one else who could bring such authority to the production. Frankly, without you it will only be half the movie it could be. You must come, Diana.’

      ‘How long would you need me for?’

      ‘Certainly no longer than six months,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a little less.’

      She gasped. She’d been thinking it might be a week at most, but Walter explained that he wanted her on hand throughout the shooting. He was offering a salary that was almost double what she currently earned – even more than her husband Trevor earned as a university lecturer – and generous expenses as well. The studio would find her a room in a pensione and she’d be ferried around by a studio driver. Walter kept talking, mentioning all the perks she would enjoy, and the fact that there would even be a credit for her in the final movie. Diana hardly got a word in edgeways.

      The possibility that she might turn down his offer didn’t seem to enter his mind and Diana didn’t voice her reservations because it all sounded so glamorous. She had never been to Rome; in fact, she had only been overseas once before on a student research trip to Egypt. If she were there while the film was being shot, she would surely get to watch the stars at work, which would be exciting. And she was flattered by Walter Wanger’s faith in her.

      But looking round their little sitting room after the long-distance call ended, Diana thought again. How could she leave Trevor? She’d miss him terribly and he’d be lost without her. He was incapable of cooking a nutritious evening meal. Without her around he would probably live on toasted crumpets and cold baked beans straight from the can. He couldn’t heat a tin of soup without burning it and he had shrunk all his clothes the one and only time he tried to operate the twin-tub washing machine. She was his wife. It was her duty to look after him.

      Fortunately he’d never been one of those men who thought women should give up work on marriage. He’d always applauded the fact that she had a career and encouraged her to take her job seriously; so maybe he would agree to her taking up this opportunity. Six months wasn’t so long in the great scheme of things.

      Trevor got home late after a meeting of the Victorian Society, and Diana brought him a cup of tea and a plate of cold meat sandwiches for supper before telling him about the offer.

      ‘You’ve got to be joking!’ was his first reaction. ‘How presumptuous of him to ask a married woman to leave her husband for months on end!’

      ‘I know it seems a lot, darling, but there are expenses to cover trips back to London, and you could come over to Rome. We could probably spend every weekend together, either here or there. And we’d be able to save lots of money to help us get a bigger place for when …’ Her voice trailed off.

      They’d been trying for a baby ever since she finished her PhD but with no success to date. ‘Maybe we’re doing it wrong,’ Trevor had quipped to hide his disappointment when her last period started. ‘We obviously need more practice.’ She’d felt guilty, as if it were her fault she wasn’t falling pregnant. She’d read in a magazine that it was almost always something wrong with the woman.

      ‘Neither of us is getting any younger,’ Trevor reminded her now. ‘I don’t want to be too old and arthritic to teach my son to ride a bicycle. And your eggs might go rotten if they’re left too long.’

      ‘I don’t think six months will make much difference,’ she argued, but she knew it concerned him because he was eighteen years older than her and already well into his forties.

      ‘Your head will be turned. Walter Wanker will ask you to advise on his next film and the one after that and before you know it you’ll be swanning all over the world without ever needing to use your brain. Did you know he made Invasion of the Bodysnatchers? I’m beginning to feel that’s what has happened to you. Aliens have come and replaced you with a substitute Diana who is a completely different person from the woman I married.’ He smiled and rubbed her knee, trying to turn it into a joke, but she could tell he was upset.

      ‘I’m still me,’ she said, reaching out to hold his hand. ‘I’m still your wife. I suppose I’ve just been feeling that I want a bit of excitement before I settle down to motherhood. I’ll be tied to the home for twenty years or more once I’m bringing up our brood, and advising on the film would be a little adventure I could have first: something exciting to tell our children and grandchildren about one day.’

      A hurt look clouded his eyes.

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