The Affair: An enthralling story of love and passion and Hollywood glamour

Diana agreed straight away. She would rather do that than go for dinner with Ernesto, which had all the potential to be compromising.

‘Amazing! Give me the address of your pensione and I’ll pick you up in a taxi about eight o’clock.’ Suddenly she nudged Diana and nodded towards a man walking down the avenue holding a small dog.

‘Who’s that?’ Diana whispered.

‘Eddie Fisher, Elizabeth Taylor’s husband. The one she stole from Debbie Reynolds. He’s handsome, isn’t he?’

He was indeed, Diana thought, except for rather pitted skin where he must have suffered from acne in his teens. He was quite short as well. All the men seemed short. ‘Is he working on the film?’ she asked.

‘He’s got some job title or other but basically he runs around fetching drinks for Elizabeth and clearing up after the dogs.’ Helen rolled her eyes.

Diana watched as he turned the corner and wondered what it must feel like to be married to the woman everyone said was the most beautiful in the world. You’d need to be quite a confident person. She’d heard Eddie Fisher was a singer but wasn’t sure if she’d ever heard any of his songs.

Helen began to sing: ‘Cindy, oh Cindy …’ She had a sweet voice. ‘You must remember that one? It was quite a hit a couple of years ago.’

Diana shook her head. She wasn’t up to date with popular music: Trevor liked classical so that tended to be what they listened to. She felt so out of touch. She was only twenty-five but she might as well be forty because her life had become so middle-aged.

After they finished their drinks, they walked back to sound stage 5 and Helen scurried upstairs to the makeup room, while Diana walked back into the hangar-like set. The door was open and the red light was off. Round a corner she could see a huge cauldron made out of papier-mâché and surrounded by goblets and bronze statuettes of jackal-headed Anubis figures. She smiled, recognising the image they had used for reference, one that was now largely believed by historians to be a third-century fake. She took out her pad and began to scribble notes.

A young assistant was measuring the distance between the altar and the lens of the camera, which she saw was mounted on tracks. Some young women appeared in ancient Egyptian costume and she guessed they must be handmaidens. The costumes weren’t too bad, actually – someone had done their homework – but the hair and makeup were totally Hollywood.

There was a call of ‘Quiet on the set’ and people began to move towards the exit.

‘Are you supposed to be here?’ an American woman with a clipboard asked Diana.

‘I’m a researcher. I don’t know,’ Diana said.

‘Technical crew and actors only,’ she ordered, pointing to the door, so Diana obeyed.

She wandered around for a while then decided to go for an early lunch and made her way to the commissary, following the little map Hilary had given her. It was already busy in there but she slipped into an unoccupied table in a corner. The waiter brought her a menu.

There was pasta to start – fettuccine al ragù or agnolotti in brodo – and the main courses were chicken cacciatore (the day’s special) or blanquette de veau with peas, buttered baby carrots and creamed potatoes. The sweet was simple – a choice of ice cream or fresh fruit salad. It looked lovely, but much more than she normally ate at lunchtime.

‘Do you have any sandwiches?’ she asked the waiter when he came to take her order.

He took the menu from her without smiling. ‘The bar serves sandwiches. We are a restaurant.’

She thanked him, got up and made her way out into the sunshine again. The bar where she had shared a Coke with Candy earlier was now packed with a lively, chattering crowd. Diana chose a couple of egg and tomato sandwiches, which she took to a shelf at one side.

A crowd of men came in, all of them handsome and bronzed like the ones in Lucky Strike adverts. They found chairs and dragged them together round a table and Diana noticed how muscular they were, like athletes. One of them took a chair from right beside her but didn’t even glance her way, and no one spoke to her.

As soon as she had finished eating, she left the bar, planning to have a long walk round the studio and get her bearings. She peered into carpentry workshops, plasterers’ studios full of statues, prop stores and vast warehouses with rail upon rail of costumes. Towards the rear of Cinecittà she could see rolling fields and she headed in that direction, thinking she could work her way back.

Suddenly, she noticed two men standing very close together in the shadows behind an abandoned set. They hadn’t seen Diana and she gasped as she realised they were kissing. Shocked and embarrassed, she ducked out of sight and tiptoed away, only stopping for breath when she was sure they couldn’t see her. Of course, she had assumed there would be homosexual men involved in the making of a film because she’d heard they tended to be creative types, but she hadn’t expected them to be so open about it. It was illegal for them to have sexual relations in England and she assumed the law would be the same in a fiercely Catholic country like Italy. She was in a different world now and would have to get used to a lot of things she hadn’t seen before. This was what she had wanted after all – a new experience.

The outdoor sets were constructed on the studio’s back lot, and as soon as she got close she saw the replica of the Forum, which was if anything bigger than the one she had criticised in Pinewood. Walter hadn’t listened to her at all. She took out her notebook and made copious notes on all the parts of buildings and frontages she could see, stepping over piles of building materials. She’d noticed a typewriter back in the production office and, when she finished, she decided to go and type up her notes.

She walked back around the other side of the lot. As she approached the offices, a small dog suddenly darted out of a building and across the lawn. A door opened just ten yards away and a figure in a bathrobe and a hairnet peered out. It was unmistakably Elizabeth Taylor.

‘Here, baby,’ she called in a husky but surprisingly high, childlike voice.

Diana was mesmerised. Miss Taylor was the most famous woman in the world at that time, after her near-death experience earlier in the year. She was more famous than Marilyn Monroe, Joan Crawford and Ava Gardner all put together – and there she was in a bathrobe and hairnet.

She glanced at Diana briefly, then retreated back into the building. Consulting her map, Diana saw that it was labelled ‘Star’s dressing-room suite’.

Seconds later the door opened again, and Eddie Fisher hurried out holding a dog’s lead and whistling for the dog. Diana pointed to show him the direction it had disappeared in, and he grinned and called ‘Thanks, honey!’

At school Diana had been an outsider, the bookish one with only a few equally serious friends, but now, for the first time in her life, she felt as if she was part of a charmed inner circle.

Chapter Six

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 take you some time. There must be a cinema somewhere that is still showing it and we will go together.’

Diana began to search her mind for an excuse, but he pre-empted her, holding up his hand.

‘Don’t worry. I know you are married. I am not a Casanova type. You and I are going to be good friends, that’s all.’

She smiled. ‘Excellent. I need some friends out here. I’m going back to my pensione now as I’m getting rather tired, but I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘How are you getting home? Let me give you a lift.’ He stood up and pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket.

‘I was going to get a taxi. Don’t worry. It’s not far. I’m only in Piazza Repubblica.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of letting you take a taxi alone at night. Nice girls would never travel unaccompanied.’

‘Oh my gosh!’ Diana exclaimed. ‘Well, in that case …’

She said her goodbyes to Helen and the other girls, then followed Ernesto out to the street. She’d been expecting a car and was taken aback when he climbed onto a Vespa motor scooter and gestured for her to get on behind. What option did she have, though?

‘I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been on one of these.’

‘You just climb on and put your arms round my waist. It’s easy.’

She gathered up her full skirts and straddled the scooter, wondering how on earth other girls managed in those tight short dresses. She placed her hands loosely on the sides of Ernesto’s jacket, but when the scooter started to move, she gripped more firmly. Her skirt billowed out on one side and she tucked it under her thighs. The breeze blew her hair back off her face and she closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation. When she opened them, they were going past a beautiful church.

She was in Rome, in 1961, riding home on the back of a Vespa. The life she had been waiting to lead felt as though it had finally begun.

Chapter Seven

Ernesto came to the production office to collect Diana at five to ten the following morning to take her to the script meeting.

‘Are you absolutely sure I’m supposed to come along?’ she asked.

‘Of course. You must be there. You can actually make a difference at this stage.’

The director’s office was in a building opposite the main gate. A dozen people were sitting smoking and drinking coffee, among them Walter Wanger, who leapt to his feet and rushed over to embrace Diana.

‘Sweetheart, you made it! It’s terrific to see you. Let me introduce you to everybody.’ He went round the room, pointing out John De Cuir, the set designer; Hilary Armitage, the woman she already knew from the production office; Leon Shamroy, the director of photography, whom she recognised as the man in the Hawaiian shirt she had seen on set; as well as some production managers, continuity girls, and various others. Diana desperately tried to remember their names. The door opened and in walked a man with an open, friendly face that seemed familiar. He was smoking a pipe.

‘Joe, meet Diana, our new historical advisor,’ Walter called. ‘I asked her along today to see how she can be of use to you.’ This was a lie, of course; Walter hadn’t asked her at all. ‘Diana, this is Joe Mankiewicz.’

She shook hands with the director and realised she had read an interview with him in the Sunday Times; she recalled him from the photograph. He’d struck both her and Trevor as being very bright and articulate.

‘Welcome on board,’ Joe said, then sat on the edge of his desk and held out a sheaf of typewritten pages to a girl called Rosemary Matthews, who began to distribute them. ‘Give Diana a copy as well,’ he instructed.

She liked the smell of his pipe tobacco, which was like new-mown hay compared to the stale harshness of cigarette smoke. Everyone smoked here, male and female – she had yet to meet anyone who didn’t.

‘Joe rewrites the script every night,’ Walter explained. ‘We weren’t happy with the last draft. As soon as you get your copy in the morning you should read it through and tell Hilary if you can see any major problems. You’ll have to be quick, though, because we start rehearsing right after this meeting and we start shooting about noon.’

‘On the script you’ve just written?’

Joe nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s crazy but I’ve known crazier things to happen on movies. You’ll get used to it.’

They began to discuss a scene they wanted to shoot the following week down on the Anzio coast, in which Cleopatra is encamped facing Ptolemy’s troops and trying to work out how to reach Caesar to ask for his help. Joe asked Diana about the way the troops would have been positioned and she was relieved that she knew the answer and could draw a sketch for him on the back of one of the sheets of script.

He nodded, pleased. ‘OK, we can use the natural curve of the bay for that bit and have the cameras here.’ He pointed to a spot on the paper and all heads bent to look.

‘Any dialogue?’

‘I’ll keep it short,’ Joe said.

Ernesto leaned over and told her in a whisper that they avoided dialogue on exterior shots as much as possible because they would have to dub it later, which could be hit-and-miss.

‘Does anyone know if Miss Taylor is coming in today?’ someone asked.

‘Nobody called to say she isn’t,’ Walter told them.

‘Have you checked the calendar? Is it a red-letter day?’ another voice called, and there were snorts round the room, which Diana didn’t understand. She’d have to ask someone later.

They ran through the parts of the script they’d been given and Diana attempted to skim read but it was hard to comment without knowing the context. No one had any criticisms. They just talked about camera angles. It seemed more of a technical meeting than anything else.

Joe got up to leave, but turned for a word with Diana on the way out. ‘Will you leave a message at the production office to say where you’re going to be every night? In case I need to call you about something while I’m writing.’

Diana agreed that she would do, and glowed with importance. The director was going to consult her while he was writing the script! She would be on call, like a doctor.

Brimming with pride, she made her way over to Walter to ask about her other responsibilities. How did he see her role?

‘I want you to have a look at all John’s wonderful sets and discuss with him if there are any little details that could make them just a tiny bit more authentic.’

John De Cuir scowled, making it obvious he didn’t want any interference.

‘Introduce yourself in the props and costume departments and see if they want any advice,’ Walter continued. ‘Talk to people in makeup and hair. You’re the lynchpin, communicating with people across the set and raising the intellectual level of the movie.’

‘I’ve already written some notes on the outdoor sets I saw yesterday,’ she volunteered. She’d brought them with her in her handbag and started to open it.

‘Wonderful!’ Walter clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Give them to Hilary and she’ll make sure the right people see them. It’s great that you’ve got off to a flying start. Is your pensione comfortable?’

‘Charming, thank you.’

‘Good, good. Well, I better get going, but I’m really glad you are with us.’

Ernesto appeared by her side again. ‘They have some stills here from the scene that was shot of Miss Taylor at the altar of Isis. Do you want to have a look?’

Diana went over to a table by the window where the photo­grapher had laid them out. They showed Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra in front of the cauldron that Diana had seen in sound stage 5. Her appearance was completely wrong; Trevor would snort with derision if he could see it. She was wearing a low-cut evening gown, whereas Cleopatra would have worn a long high-necked tunic with coiled ropes of pearls round her neck. In that era, pearls would have been the most desirable jewel, their equivalent to diamonds, and it was known that Cleopatra was especially partial to them. Her hairstyle was wrong as well, with a fringed bob style, as was the heavy black eye makeup that curved outwards at the corners. Ancient Egyptians had used black kohl on their eyelids to protect their eyes from the sun’s rays, but it wouldn’t have been stylised like that.

‘It’s all wrong,’ she whispered to Ernesto.

He grinned. ‘You’re welcome to tell Irene Sharaff your views but take a suit of armour! She has a reputation for not welcoming criticism.’

‘Everyone keeps telling me to give my honest opinion and then they proceed to disregard it. I’ve no idea why I’m here. What am I to do for the next six months?’

He rubbed her arm sympathetically. ‘You could relax and let me show you around Rome. Or you could talk to the key people with some tact and see if you can persuade them to make minor changes to their designs. Personally, I recommend you do both.’

Before leaving the meeting, she took her notes from the previous day over to Hilary. ‘Walter said to give these to you.’

Hilary glanced at them and seemed puzzled. ‘Did he? OK. Thanks.’ She tucked them under her arm.

Ernesto hurried off and Diana returned to the office to read the script properly, but it was invented dialogue without any facts she could correct. When she finished, she decided to walk out to the back lot, where she’d been the day before, and work her way along an avenue that was marked on the map as having several workshops. The first ones she came to contained huge pieces of scenery, most of them in white marble with gold leaf decoration. There were some enormous unguent jars that looked fine from a distance but close up she could see they were papier-mâché and liable to topple over if the wind blew. She saw gold-painted cat-goddess statues but from the wrong period so she took out her notebook and made a note. There was no one around to discuss them with.

In the next workshop, a couple of Italian men were making Roman standards and she stopped to watch. They’d got the eagle’s feet curling over the SPQR lettering, and they’d inserted full stops between the initials, which was incorrect. She drew a quick sketch in her book to show them the authentic style and held it towards them.

‘It should be like this,’ she said in Italian. ‘The eagle’s feet here, and SPQR down there.’ She pointed with the tip of her pen.

‘Chi diavolo sei?’ one of them responded – ‘Who the hell are you?’ – in a manner that definitely wasn’t friendly.

‘I’m the historical advisor. From the British Museum, in London. I’ve just arrived.’

It was only then she noticed that they had already completed around fifty of the standards, which were all propped up to dry, each with the incorrect design.

‘Why don’t you fuck off back to London?’ one of the men said in accented English. He dipped his brush into a pot of gold paint and carried on with his work.

She held up her hands defensively and backed out of the workshop.