no,’ she giggled. ‘non è necessario.’
He asked if she liked music, and when she said ‘Sì, certamente,’ he sang a short burst of an Elvis song that had just been released back home – ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’. He could tell she was interested in him because she was laughing, despite her nervousness. Scott liked girls and had long ago realised that if you could make them laugh, you were halfway there. He’d watched other friends hitting on them too obviously and being brushed off or crushed by bitchy put-downs, and that’s when he decided that a slightly clownish approach would work best, by putting girls at their ease.
He wasn’t bad-looking, in his own opinion. One ex-girlfriend had told him that he looked like a younger, handsomer version of John F. Kennedy. Unfortunately, that girl later dumped him for one of his best friends from the athletics team, but at least he still had the compliment to cherish. He’d been hurt at the time, but hadn’t been in love with her so it was more to do with pride than heartbreak.
‘Every day I see you go to the church and then the market,’ he told Gina in Italian, and he guessed he must have used an awkward sentence structure or got a word wrong because she giggled. ‘What do you do in the afternoon and at night?’
‘I cook for my family,’ she replied. ‘Lunch and dinner. I help my sister with her babies.’ She began to describe how cute the babies were and how one of them had recently said his first word.
‘You’re going to make a very good mother some day,’ Scott told her and she clutched her face in embarrassment. He noted that she seemed more relaxed with him now that they were a few streets away from her home. Was it time to make his move?
‘I’m glad we got a chance to talk at last. I’ve been watching you for ages now, every morning at the same time. You’re so beautiful I can’t help looking at you.’
She bowed her head and kept walking.
‘Can I take you out one evening? We could have dinner, or coffee, or go for a walk in the Villa Borghese gardens?’
‘No, it’s not possible.’ Her tone sounded regretful so Scott persevered.
‘If you like, I could come and meet your family so they can see I only have respect for you.’ He touched her arm lightly and gazed at her with pleading eyes. ‘Per favore?’
‘I’m sorry, but it would never work. My father is an important businessman around here and he will never accept his daughter dating a foreigner. Never.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Don Ghianciamina. You have heard of him?’ She watched his face, but he just shrugged. No, he hadn’t. ‘Well, if you ask around, you will find out that he is a very traditional father. I really can’t talk to you any more.’
She began to walk off and Scott caught hold of her arm. ‘Please don’t go.’
Suddenly she screamed and pushed Scott away. ‘Go now! Run! It’s my brother.’
He turned to see a young Italian man charging up the street towards them. Scott decided to stand his ground and try to talk to him. If the worst came to the worst, he was taller and reckoned he could take him.
The man grabbed Gina by the elbow, shouting at her in Italian so rapid that Scott couldn’t make it out. He opened his mouth to say ‘Leave her alone’ and too late he saw a left hook curving towards his nose. The force of the blow caught him off balance and he fell to the pavement. As he tried to get up, a boot struck him in the ribs, then he was kicked from the other side and that’s when he realised there was more than one attacker. Fists and boots came at him from all directions in a relentless rhythm. There must be at least three of them and they were taking turns. He curled into a ball to protect his head and tried to crawl back towards a doorway behind him but still the blows rained down.
Christ, they’re going to kill me, Scott thought.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see passersby scurrying past and called out ‘Aiuto!’ but no one stopped. Cars were driving by. It was mid-morning and no one was prepared to intervene. His attackers didn’t say anything but didn’t appear to be planning to stop the barrage any time soon. Somehow Scott managed to haul himself through the doorway and tried to push the door shut, and at last, with one final kick, the men disappeared.
Scott closed the door and lay still for a while, cataloguing his injuries. Everywhere hurt: his face, his ribs, his stomach, his kidneys. He threw up, mostly bile, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d heard the clichés about protective Italian men but this was out of all proportion. He could have died.
He raised his head and saw he was in some kind of courtyard with a little fountain in the middle. He called out for help again, but there was no response and no one in sight. Surely one of the passersby would have called the police at least? He listened for sirens but there was no sound except the tinkling of the fountain and the hum of the traffic outside. He needed to get to a hospital but his knees gave way beneath him when he tried to stand up.
Cautiously, he opened the door a crack and peered out to make sure the men had definitely gone. He crawled on all fours to the roadside then leant on a car to pull himself to an upright position. Further up the hill there was a taxi with its light on. He waited until it was almost alongside then stepped out into the road so it was forced to stop. He staggered round, wrenched open the nearest door and fell in.
‘All’ospedale,’ he told the driver. ‘Presto.’
Diana decided to make the acquaintance of Irene Sharaff, who was designing the costumes for Elizabeth Taylor, but, following Candy’s advice, she first made an appointment through Miss Sharaff’s secretary. By all accounts, she wasn’t a woman you wanted to rub up the wrong way.
Once in the costume department, she was directed to a cavernous room full of vibrant colour. Gowns in jewel shades were pinned around white-faced tailors’ dummies and swathes of glittering fabric covered tables and chairs. Irene Sharaff was instantly recognisable from magazine pictures, her strong features and odd hooked nose emphasised by the fact that her dark hair was scraped back in a tight bun.
‘So you’re a historical advisor?’ She gave a little snort. ‘How are you finding everything, my dear?’
Diana decided to be honest. ‘No one seems particularly keen to have my advice. Still, I promised Walter that I would offer it all the same.’
‘And you’re here today to give me your advice?’ In a sharp glance Irene took in the flared yellow skirt and white blouse Diana was wearing.
‘I wouldn’t presume, Miss Sharaff. I’m a huge fan of yours. I loved West Side Story. The girls’ dresses were wonderful. And I loved Guys and Dolls, and Meet Me in St Louis … You bring so much panache to all your productions.’ She’d memorised this speech beforehand, so nervous was she about meeting the great woman.
‘Someone obviously told you to butter me up. Good job!’ She smiled. ‘Now I already know what you’re going to say about Cleopatra’s costumes.
