a sun around which all the planets revolved. She accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter then sat down at the head of a large table. Instantly the most famous party guests rushed over to pay court – Tony Curtis, Kirk Douglas, Jean Simmons, Walter Wanger, Rex Harrison and Rachel Roberts – all keen to be seen in her presence. Eddie beamed benignly and chatted to those on the edges of the throng.
Ernesto excused himself for a moment, so Diana sat on her own watching the spectacle. She couldn’t help wondering what Trevor would make of all the fuss. This woman might be beautiful but so were lots of other women, and truth be told she wasn’t a particularly good actress. No one reported her as being especially clever. She was simply famous for her marriages, famous for the fact that her third husband died in a plane crash and she stole her fourth from Debbie Reynolds, America’s sweetheart. Yes, it was her love life Elizabeth Taylor was famous for rather than her acting talent. What a strange career.
Suddenly she noticed Ernesto hiding behind a pillar at the back of the room and speaking into a walkie-talkie. It seemed odd that he would have one, so when he rejoined her, she asked what he had been doing.
‘I was making some security arrangements for when they leave,’ he said.
She thought it was bizarre that he was involved in security for an event to which he hadn’t been invited but didn’t get a chance to question him further as just then the band struck up a rumba and Joe Mankiewicz led Elizabeth Taylor to the dance floor. She tottered like a skittle on her stiletto heels and when she wiggled those well-fleshed hips, the tight white dress threatened to split at the seams. Now, wouldn’t that be a story! All eyes were upon her but Elizabeth’s eyes were fixed on Joe, and Diana had to admit that she was extremely sexy. What man could resist her magnetism? It must feel like being sucked into a vortex.
The dance brought them close to Diana’s table for a moment and her attention was caught by a varicose vein on Elizabeth’s ankle, like a fat little worm resting on her skin. It was reassuring to see she wasn’t perfect, that she was real flesh and blood.
Diana heard a scream before she saw a flash of light, then there was a thump as one of the Italian musicians dropped his cello and leapt off the stage. He ran towards Elizabeth and began to pat her legs and bottom, while Joe stood to one side looking bemused. There was a faint smell of smoke now. Elizabeth turned to peer over her shoulder at her own backside and let out a whoop of laughter.
‘I’m on fire,’ she said. ‘Damned ostrich feathers. Someone must have dropped a cigarette.’
‘Scusi, signora,’ the musician bowed, having extinguished the flames. She held out her hand to him and he touched those famous fingers to his lips.
‘My hero,’ she said warmly. ‘Thank you for saving me.’
No one else had reacted in time to deal with the emergency. Few people seemed to realise what had happened, as the musician leapt back onto the stage and began to play again. The rest of the band had continued without him.
‘It seems you Italians never miss a chance to touch a girl’s bottom,’ Diana whispered to Ernesto, and he beamed proudly.
‘Who knows? Perhaps he even arranged the fire himself.’
Elizabeth reached down to brush the charred edges of her ostrich feathers, as Joe solicitously took her elbow and guided her back to her table. Eddie hadn’t seen the incident and he leapt to his feet in alarm when someone told him about it but Elizabeth appeared to think it was all a huge joke. They could hear her raucous laughter from the other side of the room.
At least I’ve got a story to tell Helen tomorrow, Diana thought. She’ll love hearing about this.
Soon afterwards, Elizabeth and Eddie decided to leave, and they were followed by a crowd of hangers-on, still warming themselves around the glow of her fame. Diana wondered if Elizabeth liked being fawned over in that way. She didn’t seem to mind.
As soon as they had gone, the party began to thin out. Even though the band was still playing and the champagne was still flowing, the consensus seemed to be that the evening was over and there was no point in staying any longer.
When Scott told the American hacks who drank in the Eden Hotel bar that he’d been beaten up by Don Ghianciamina’s son after flirting with his daughter, they almost fell off their barstools.
Joe gave a long low whistle. ‘Jesus, you had a narrow escape. Look at your nose, pal. What a mess!’
There was a knuckle-shaped groove across the bridge of Scott’s nose and the tip now veered off to the left. What was worse was that his left nostril kept dripping, meaning that he had to sniff or wipe it on a handkerchief every minute or so. The doctors had said that might improve over time – or it might not. They didn’t seem sure. That’s what bothered him most. He’d been dating Rosalia, the nurse, since getting out of hospital but he couldn’t kiss her properly because of his dripping nostril. He suffered from thick, poisonous headaches as well, and was popping painkillers several times a day.
‘What do you know about Ghianciamina?’ Scott asked. ‘What’s he involved in?’
‘Drugs. Probably heroin, because that’s where the money is. But I’m sure he’s also involved in money laundering, prostitution, all the usual stuff. He’s a big cheese.’
‘Why don’t the police do something about it? I told them exactly who beat me up, and gave them a full description and his address but they refused to go to the house and question him. It’s incredible!’
‘I’ll bet they did. They probably have families. Seriously, you’re lucky to be walking around and I would keep your head down. Stay away from Italian girls, Spike. You won’t get anywhere without putting a ring on their finger.’
‘Is that so?’ Scott couldn’t resist boasting about the nurse, with whom he’d had sex three times. She was sweet but not really his type. In fact, she seemed rather keen and he wasn’t sure how he was going to extricate himself. As she left his apartment a couple of mornings previously, she had clung to him and asked plaintively when she would see him again. He said he had a lot of work on and would telephone when he had a moment, and she seemed upset. Warning bells were sounding. But the hacks were suitably impressed.
‘Bring her to meet us. Maybe she’s got a friend. I’ve always had a thing about nurses.’
‘He wouldn’t bring her here,’ Joe said. ‘He’s scared she’d run off with me.’
They all hooted. Joe was an ugly big guy with buck teeth and one blind eye that stared off to the side. All the men in that crowd were at least twenty years older than Scott, with middle-aged paunches, thinning hair and bulbous red noses that signposted their love affair with booze.
‘Where is the drugs scene in town?’ Scott asked. ‘Where would I go to buy stuff if I was that kind of guy? Which I’m not, of course.’
‘The Via Margutta, and the area around there. That’s where the arty types hang out. I hear there are bars where you can buy marijuana or LSD over the counter if the bartender knows you.’
‘They
