‘How much to use that photo, for example?’
They discussed the rights needed, the print run, the size at which it would be used, and when Jacopozzi was finally pinned down to a price, Scott whistled in astonishment.
‘That much? I’ve got a budget less than a tenth of that.’ He named his figure.
‘It can’t be done, my friend. My photographers are bleeding me dry and I have a family to feed.’ The expensive clothes and swanky office belied his penury.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Scott tried to negotiate an affordable price but it was obvious they weren’t going to agree. Jacopozzi had plenty of business and no need to compromise, so they shook hands and Scott retreated to think of another plan.
That evening he sat outside a café on the Via Veneto watching the paparazzi at work. There was a lookout at either end of the street checking inside approaching cars and calling up or down the hill to alert colleagues to celebrities. Scooters were parked in the road, ready for a quick take-off. Scott watched as Richard Burton and his wife Sybil emerged from one car and walked into the Café de Paris.
‘Who are you planning to fuck on Cleopatra, Richard?’ one of the photographers yelled at him in English.
Another darted in front of them and a flashbulb exploded right in their faces.
Burton looked tight-lipped but didn’t rise to the bait. It made a photo much more valuable if the subject was yelling or shaking their fist and he knew better than to give them that prize.
Scott noticed that one photographer was standing apart from the crowd on a set of steps further up the street. He took several shots of the Burtons and Scott guessed they would work well from that angle. Draining his beer, he left some money on the café table and approached the man.
‘I’m Scott Morgan of Midwest Daily in the States. And you?’
‘Gianni Fortelesa.’
‘I’m looking for a photographer. Would you be interested in coming to the office tomorrow to show me some of your work?’
He realised straight away that he’d chosen well because Gianni’s face lit up. It was a competitive world out there on the street and he seemed keen and hungry. What’s more, he spoke good English.
‘I can’t pay Associated Press prices, but I can give you a retainer and a fee per picture. Bring the shots of the Burtons you took tonight and I’m sure I can use one of them.’
Next day the deal was struck and Scott wrote a quick story about Richard Burton to accompany Gianni’s best photo. He wrote that Burton had only got the role after Stephen Boyd dropped out and neither Marlon Brando or Peter O’Toole were available. The producers had to buy him out of the Broadway show Camelot, where he was playing King Arthur to Julie Andrews’ Guinevere. He was a renowned womaniser who was said to have had affairs with Claire Bloom, Lana Turner, Angie Dickinson and Jean Simmons (while she had been married to his friend Stewart Granger). Sybil, his wife of twelve years, normally turned a blind eye.
‘In fact,’ Scott finished, ‘rumour has it that the only one of his leading ladies he hasn’t had an affair with was Julie Andrews – because he was already shacked up with an exotic dancer called Pat Tunder.’
Cheap it certainly was, but Scott found this kind of journalism couldn’t be simpler to write, and Gianni promised to give him tip-offs about any stories from the film set doing the rounds in Rome. It would buy him time to pursue his own story – the one he was determined to write about the Ghianciaminas, the family who appeared to be above the law.
Ernesto proved an entertaining companion on the trip to Ischia, pointing out landmarks they passed on the train to Naples and then on the hydrofoil across the bay. It was evening when they arrived, but early next morning they drove to the boatyard where the battleships were being constructed and Diana leapt out of the car in her eagerness to have a look. Brilliant sunshine lit the bay, where rocky cliffs descended to coarse bronze sand. Working fishermen plied their trade just along from the set on which a fleet of ancient craft had been constructed. Some were converted fishing boats that would sail on the water, while others were one-sided, to be held in place for camera.
‘Buongiorno, che piacere vederla,’ one of the boatbuilders said – ‘nice to see you’ – and they all came over to shake her hand. She soon realised these were proud, perfectionist craftsmen who were keen to hear her views on their work, and when she suggested a slight change in the decorative carvings at the prows, they assured her it would be done. They demonstrated how the barrage of stones and blazing javelins would be fired during the sea battle, showed her the spikes that would protrude from the front of the ships and mimed the way they would ram each other.
Next she went to see Cleopatra’s barge, the Antonia, which would be filmed arriving at Tarsus, where she went to meet Mark Antony. The interior scenes would be shot in the studio at Cinecittà but there was a spectacular outdoor scene planned as the barge pulled up in Tarsus with Cleopatra watching from beneath a gold canopy. The basic hull of the ship was ready, and its huge size and curved shape were accurately reproduced. Diana drew a sketch of the rigging, and told them that the sails should be purple, and they nodded, because they already knew. It was an exciting day, when she felt useful and appreciated.
At dinner that evening, Ernesto ordered a bottle of wine and as she finished her first glass, Diana realised she was more relaxed than she had been for a while – certainly since arriving in Italy. The rift with Trevor was on her mind, and towards the bottom of her second glass she found herself telling Ernesto about it. She felt disloyal but he proved a good listener.
‘Do your family like Trevor?’ he asked.
‘I don’t really have a family,’ she told him. ‘My mother died of cancer when I was three, so I only remember her through photos. Then my dad died of a heart attack when I was nineteen.’ There was an unexpected catch in her throat as she said the words. ‘I’ve got an aunt and uncle in Scotland, and a couple of young cousins, but I don’t see much of them. Trevor’s my family now.’
‘What age were you when you met Trevor?’
‘Nineteen. He was one of my college tutors when my dad died. He was really supportive, then gradually we fell in love.’
‘He is older than you?’
‘Yes, eighteen years …’ She could see how it must look to him: as if Trevor had become a father substitute. She’d wondered about that herself sometimes. Certainly, she’d felt very scared and isolated when she was orphaned, and Trevor made her feel safe and connected to the world again. That might have been part of the attraction but it wasn’t by any means the whole story. They’d become good friends as well as lovers. They discussed everything. That’s why the current lack of communication felt so horrible, as though a part of her had been amputated.
Ernesto put a comforting hand on her knee. ‘I’m sorry you’re lonely,’ he said, his eyes full of kindness.
She moved her knee so he had to shift his hand. ‘What about you? You haven’t mentioned your family. I presume you are married?’
‘No,’ he shook his head sadly. ‘But I have a huge family, with so many cousins that I can never remember all their names.’
‘I’m surprised!’ she said. ‘Surely most Italian men are married by your age? I don’t mean …’ In her wine-befuddled head, she realised that sounded rude.
‘I’m not yet thirty,’ he told her. ‘But I am very cautious with women. There was a girl I was in love with for many years. We were at school together, we became girlfriend and boyfriend in our twenties