When a young director searching for a ‘new face’ for a film project spotted Isabella in the park, her mother realised it was an opportunity Isabella couldn’t afford to miss. This was just the kind of chance she had been hoping for when they ran away from Argentina, and offered an escape from their poverty. After a successful screen test, Isabella had been quickly signed to the studio, which schooled her in elocution and etiquette, before casting her in what would be the first of numerous films – with sometimes as many as six shot in a single year.
Isabella drove her Mercedes out of the studios and headed up the Via Tuscolana towards the centre of Rome. It was Saturday evening, and she was looking forward to Sunday, her only day off a week. With the roof down, she enjoyed the sensation of the wind whistling through her dark hair. She felt relaxed, driving with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting along the edge of the door. She now lived in an area of the city called Parioli, adjacent to Villa Borghese and its parkland. It was filled with wealthy and ambassadorial residences – most with three, or even four storeys, stuccoed and painted in various shades of terracotta, apricot and cream.
Isabella’s house was called Villa Rosa and, as its name suggested, was a shade of pink that cheered her the moment she first saw it. Sandwiched between two much larger properties, the house was a low two-storey building, with a row of arched windows on the ground floor overlooking a terrace at the back, beyond which stretched a private garden – something of a luxury in Rome. It had the advantage of being surrounded by high walls, which provided both security and seclusion – a key consideration for the stars of Cinecittà who were often dogged by fans curious to see the homes of their screen idols.
The house itself was not grand, but Isabella immediately realised it had enough space for both herself and her mother Giovanna, who having persuaded her daughter to become an actress, saw Isabella’s success as something of a personal achievement. To share in her daughter’s prosperity was her right, Giovanna felt, and Isabella would not have dreamt of refusing her mother – however overbearing she could be.
When she had first viewed Villa Rosa, Isabella was delighted to discover a small cottage in the garden, which seemed ideally suited for her mother. But Giovanna made it quite clear that her rightful place was in the larger house, and the cottage was now home to a married couple who worked as housekeeper and gardener.
Now, as she approached her pale-pink house, Isabella tooted her horn and almost immediately the large metal gates swung open. She swept into the drive, the gardener closing the gates behind her.
‘Buonasera, signorina,’ he said, taking the keys from her.
‘Buonasera, Giuseppe.’
She scanned the front garden, with its flower borders and lawn, overshadowed by two arching pine trees.
‘It all looks very tidy, thank you.’
‘Grazie, signorina – I’ve been sweeping up the pine needles all afternoon.’
That evening, Isabella was holding a party. Most of the guests were from the film industry – her fellow actors and actresses, directors and writers, alongside a sprinkling of aristocrats. Inevitably she also had to invite representatives of the Fascist authorities who controlled much of the film industry, and Cinecittà in particular. They saw films as a useful vehicle for their political propaganda, and many of the stars were on intimate terms with senior figures in the government. Although Isabella didn’t count these men amongst her friends, it was prudent to maintain good relations. Besides, she rather enjoyed their devotion.
It seemed harmless enough, Isabella thought, as she pulled out dresses from her walk-in wardrobe, searching for something special to wear. She had no particular interest in politics. Why should she? After all, she was only an actress. But she had worked hard, escaping poverty in Argentina; she had made something of herself, and if she was required to be charming for an evening, where was the harm in that?
The guests began to arrive at eight o’clock. Soon the drawing room was heaving with actors in full evening dress. They jostled for space with ‘the bohemian set’ – young directors and writers, dressed more casually in cream linen suits, or pale trousers and waistcoats. The air was filled with cigarette smoke, and the drinks flowed.
Isabella, wearing a sheath of white silk, mingled with her guests, keeping an eye out for her handsome army officer. Maria had assured her that she had hand-delivered the invitation to his parents’ palazzo. Isabella checked her diamond evening watch – it was already half past nine and there was still no sign of him.
The actress Doris Duranti arrived just before ten. Clearly determined to make an entrance, she swept into the drawing room wearing a long silver-pleated Fortuny gown. Her companion for the evening was the Minister of Popular Culture, Alessandro Pavolini. Although married with a family, he was famously besotted with Doris. He dropped her off at the studios each day in his chauffeur-driven car and it was rumoured that he even accompanied her to the hairdressers. Men generally envied his ability to ensnare such a beauty, while despising his slavish devotion. Women, on the other hand, disapproved of the illicit liaison, but secretly admired her hold over him. He was not a particularly attractive man, Isabella observed, as the couple glided through the drawing room towards her. He had cruel dark eyes – slightly too close together – and his upper lip was dominated by a small moustache. His thinning dark hair was slicked back over his high forehead. Doris, by contrast, was exquisite, with a fine long nose, wide dark eyes and full lips. She had an exotic quality that could be mesmerising – both on screen and in person.
‘Isabella, darling.’ Doris grasped Isabella’s arms, kissing the air on either side of her face. ‘How lovely… Is everyone here?’ She looked around her, as if vetting the room.
‘Pretty much,’ said Isabella. ‘Did you have to bring him?’ she whispered.
‘Oh, he’s no trouble. He’s a little lamb really. He wanted to come, how could I say no?’
‘Doesn’t he have a family to go to on a Saturday evening?’
Doris glared at Isabella, her nostrils flaring.
‘That’s the problem with you, Isabella. You are so… bourgeois.’
Doris plunged into the crowd, dragging Alessandro behind her. She made a beeline for the Director of Cinema at Cinecittà – Eitel Monaco.
‘Eitel, darling, you know Alessandro, of course.’
Isabella turned away and picked up a dry Martini from a tray, trying not to show her growing disappointment that her lover, Ludovico, had still not arrived.
‘Lovely party, Isabella.’ Princess Matilda of Savoy had manoeuvred through the crowd and stood at her side holding a glass of champagne. ‘But you look a little sad.’
‘Do I? I’m sorry – I was just hoping someone would come…’
‘Who? Would I know him?’
‘I’m not sure if you would. He’s an army officer – Ludovico Albani.’
‘Ah! Ludovico – yes. He is a charming boy. I’ve known his family for years. They used to entertain lavishly before the war, in their palazzo in Rome.’
The Princess waved to someone across the room and drifted away, leaving Isabella with the sense that her interest in Ludovico was not to be encouraged. He was an aristocrat, after all, while she – in spite of her star status – was just a poor girl from Buenos Aires.