‘Well, she should be – you’re a movie star. Her son is just a soldier. He’d be lucky to have you.’
‘He’s not just a soldier. He’s an officer – and an aristocratic one at that.’
‘Exactly,’ said her mother, licking an envelope and sticking it down. ‘You go and see her. Just think, you could become “La Baronessa” one day.’
The following day, against her better judgement, Isabella found herself standing on the marble steps of Ludovico’s parents’ grand palazzo. Wearing a smart dark-red dress and her best fur coat, she fiddled nervously with her leather gloves, regretting she had allowed her mother to talk her into the visit. She was about to turn tail and leave, when the butler opened the door and ushered her into the grand salon.
The spectacular high-ceilinged room was decorated with florid paintings of fat-bottomed cherubs frolicking with bare-breasted women in classical dress. A pair of gilded sofas sat on either side of an ornate marble fireplace. Uncertain if she should sit uninvited, Isabella hovered anxiously by the long windows overlooking the elegant formal gardens.
The sound of high heels on a marble floor presaged the entrance of Ludovico’s mother. She swept into the room, her silver hair coiffed to perfection, a tight-fitting grey dress emphasising her slender frame.
‘You asked to see me?’ The Baroness stood in the doorway, studying Isabella disdainfully.
‘I just wondered if you’d heard anything,’ Isabella asked, her voice uncharacteristically tentative, ‘from Ludovico… as it’s Christmas.’
‘Well, if I have, I don’t think it’s any of your business.’
‘It’s just that I haven’t heard from him since October.’
Ludovico’s mother sat down wearily, gesturing to the silk-covered sofa opposite. ‘You’d better sit down.’
Isabella sat nervously on the edge of the seat, fidgeting with the buttons of her dress. ‘He wrote to me from Sicily,’ she began. ‘He said he was about to move on… to North Africa.’
‘Yes.’ His mother pursed her rouged lips.
‘I just wanted to know… if he’s all right.’
‘As far as I know.’ The Baroness stared down at her manicured hands.
‘He explained it would be hard to write from Libya.’
‘Did he?’ She looked up at Isabella. ‘Well, he’s written to me.’ She emphasised the word.
Isabella bit her lip nervously.
‘You might as well know,’ his mother went on, her voice conveying profound irritation, ‘Ludovico’s commanding officer, Marchese Alfonso di Castelnuovo, made it quite clear that he should dispense with this unsuitable liaison.’ She spat out the word as if it were an unpleasant taste in her mouth.
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Isabella asked defensively. She could feel her eyes prickling with tears of humiliation.
‘A man has a duty – to his country, in particular. Ludovico is a serving army officer. He has a reputation to maintain. He can’t be seen in the company of an actress.’ Again she spat out the word. ‘We are at war, you know – or maybe you don’t understand that in your strange little film world.’
Isabella had never heard anyone speak so harshly – either to her, or about her profession. She felt reprimanded, like a naughty child at school. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, suddenly rising to her feet.
‘Yes, it’s better that you go.’
When Isabella reached the door of the grand salon, Ludovico’s mother called after her. ‘It would never have worked between you – your backgrounds are too different. Please don’t come back.’
Isabella hurried down the long drive and climbed into her car, slamming the door. At least now she knew the truth: his last letter had been a goodbye, perhaps demanded by the army, or more likely by his parents. She was not good enough, not aristocratic enough, to be the young Baron’s wife. Humiliated, she quickly drove back home, where she ran upstairs and locked herself in her bedroom. As she lay sobbing on her bed, she heard a knock at the door.
‘Isabella… Isabella, what’s happened?’ It was her mother.
‘Just go away… please.’
‘Oh Isabella, don’t be silly… let me in.’
‘No! I should never have listened to you. I knew it was a mistake to go there. His mother hates me. She told me to go away and not come back. I’m not good enough for him, apparently. Please just leave me alone.’
She lay in the dark, listening to her mother’s retreating footsteps.
The following morning, Isabella emerged wearing slacks and a sweater, her make-up done, her hair perfectly arranged. In the dining room, she drank a cup of coffee and sifted through her mail in silence.
Her mother, sitting at the other end of the table, looked up from the newspaper. ‘Are you feeling better this morning?’
‘Of course,’ said Isabella crisply. ‘I have a busy day… it’ll take my mind off things.’
‘Good.’ Her mother poured herself another cup of coffee. ‘Are you filming?’
‘No, photographs – but I am going to the studios. “Today we are knitting!”’ she announced, with an ironic smile.
The Ministry encouraged actors who worked for Cines, the State-sponsored production company, to take part in staged photographs. These were then sent out to the press and film magazines to cheer the population. The pictures showed them performing everyday activities like knitting scarves and hats for the troops in Russia, or shopping on a bicycle, their baskets filled with produce.
‘But you hate knitting,’ her mother pointed out.
Isabella drained her coffee cup and stood up to go. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Isabella did indeed hate knitting. She also rarely shopped for food – her housekeeper or her mother did that. And yet, apparently, these were the photographs that people wanted to see. Photographs that proved what delightfully ‘ordinary’ people the stars really were. Isabella convinced herself that it was harmless publicity, and yet there was a dishonesty about it. Ordinary people’s baskets were not filled with produce from the markets; in fact, they were increasingly empty. Actors like Isabella were spared the worst of this hardship – after all, they had enough money and could buy food on the black market. Besides, the restaurants they frequented with their influential friends had an almost limitless supply of food and drink, which the general population could only dream of.
Another PR photo-shoot had been arranged a few days later by the minister, Alessandro Pavolini. Isabella and several other actresses were to visit wounded soldiers in a military hospital just outside Rome. To ensure they arrived at the hospital in good time, they were to be collected by taxi.
‘No Doris today?’ asked Isabella, as she climbed into the back seat.
‘No,’ said Elsa De Giorgi, making room for her. ‘She’s coming down separately, apparently – in Alessandro’s car.’
‘Trust her,’ said Isabella, settling into her seat and smiling at the others.
The women were all immaculately dressed, wearing fur coats and hats, as if they were off on a glamorous outing.