Trevor woke on Saturday morning to the sound of an envelope being slipped under the bedroom door. He blinked and called ‘Hello?’ but whoever it was had started back down the stairs again.
He got up and examined it but all it said on the outside was ‘Professor Trevor Bailey’, and the address of the pensione. He sat on the bed to open it, and his eyes widened as he read the ornate signature at the bottom: Elizabeth Taylor. The handwriting was neat, with florid loops and swirls.
Dear Professor Bailey,
I’m very sorry to hear of Diana’s troubles. I’m not sure how I can help but please come to my villa for cocktails at 7 this evening and we’ll talk. My driver will pick you up at 6.45.
Sincerely,
Elizabeth Taylor
‘Oh my gosh!’ he exclaimed out loud. How very kind of her. How extraordinary, in fact. He would have to wear a suit and tie, and he decided to pop in to a local barber’s shop and have a proper shave and hair trim. It felt as though one should be well turned-out when meeting Hollywood royalty.
At the daily visit, Diana was touched when she heard of Elizabeth’s invitation, although embarrassed that Trevor had contacted her in the first place.
‘I hope she doesn’t think badly of me. Please make sure she understands the truth.’
‘Of course I will, darling.’
She didn’t look well, he thought. There were several insect bites on her face, arms and legs, which she kept scratching. Her complexion was grey and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She claimed to be sleeping well but he didn’t believe her.
‘Will you visit tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘I can’t wait to hear about your meeting. You must give me your candid opinion of Elizabeth.’
He agreed that of course he would. It was always hard to leave Diana, but at least this time he had something to fill the long evening.
A uniformed chauffeur arrived to collect him at the appointed time and he was driven up to the Via Appia Antica, the old Roman road that led south out of the city all the way down to Brindisi in the heel of Italy. Trevor mused that it had been named after Appius Claudius Caecus, the man who built the first section of it. He went blind in later life – according to Livy, it was because of a curse that had been placed on him. Livy was a great believer in curses.
There were high walls around the villa and security guards at the gates, who insisted on patting Trevor’s pockets and trouser legs to ensure he wasn’t carrying any weapons. Trevor looked at the formal gardens stretching in all directions and admired the handiwork of the gardeners, who must have had to water the lawns and flowerbeds every day in summer.
At the front door he was met by a butler, who led him through a cool atrium to a sitting room from where he could see a swimming pool in which three young children were screeching and splashing. A Pekingese dog ran up to sniff his trouser leg.
‘May I offer you a drink?’ the butler asked, and Trevor requested a glass of water. He sank into a comfortable armchair and looked around the room. Colourful rugs were arranged on the marble-tiled floors, a glass coffee table held a large bouquet of white roses, and there were shelves of books covering one wall. In a corner, there was a record player and stacks of gramophone records. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides meant there was plenty of light, but they were covered in floating net curtains that billowed in the breeze from open windows. The butler brought his water, then left him on his own.
After a while, Trevor got up to examine the books, and found a wide selection: lots of novels, including Gone with the Wind and works by Hemingway, Faulkner and Saul Bellow. There were non-fiction books on Judaism, a biography of Tennessee Williams and some art monographs. Suddenly he heard a movement behind him and turned to see Elizabeth Taylor walking down a staircase, wearing a floaty lime-green gown and looking tanned and very beautiful.
‘I only have a few books here in Rome. I’ve got lots more back home.’ She held out her hand and smiled warmly. ‘Hello, I’m Elizabeth.’
‘Trevor,’ he said, feeling stupidly nervous. It was hard to look at her directly; perhaps it could make you blind, like looking too long at the sun.
‘I have some books of Diana’s here. She lent them to me a while ago. Perhaps you will return them for me?’ She indicated a pile stacked to one side. Trevor picked them up and said that of course he would, if she was sure she had finished with them. Although she was wearing vertiginous high heels, Elizabeth’s head only came up to his chest.
‘I’m ever such a fast reader,’ she said, sitting in a chair opposite his. ‘Now tell me, how is Diana?’
‘She’s bearing up,’ he said: his stock phrase for anyone who asked. In fact, it appeared to be true that she was coping but what choice did she have? ‘We’re doing all we can to get her out.’
The butler brought her a drink on a tray, and she glanced at Trevor’s glass of water. ‘Won’t you have a proper drink? I hate to drink alone.’
‘Alright. Do you have gin?’ he asked.
‘Does the Pope have Bibles?’ she cackled. ‘Yes, of course I have gin. I drink mine with Coke but we also have lemonade or orange juice.’
‘Lemonade, please.’
The butler went to prepare his drink and Elizabeth slipped off her shoes and curled her feet beneath her, drink in hand.
‘Now tell me exactly what has happened to Diana. I’ve only heard the sketchiest outline.’ She listened carefully as Trevor ran through the story. He managed to talk about Ernesto without any emotion creeping into his voice, but he avoided using his name, calling him ‘Diana’s Italian boyfriend’. Elizabeth didn’t express any surprise, which led him to wonder if she already knew about the affair.
‘Are you happy with her lawyer? Would it be useful to get a second opinion from one of my guys? I’ve got loads on the payroll.’
‘Thank you, but we are happy for now.’ He imagined her lawyers would specialise in contracts and finance rather than Italian criminal law.
‘Do you need money? I’d be happy to contribute.’
‘No, gosh …’ Trevor was embarrassed. ‘Nothing like that.’ He explained that the British Consul had suggested he got high-profile people to provide testimonials, so as to help turn around Italian public opinion, and that he had written to her because she was the highest-profile person Diana knew.
Elizabeth sighed. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard but I’m considered an “erotic vagrant” here in Italy. I’m afraid my support might be counter-productive in the eyes of devout Catholics. She could get tarred with the same brush.’ She waved her arm dramatically, indicating a paintbrush coating her. ‘But I’ll make sure that Walter, Joe and Spyros provide references. And Irene Sharaff. Who else could I try? Perhaps Fellini would be good. Or Marcello Mastroianni? And I think Audrey Hepburn is in town.’ She paused to slurp her drink and consider her acquaintances in Rome.
Trevor was bemused. ‘Maybe it should just be people who know Diana personally. I’d be most grateful for any pressure you can apply.’
‘Give your lawyer’s address to my secretary, Dick Hanley, and he’ll make sure it happens. I’ll introduce you before you go.’
Trevor took a sip of the drink that had been discreetly placed by his elbow, and almost choked at the strength of it. He coughed delicately into his hand.
‘We only have another month of filming left but I hope Diana is around to advise. Walter and Joe are producing a Hollywood extravaganza but I know your wife has managed to make several very important changes. Richard and I are impressed by her erudition.’ Her voice softened as she said her lover’s name, and she shifted her legs beneath her.
‘I wasn’t aware that Diana knew him personally.’
‘We’ve often talked about her and the advice she’s given. He read one of the books Diana lent me because he wanted more guidance on why Mark Antony cracks up in the end. Have you seen him act?’
Trevor nodded. ‘He’s a brilliant actor.’
She was pleased. ‘He likes to understand the psychological profile of his characters and really get under their skin.’
‘Mark Antony is a difficult one to work out: he was such a tough man throughout his life, but weak in death. Most commentators are hard on him but I have some sympathy.’
‘Don’t you think he was destroyed by love? He fell apart when he realised Cleopatra had turned her back on him?’
‘I think he was destroyed by his own debauchery, which meant that when the chips were down his own men didn’t trust him. The reports mostly come from Cicero, who said “We ought not to think of him as a human being but as a most outrageous beast.”’ He smiled. ‘When Cicero took against you, he didn’t moderate his criticisms.’
Elizabeth seemed entranced. ‘But this is perfect. I must pass this on to Richard.’
‘I assume he’ll have read Plutarch’s Life of Antony. It’s kinder to the man than Cicero’s diatribes, but still critical. There are many good modern biographies but I always like to go back to primary sources where possible.’
‘Are you an Egyptologist, like Diana?’
‘I’m a classicist. I’ve written a book on Plutarch, so our interests are different but complementary.’
‘How fascinating!’ Elizabeth breathed. ‘I bet you have wonderful conversations at the dinner table.’ She glanced at a clock on a side table. ‘Talking of which, I’d better get ready for dinner soon. Richard gets so grumpy when I’m late.’ She uncurled herself from the chair, moving languorously, her thoughts already with her lover. ‘It’s been fascinating meeting you. I’ll send Dick Hanley down and you can give him the address of Diana’s lawyer. And good luck, Trevor. Tell Diana that Richard and I are behind her all the way.’
She stood close to him as they shook hands and he could smell her scent. It was probably very expensive but somehow it reminded him of a type of laundry detergent Diana used to buy: ‘Ajax: Stronger than Dirt’, the advertisement said.
She wafted up the stairs, turning to wave from the top. Dick Hanley appeared a few minutes later and noted down Signor Esposito’s office address before guiding Trevor out to the car that had brought him.
As they pulled out of the gates of Villa Papa, Trevor began to cry. He didn’t know why. Perhaps he was touched by Elizabeth’s kindness. It was such an extraordinary situation.
The chauffeur opened the glove compartment, pulled out a white silk handkerchief and passed it back to him without a word, as if he was used to grown men crying in the back seat of his car.