He paused motionless for a few seconds to allow for editing, then clapped his hands loudly, rose and announced, ‘That’s all the time I can spare, I’m afraid.’
He hastened off towards a door in the far wall of the vast room, the interviewer at his heels.
‘Just one more thing!’ she called. ‘When does filming actually start?’
Aldobrandini ignored her. He locked the door behind him, then crossed the two antechambers leading to his private quarters at the far corner of the building. Once inside, he kicked off his shoes and collapsed supine on the sofa. Pippo appeared.
‘Beulah, peel me a grape,’ commanded his master. ‘No, pour me a potent whisky and soda.’
‘I’ve got Marcello on hold.’
Aldobrandini giggled.
‘Well, don’t squeeze him too tightly, caro, or he might spill all over you. God, I’m wrecked! Why do I even bother doing interviews?’
‘Because it’s in the contract that you have to, and because you’re an applause whore.’
‘Ah yes. And tomorrow?’
‘Spanish, French, Swedish and Russian press, plus Fox, CNN, the BBC, some Japanese cable station and three highly influential media bloggers.’
‘Dear Christ. All right, pass me Marcello. And that drink.’
Pippo handed over a portable phone and shimmied off towards the liquor cabinet.
‘Marcello, how delightful to hear from you. What news on the Rialto?’
‘Cut the crap, Luciano, this is serious. Jeremy’s off the movie.’
Pippo returned with a brimming beaker, half of which Aldobrandini downed at one go.