Last Voyage of the Valentina(10)

“I found a sketch that my father did of my mother under the bed.”

“Goodness gracious, what were you doing under the bed?” Viv was only too aware that Alba never cleaned her boat.

“It’s beautiful, Viv, really beautiful and my father won’t even discuss it with me.”

“I see,” she replied, inhaling through her mouth and exhaling through her nostrils like a dragon. “You drove all the way down to Hampshire at this time of night?”

“I couldn’t wait. Thought he’d be pleased I found it.”

“What was it doing under the bed, of all the places?” The story of Alba’s mother intrigued her.

“Oh, he put it there to hide it from the Buffalo. She’s eaten up with jealousy and won’t even set foot on the boat because Daddy named it after my mother. Silly woman!”

“What did he say when you told him you had found it?”

Alba took a gulp of coffee, wincing because it was too hot. “He was furious with me.”

“No!” Viv gasped, appalled.

“He was. I told him in front of the Buffalo.”

“Well, that explains it.”

“I wanted her to know that he had hidden it from her.” She chuckled mischievously, revealing the crooked eyetooth that Rupert, or was it Tim, said gave her mouth such charm. “I bet they had one hell of a row after I left. I bet the Buffalo listened to every word we said. I can just imagine her heavy breathing down the keyhole!”

“Did he look at it?”

“No. He just went very red and looked sad. He still loves her, Viv. I think he always will. Probably regrets ever having married the Buffalo. I just wish he’d share her with me, you know. But he won’t because of the Buffalo.”

“She’s very cruel and stupid,” Viv said venomously, patting Alba’s hand, “to be jealous of a dead woman.” Alba’s strange pale eyes welled with tears again and Viv felt the gentle tug of the mother in her. Alba was twenty-six, but a large part of her had never grown up. Beneath the self-confidence was a child just wanting to be loved. Viv handed her a tissue. “Now, darling, what are you going to do about it?”

“There’s nothing I can do,” Alba replied miserably.

“Oh, there’s always something one can do. Remember, God only helps those who help themselves. I have a friend who might be able to help you,” she continued, narrowing her eyes. “If there’s a man capable of charming his way into someone else’s business, it’s Fitzroy Davenport.”





3




F itz spent a fitful night dreaming of Alba, and when he woke in the morning her face was emblazoned on his memory. He lay in bed, heartened by the white beam of sunlight that streamed in through the gap in the curtains, enjoying her features all over again. Her oval face and large sensual mouth. He hated to think of the men who had kissed those lips and swiftly moved on to her unusually pale eyes. They were deep set, framed by black feathery lashes and rather heavy eyebrows but the shadows around them, not on the skin but somehow there, in the hollow, gave her a haunted look. The way she walked had aroused him too. Those long legs in boots. The smooth length of thigh before the little skirt only just protected her modesty. The confident manner in which she walked. The “young colt” cliché that Viv thankfully avoided in her novels. Then she had been so unforgivably rude. But her smile, with that crooked tooth, had been so beguiling it was as if she had poured warm honey onto his skin and licked it off with one delicious flick of her tongue.

He heard Sprout downstairs in the kitchen and sighed. He did not want to get up. He tried to think of an excuse to visit Viv’s houseboat again, just on the off chance that he might encounter Alba. Perhaps he could telephone her on the pretext of discussing an up-and-coming foreign deal, a possible publicity tour in France—the French loved her books—or recent sales figures. Viv was easy to please, as long as she talked about herself, and today he was very much in the mood for listening. He leaned over to pick up the telephone just as it rang. “Bugger!” he muttered and lifted the receiver.

“Good morning, darling,” came Viv’s cheerful voice. Fitz’s spirits rose and soared to the ceiling.

“Darling,” he breathed. “I was just going to telephone you myself!”

“Oh? What about? Something good, I hope.”

“Of course, Viv. You’re my star client, you know that.”

“Well, don’t keep me guessing.”

“The French want you to do a tour. Your public demand to see you,” he lied, biting his cheek. It doesn’t matter, he thought, I’ll swing it later.