Last Voyage of the Valentina(104)

He often thought of her among the cypress trees and laburnum, her face enflamed by the setting Italian sun, turning it a gentle shade of amber pink. He imagined her surrounded by her Italian family. Enjoying lengthy banquets of tomato and mozzarella pasta, languid afternoons among the olive trees, blending in with her dark hair and skin, only those pale, luminescent eyes betraying that she was a stranger in their midst. He knew she’d love speaking the language, tasting the food, savoring the scents of eucalyptus and pine, listening to the ringing of crickets and basking in the hot, Mediterranean sun. He hoped that after a while her spirit would hanker for home. Maybe even for him.

He tried to concentrate on work. He set up Viv’s book tour in France and, while she was away for the fortnight, sat on the wall of the Thames near Alba’s houseboat with Sprout, just watching and remembering and longing, thankful that Viv wasn’t at home to scoff at him. Viv argued that Alba was petulant, self-indulgent, wanton, egocentric—the list went on and on as if she were showing off her knowledge of words like a human thesaurus.

Perhaps Alba was all of those things. Fitz wasn’t blind to her faults; he loved her in spite of them. Her laugh was light and bubbly like foam, the look in her eyes mischievous, like a child who pushes to see how far she can go. Her confidence a shell to hide behind. When he imagined making love to her his gut twisted with longing. He remembered the wild times in the Valentina, the naughty time in the woods at Beechfield, the tender time she was unable to let go, when inhibition had crippled her, for Alba wasn’t afraid to shout; she was afraid to whisper, in case in that moment of intimacy she heard the echo of loneliness in her heart. What Viv didn’t understand was that he understood Alba.



Viv returned from her book tour revitalized and in devilish good humor. It had taken the years off her too. She shone like a descaled kettle, as good as new. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed; her obvious health was rude, shockingly rude. Fitz hadn’t seen her looking that good in years. When he commented on it she just smiled at him secretively, claimed she had bought a new face cream in Paris, then disappeared. No telephone calls, no bridge nights, no dinners with cheap French wine, just a gaping silence. There was only one explanation: she had found a lover in France. Fitz was jealous, not because he wanted her for himself, but because she had found love when he had lost his. He felt more alone than ever.



Then one hot night at the end of August he was slowly drinking himself numb in a pub in Bayswater, sitting outside on a bench beneath a fountain of red geraniums, when a pretty young woman approached him.

“You don’t mind if I share your table, do you?” she asked. “I’m waiting for a friend and it’s completely full.”

“Of course not. Be my guest,” he said, taking his face out of his beer glass.

“Oh, is that your dog?” she asked, spotting Sprout under the table.

“Yes, it is,” he said. “He’s called Sprout.”

Her almond-shaped eyes lit up, the color of sherry. “What an adorable name. Mine’s Louise.”

“Fitz,” said Fitz, shaking her hand.

They both laughed at the absurdity of such formality. Louise sat down and placed her glass of wine on the table, then dived beneath to pat Sprout, who wagged his tail contentedly so that it tapped the pavement, wafting the dust into a small cloud.

“Oh, he really is sweet,” she gushed, coming back up again. She had long brown hair held back by a yellow hair-band, and when Fitz ran his eyes over her neck and shoulders he saw that she was comely, with large breasts and white, silky skin.

“He’s an old man,” Fitz added with a tender smile. “In dog years he’d be sixty.”

“Well, he’s very handsome,” she replied. Sprout knew he was being discussed and lifted his ears. “Like men, dogs mature well.”

“So do some women,” Fitz said, realizing that he was flirting. He was still capable of it, after all.

Louise blushed and smiled broadly. She looked around, presumably for her friend, then turned back to Fitz. “Are you on your own?”

“Well, not entirely.”

“Of course, you’ve got Sprout.”

“I am alone; this is my local.” He didn’t want her to think he was one of those sad drunks who sit on their own in pubs and stagger home to grimy, neglected flats and failed lives.

“Lovely to live around here, near the park.”

“Good for Sprout.”

“I live in Chelsea. I’m waiting for the girl I live with.” She looked at her watch. “She’s always late. Born late, I think.” She laughed and lowered her eyes.