Last Voyage of the Valentina(106)

She mounted him, lifting up her skirt and sitting astride him, her naked breasts white and doughy in the dim light of the sitting room. He closed his eyes to the brown nipples that swung in front of his face, catching every now and then on his nose or lips, and tried to concentrate on keeping his erection. It must be the beer, he thought as he felt the slow deflating of his member. As much as she tried, Louise was unable to stimulate him. With an embarrassed cough she let him slither out like a worm.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said kindly, climbing off.

“I’m sorry, it must be the beer,” he explained, ashamed. This had never happened before.

“Of course. I don’t mind. You’re a lovely kisser.”

He forced a smile, watching her pile her breasts back into their slings. “Can I call you a cab?” he asked, knowing that he should have offered to drive her back to Chelsea. To his shame he couldn’t bear to remain with her a moment longer than necessary. He wanted her out of his house as soon as possible. He wanted to forget he had ever met her. Why did I bother? he thought miserably as she pulled on her pants and sat down to put on her shoes. No one can compare with Alba.

Fifteen minutes later the cab arrived and the driver rang the bell. Those fifteen minutes had been agonizingly awkward. Louise had resorted to commenting on the books in the bookcases. He hadn’t even had the energy to tell her that books were his business. Why bother when the relationship had died before it had started? He accompanied her downstairs and bent to kiss her cheek; as he did so she turned her head to the door and his mouth kissed her ear instead. Then she was gone. He closed the door and locked it before climbing the stairs to turn out the lights in the sitting room and switch off the music. What a debacle.

Sprout lay sleeping on the rug, looking very dear with his eyes closed and his graying face all crumpled and warm. Fitz bent down and pressed his face to the dog’s head. It smelled familiar and comforting. “We miss Alba, don’t we?” he whispered. Sprout didn’t move. “But we have to move on. We have no choice. We have to forget about her. Someone else will turn up.” Sprout’s nose began to twitch in his sleep; he was chasing a rabbit across a field, no doubt. Fitz patted him tenderly, then went to bed.

When he awoke in the morning he was relieved to see his penis standing to attention, proud and majestic.

He was in his office when the telephone rang. His concentration was suffering. His in tray was piled high with documents that demanded his attention: contracts to read, manuscripts from his authors and from those hoping to be represented, letters to write, documents to sign, and a list as long as his desk of telephone calls to make. He watched the pile grow higher and higher, his mind hundreds of miles away, beneath the cypress trees on the Amalfi coast. He put down his pen and picked up the receiver.

“Fitzroy Davenport.”

“Darling, it’s Viv.” Her voice was sleepy.

“Hello, stranger.”

“Don’t be angry, Fitzroy. Forgive an old bird?”

“Only if I can see you.”

“That’s why I’m calling. Dinner tonight, my place?”

“Good.”

“Lovely, darling. Don’t bother to bring wine. I’ve just been given a case of the most expensive Bordeaux. Had half a bottle on my own last night, it’s gorgeous. I wrote the most delightful sex scene on the strength of it; it just goes on and on and on and on. Delicious.”

Fitz frowned. Viv sounded more “Viv” than normal. “See you later then,” he said, winding up the conversation. When he put down the telephone he felt his spirits lift. Viv was back; he had missed her. With renewed energy he picked up the first document in his in tray and placed it on the desk in front of him.



Fitz and Sprout appeared at Viv’s houseboat a little before eight o’clock. Her roof was now bright with grass and flowers. The poppies, replanted, had grown wild and crimson, and the daisies and buttercups nodded their little heads in the breeze that swept up the Thames. He recalled with amused admiration the sight of the goat munching through all her newly planted grass and plants. Alba had an ingenious mind, not even Viv could deny her that. The Valentina now resembled a sad and empty shell. The flowers had died, the deck needed washing, the paint was beginning to peel. She looked dry and lackluster, as if in desperate need of a drink. Alba had gone, and autumn had come early to the boat.

When Viv opened the door she saw him looking wistfully at Alba’s home. “Oh, darling,” she said with a sigh, waving her cigarette in the air. “Still not better?”

“How are you?” he said, deflecting her question because somehow, coming from Viv, it would be too painful to answer.