“So much to tell. Come in!” He followed her through the rooms to the deck. He sank into a deck chair and put his arms behind his head.
“Well? Where have you been and what’s all this about sex?” It was good to see her. She looked as blooming as a fresh peach and shamefully pleased with herself.
“I’m in love, darling. Me of all people. Lost my heart, gone!” She flicked her hand into the air. “I’m enraptured, Fitzroy, like one of my heroines.”
“I thought you looked rather too well. Who is he? Would I like him?”
“You’ll love him, darling. He’s French.”
“Hence the wine.”
“Exactly.”
“Thank God. I can tell you now that your wine was shocking.”
“I know, but I was always too mean to buy the good stuff. I thought it all tasted the same. I was wrong, of course. Will you forgive me for making you drink it?” She poured him a glass of Bordeaux and handed it to him proudly. “Pierre has his own château in Provence. I’m going to write there. It’s so peaceful. Long lunches of foie gras and brioche.”
“This is good, Viv,” said Fitz, surprised. “Well done, you. He’s got good taste in wine.”
“And women,” she interjected playfully.
“Naturally. What does he do?”
“He’s a gentleman, darling. He doesn’t do anything. He’s not into doing.”
“How old is he?”
“My age, which for you is old. But he’s young at heart like I am and he makes love like a young man with a hundred years’ experience.” Fitz smiled at her affectionately. There was something very girlish about her that hadn’t been there before. “I’m very happy, Fitzroy,” she said a little sheepishly. “And I want you to be happy too.”
Fitz inhaled the warm summer air and looked away. “I’m getting there,” he said.
“I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you be impulsive? Go to Incantellaria. Go and get her back.”
“But you were totally against that. You said…”
“It doesn’t matter what I said, darling. Look at you. You’re losing your shine and I just hate to see your eyes like that.”
“Like what?” he asked with a smile.
“Sad, desperately sad, like a bunny’s.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!”
“What have you got to lose?”
“Nothing.”
“Quite. Nothing. God only helps those who help themselves. How do you know that she’s not sitting on a beach somewhere pining after you? Regretting the breakup, which was for a very silly reason, if I recall. If I were writing the script, which I jolly well might do, I’d send my hero out to Incantellaria at once. He’d arrive all anxious, his heart in his mouth, praying that she hasn’t married some Italian prince during the summer. He’d find her alone, sitting on the cliff top watching the sea longingly for a sight of the man she loves and has never stopped loving. When she sees him she’s too happy to be proud. She rushes into his arms and kisses him. They’d spend a long time kissing, I think, because at that point words just aren’t sufficient to express what’s in their hearts.” She took a drag on her cigarette. “Desperately romantic, don’t you think?”
“I wish it were true.”
“It might be.”
“It’s worth taking the chance, though, isn’t it? After all, as you said, what do I have to lose?”
She raised her glass to him. “You know I’m very fond of Alba. She’s exasperating, but there’s no one as entertaining or as charming as her. Perhaps you can smooth down those rough edges. She’d be lucky to get you. There’s only one Fitz too, you know. I’m in love so I’m feeling generous. I’d make sure the book had a happy ending.”
The Third Portrait
26
Italy 1971
W hen Valentina’s spirit finally moved on, a change came over the house. More remarkable, however, was the change in Immacolata. Out of the cupboards came the dresses of her past. Pinks and blues and reds, imprinted with flowers. Although fashion had moved on since the prewar days, Immacolata hadn’t. She still wore the shoes she had worn when her husband had taken her dancing in Sorrento. They were black, and buckled at the ankles. Her waist might have expanded but her feet hadn’t; they remained as small and delicate as her figure had once been. The revival of her old look provoked much teasing from Ludovico and Paolo, who returned with their families from the north for Valentina’s memorial service and the laying of her headstone. And Immacolata smiled the wide, open smile of a woman savoring joy for the first time in many years, as surprised as the rest of them that, like riding a bicycle, the art of smiling, once learned, is never forgotten.