“Come on in, darlings,” she said languorously, waving at them and indicating that they should make themselves at home. “What a rumpus you two were making out there. I see old Reedy’s stuck in the mud. I’d like to have watched him squirm his way out of that one.” She cackled and took a slow drag of her cigarette.
Fitz was nervous, being in the company of the woman he had watched and dreamed about. He perched on the orange velvet sofa as if he were at a job interview, and fiddled with his fingers. Alba flopped onto the pile of brightly colored silk cushions piled on the floor, curling her legs under her, and lit up. She watched Fitz with her strange pale eyes, wondering how he was going to solve her problem. The boat smelled heavily of incense. Viv had lit candles and placed them in vibrant glass cups around the small sitting room. The lights were dimmed and music played softly. Alba watched him through the smoke. He was attractive in a very aristocratic way: intelligent eyes that sparkled with humor; a wide, infectious smile; a strong chin and jaw line; scruffy, with curly hair the color of hay that obviously hadn’t seen a brush for a long time. She liked his eyes immediately. They were honest, and soft like Demerara sugar but with a generous sprinkling of pepper. She hated men whose kindness made them dull. He obviously wasn’t one of those. Now he just looked anxious and she felt sorry for him. In her company men fell into two categories: the ones who pounced and the ones who were too decent to pounce. Fitz clearly fell into the latter, which she much preferred. So far she had never met a man who fell into the third: the indifferent.
“So, Fritz,” she began in an imperious voice. “Where do you fit into Viv’s life and why haven’t I met you before?”
“It’s Fitz,” he corrected earnestly. “Short for Fitzroy. I’m her literary agent.”
Viv swept into the room with one of Fitz’s bottles of wine and three glasses.
“Darling, you’re much more than my agent. He’s my friend too,” she added to Alba. “I’ve kept him hidden away on purpose. I want him all to myself. I’m only sharing him with you tonight out of kindness, though don’t be fooled, I’ll bear a heavy grudge if you steal him, my dear. You see, one can always rely on Fitzroy to put a smile on one’s face even when there’s very little to smile about. That’s why I invited him. I thought you needed cheering up.”
Fitz cringed; he didn’t feel very amusing. His throat was dry for a start. Perhaps a little wine would loosen things up. Thank God he’d brought his own.
“Oh, Reed of the River has already done that,” she said, without considering the way it sounded. Fitz felt deflated. “I hooted with laughter when I saw his silly boat had run aground.” Then she smiled her large, mischievous grin at Fitz and he felt inflated again. “We saved the day, didn’t we? Without our cunning he would have certainly lost his job. No more rides up to Wapping. I should miss that.”
“What was all that about the floating head?”
“Oh, Revel, one of the boys who works with him, found an arm floating in the Thames. Disgusting!” She lifted her chin and laughed heartily. “I said that if he came across the head he should let me know. I’d adore to send it to the Buffalo in a box.”
“Ah, the Buffalo,” said Viv with a sigh, sinking into the armchair. “That’s the ghastly stepmother I was telling you about.”
Alba didn’t concern herself with Viv’s gossiping; it was perfectly natural that people should talk about her.
“I think I know the type. Capable but totally insensitive.”
“Exactly,” Alba agreed, flicking ash into one of Viv’s lime green dishes. “What are we going to do about her?”
“Like a good book, we need a plot,” said Viv importantly. “Being the writer among us I have taken the liberty of coming up with one.”
“You never fail your public,” said Fitz jovially, remembering guiltily that he had forgotten to call the French.
“If it’s anything like your books,” said Alba, who had never read one, “it’ll be spellbinding!”
Viv paused for dramatic effect, took a long sip of wine, then began very slowly, clipping her consonants.
“You’re never going to get rid of the Buffalo. Neither can you win your father’s affection if you fight with him all the time. No, it’s really very simple. You are going to go down to Hampshire for the weekend with Fitzroy.”
“With Fitz?”
“With me?” said Fitz with a gulp, thrilled to be included.
“Yes. You are going to present to your parents your perfect new boyfriend.” Fitz took a deep breath to control his excitement. He liked this plot better than anything else she’d written. “You see, darling,” she said, turning to Alba. “You have always been the unconventional, rebellious child. Now you are going to turn up with the most conventional, charming, suitable man. Fitzroy will be everything they consider fitting and proper. He’ll play bridge and tennis, pat the dogs, enjoy an after-dinner port with your father, talk about art, literature, politics, and his opinions will all mirror theirs. What a coincidence! His father also fought in the war, in Italy of all places. Did they know one another? Where was he stationed? Fitzroy will endear himself to Thomas Arbuckle, who will be so grateful to him for taking on his difficult daughter that he will let down his guard. Perhaps they will discuss the war over an after-dinner cigar, man to man, once the women have retired to bed. He’ll confide in Fitzroy the story of his past. Yes, I can see it all happening.” She spread her fingers and moved her hand slowly for added effect. “It is late. A crisp, starry night. Thomas feels wistful and there’s nothing more effective than flattery at arousing the desire in a man for intimacy. If anyone can draw an old duffer out of his shell and into his confidence it is you, Fitzroy. Sir Fitzroy Can-Do.” She put her cigarette between her lips before exhaling the smoke in a long thin trail, clearly thrilled with her presentation.