Last Voyage of the Valentina(17)

“I wouldn’t trust those wops, if I were you. Couldn’t be trusted during the war. Hung about to see who was winning and then sided with the Germans. Bloody fools. We showed ’em, though, didn’t we! Teach ’em to disrespect the English.”

“She’s too young to know about the war.” Fitz rolled the other way as the cab turned into Clarendon Mews.

“Which number?” the cabbie asked, slowing to a crawl, leaning forward to peer through the windscreen, across which the wipers squeaked hypnotically.

“The second war, of course,” he replied with irritation.

“No, which number do you live in?” repeated the cabbie, shaking his head. It was always at this time of night that he picked up drunks. This one was posh and didn’t seem violent, just melancholy.

Fitz opened his eyes. He leaned forward to see his car parked directly outside number eight.

“Damn it!” he said, frowning. “How the hell did that get there?”

In his inebriated state, Fitz couldn’t tell the difference between the coins and paid far too much, to the delight of the cabbie. He fumbled the key in the lock and stumbled inside. He was too tired to undress so he thought he’d lie down on the bed for a few minutes, just to steady his head. When he next opened his eyes it was ten o’clock in the morning and the telephone was ringing.

He dragged himself up onto one elbow and reached for the receiver. He coughed to clear his throat.

“Fitzroy Davenport speaking.” There was a pause. “Hello?”

“Hi.” Alba’s voice was thick and smoky.

Fitz sat up abruptly, unable to contain his joy. “Hi,” he said happily. “How are you feeling?”

“Sleepy,” she purred. She sounded as if she were still in bed.

“Me too.” Then he remembered he had told her he had an early appointment. “I’ve been up since dawn. I enjoyed last night, though the wine has taken its toll. I think it was that last bottle that’s done my head in.”

“I’ve got the most terrible hangover,” she sighed. “In fact, I remember very little about the evening.” Which was a lie. But Alba did not wish to remember Fitz’s rejection. Fitz felt a wave of disappointment. “However,” she continued with a sleepy sigh. “I do recall Viv’s plot. It was a very good one. If you’re still on?” Fitz now rode the crest of the wave rather than floundering beneath it.

“I’m most certainly on,” he said.

“Good. I’ll call the Buffalo and book in for this weekend. It’ll be a bore, believe me. We had better get together beforehand to discuss our plan of action.”

“I agree.”

“Say, Thursday evening?”

“I’ll take you out for dinner,” he suggested, attempting to make up for having let her down the night before.

“No, I’ll rustle something up. Come at eight.”



Alba was still furious with Fitz, but she needed him. Besides, Viv’s plot really was tremendous. Once Fitz had learned about Valentina he would then accompany her to Italy where she would meet her family. She pictured the scene. The tears, the embraces, and then the stories of her mother’s life for which she thirsted. There would be photographs. Brothers and sisters perhaps, nephews and nieces, uncles and aunts. Each would have memories that they would share with her. She would fill in the missing pieces and return complete. She would visit the grave, put flowers there, and all would finally be right in her world.



When Thursday arrived Alba made sure that Rupert came for a drink first. He arrived early with a large bouquet of red roses, the scent of which was carried on the breeze before him. Alba welcomed him at the door in a dusty pink silk dressing gown that barely reached her thighs. Her long glistening legs culminated in a pair of pink fluffy mules that revealed perfect pink toenails, carefully pedicured that afternoon in Chelsea. She breathed in the smell of the roses along with Rupert’s familiar cologne, took him by his tie, and closed the door with a slam. Then she placed her lips on his and kissed him. Rupert dropped the flowers. She took him by the hand and led him upstairs to her small bedroom beneath the skylight. It had rained heavily the night before and for most of the day, but now the sky was a pale blue, with only the odd pink and gray clouds floating by.

She lay down on the bed and Rupert scrambled out of his clothes. She watched him with heavy eyelids, her long brown hair spread in a halo around her face. Her cheeks were pink: her lips parted, expectant, lascivious. Once undressed he fell upon her, devouring her flesh as a lion devours his prey. She closed her eyes and calmly stroked his hair as he traveled down her body, his tongue licking her skin as he went.