At a quarter to eight they lay entwined, flushed and tousled, smiling with contentment.
“It’s such a shame you have to go,” she said with a sigh.
“Next time, don’t arrange dinner. Then we can have the whole night together,” said Rupert.
“I know. Silly of me. We’d better get dressed. I don’t want Fitz to see me like this.”
“Who did you say this Fitz character is?” Rupert asked, trying not to sound jealous. After all, he shared her bed, Fitz didn’t.
“Viv’s literary agent,” she replied casually, getting up with a yawn. “It’s a bore but I’m doing Viv a favor.”
“I see,” he said, reassured.
“He’ll come on time and leave early, then I can get a good night’s rest. I’m exhausted. You’re such a beast, Rupert!” Rupert pulled on his trousers, feeling the tingling of arousal strain his pants.
“Shame I have to put him away,” he replied with a smile. “He’s ready to go again.”
“But I’m not.” She looked at the clock on her bedside table. It was five to eight. Knowing Fitz, he would be on the doorstep in about three minutes, at which point, she thought triumphantly, Rupert will be leaving.
Fitz had bought flowers, long-stemmed arum lilies, and a bottle of wine. Italian wine in preparation for their weekend, which he had termed “Italy reconquered.” He had splashed his face with cologne and put on a brand-new shirt that his colleague, who was very fond of fashion, had recommended. He felt attractive. He felt optimistic. The very fact that Alba had telephoned him indicated that she had forgiven him. If she offered again, which he very much doubted, he would accept.
He walked down the pontoon, heart suspended, his breathing fast and excited. A moment later he stood outside her door. He had just lifted his hand to knock when it opened and Rupert strode out, flashing him a supercilious smirk, before whistling up the pontoon to the Embankment. When he turned back, Alba was grinning at him. As angry and humiliated as he was, his heart warmed in the radiance of her smile. He was intelligent enough to know that she had planned this moment to put him in his place. To show him that she didn’t care. It had worked. He felt suitably humbled. When he smiled back he did so with diffidence, handing her the flowers.
“Oh, they’re lovely,” she beamed happily. “Come on in.” As he walked through the door he had to step over the roses on the floor. “It’s my lucky day,” she said with a giggle, picking them up. “How many girls get two bouquets in one evening?” The word “tart” leaped to Fitz’s mind and he blushed, appalled that he was capable of thinking such a thing about Alba.
“You deserve them both,” he said, determined not to show her he minded. He followed her down the corridor into the kitchen. It didn’t matter who had turned down whom, he thought with a sigh, watching her neat bottom in tight jeans; she had the attitude that would always win.
Her small houseboat was a mess. He caught a glimpse of the bedroom upstairs. Clothes were strewn over the antique French bed, overflowing onto the balustrade and down the stairs in a trail. A large cupboard was open, the drawers pulled out, lace knickers and shimmering silk petticoats tumbling out like hastily opened presents. A pair of pink platform shoes lay discarded on the floor in the corridor, as if she had just stepped out of them. In the sitting room, glossy magazines were tossed in disarray over the ivory-colored sofas. The place hadn’t been dusted for weeks. The kitchen sink was piled high with plates and cups. The rooms were small, decorated in pale pinks and blues, with low ceilings. The place smelled of perfume and paraffin combined with the pleasant scent of polished wood. However, in spite of the chaos, the boat, like Alba, had an enormous amount of charm.
In the kitchen Alba searched the cupboards for vases. Finding none, she placed one bunch of flowers in a jug and the other in the coffee pot, chatting all the time about the things Reed of the River had found in the Thames, sadly not the head, she said, not even the other arm, then poured them both a glass of Fitz’s Italian wine.
“How very sweet of you to go to the trouble,” she said. “Very appropriate.”
“It’s to celebrate the start of ‘Italy reconquered,’” he said, raising his glass. Alba’s pale eyes darkened and she suddenly looked moved.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. You have total faith and you’re celebrating my decision to open old wounds. More than my father and stepmother would do. We’re going to charm them both, together. Daddy will open up to you. He’ll love you. Everyone loves you, Viv tells me. You’re that sort of man.”