Last Voyage of the Valentina(47)

“Have you been naked all night?” he asked, stroking her bottom.

“I never wear pants,” she replied. “They just get in the way.”

“Never?” God, I’m so conventional, he thought to himself.

“Never, Grandpa!” She giggled into his neck.

“I can assure you I make love like a boy lover!” he laughed.

“Don’t assure me, boy lover, show me.”

Fitz tried not to think of the many men who had slept with Alba. He tried to imagine her pure and untarnished. This was hard, for Alba had indeed enjoyed the attentions of many men, too many to count. She had learned along the way from the sheer enjoyment of sex. Her innovation was born out of enthusiasm and a natural earthiness about which she was completely unabashed. As much as Fitz tried to take the lead and will her to be innocent, she wriggled and moaned like the femme du monde that she was.

“Darling, kiss me a little higher, yes…there…with your tongue…softer…softer…slower, much much slower. There. Yes!”

She was quite happy to tell him what she wanted and sighed with pleasure when he got it right. He couldn’t deny that she was wonderful in bed. Technically, she was tremendous. But afterward, as they lay spent and panting, their heartbeats racing in chests damp with sweat, Fitz couldn’t help but feel that something was missing. Oh, it was all there, the skill, the know-how, the technique. But technique was of little value to him without feeling. It was passion that made lovemaking special. Fitz loved Alba but she clearly did not love him.

After a while, Alba tiptoed down the corridor to her room, half hoping to bump into the Buffalo, simply for the pleasure of seeing her face. Fitz was left feeling empty. Dissatisfied. As if he had eaten his way through a delicious doughnut to find the center entirely without jam. He had given Alba his soul and she had simply lent him her body with a playful laugh. He thought of Viv and what she would say if he told her. “You silly fool!” she would snap. “I told you not to lose your heart. Alba will chew it all up and spit it out when she’s done.” That is how she had treated every man before him. But he was different. Even her father had admitted that: “Why would Alba go for someone like you?” Why indeed? Because he was a runner.

He dressed smartly, anticipating church and the reverend who was invited back for Sunday lunch. Fitz wondered how things would go when they returned to London. Was she simply enjoying the role-play? Or did he mean more to her than that? “I’m behaving like a woman!” he snapped at his reflection as he tried to tidy his hair. He resigned himself to the fact that, however much he brushed, combed, or wet his hair, it remained a mass of unruly curls. The reverend would have to accept him as he was.

On his way back from letting Sprout out of the car to run around the gardens, he heard voices from the dining room. He entered, and Margo greeted him warmly. “Did you sleep well, Fitz? I hope the bed was comfortable. Were you warm enough?”

“It was most comfortable and certainly warm. Very warm indeed,” he replied, glad that Alba wasn’t there to catch his eye and make him smile.

“Good. Now there’s tea and coffee over there,” she said pointing to the sideboard. “Eggs and bacon, toast. If you’d like a boiled egg, Cook will do it for you. Just ask.”

“No, fried eggs are perfect. What a feast.” He sniffed the salty bacon and his mouth watered.

“Cook is a little wonder. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s been with us for years. She was Lavender and Hubert’s cook when Thomas was little, wasn’t she, Thomas?” Thomas, who was sitting at the large round table reading the newspapers and sipping coffee, trying to ignore the frivolous chitchat of his wife and daughters, raised his bloodshot eyes and nodded. Fitz noticed at once how tired and ill he looked. His face was gray, as if all the blood had drained into his red socks.

“Morning, Fitz,” he said. “I trust you slept well.”

“Yes, thank you,” Fitz replied, sensing that he did not wish to engage in conversation. He turned to Margo, leaving Thomas to disappear once again behind his paper.

After a while, during which Caroline talked incessantly about the man she was in love with, Alba walked in. She was dressed in the shortest skirt possible, patterned tights, and suede boots to her knees. Fitz immediately thought how gorgeous she looked, then remembered that she never wore pants and felt an erection stir in his trousers. There was no way he could leave the table now. As well as the outrageous outfit, she wore an expression of triumph. It didn’t take long to work out why. He shifted his eyes to her stepmother. Margo stood with her jaw slack, uncharacteristically dumb. Alba strode over to Fitz and took his face in her hands, planting on his mouth a passionate and lingering kiss. Now he was as mute as Margo. Only Thomas was untouched by her, reading the paper oblivious of the change in the air.