Last Voyage of the Valentina(54)

“I’m not staying,” he replied.

She frowned. “Why not?”

Fitz sighed. “I don’t want to share you, Alba.”

“Share me?”

“Yes, I don’t want to share you with Rupert or Reed of the River or any of your other friends. If I’m with you I want to be with you exclusively.”

She laughed happily. “Then you’ll be exclusive, darling Fitz. You can have me all to yourself.”

Once again Fitz felt that uncomfortable emptiness. Her tone had been flippant. It was all too easy. “You mean you’ll stop seeing anyone else?”

“But of course. What do you think I am?” She looked hurt. “Haven’t you thought that I might not want to share you, either?”

“Well, no,” he replied, baffled.

“Then park the car in your clever little place and let’s go and have a bath together. Sprout can watch if he’s good. There’s nothing I like better than a glass of wine in the bath and no, in case you’re wondering, I haven’t shared a bath with anyone before. It’ll be a first with you and a first with Sprout.”

Fitz felt guilty. “I’m sorry,” he said, kissing her cheek.

“Apology accepted.” Then she laughed that infectious laugh that bubbled up from her belly. “To think that we’ve turned into the couple we’ve been pretending to be all weekend. Isn’t life funny?”





13




A lba did as she had promised and told all the other men who enjoyed the warm excitement of her bed that she now had a boyfriend and would no longer be able to see them. Rupert was heartbroken. He turned up at her boat, with armfuls of flowers and a long, unhappy face, begging her to marry him. Tim shouted at her down the telephone, hung up, and then sent a gift from Tiffany by way of an apology, hoping that she’d accept it and marry him. James, usually so mild-mannered and gentle, came around one evening drunk and, with the rifle his father had given him, shot at the squirrels on the roof of her boat until the police, alerted by Viv, arrived to take him away. Alba shrugged it off nonchalantly, poured herself another glass of wine, and took Fitz upstairs to make love.

Fitz ignored Viv’s warnings and blindly pursued the object of his love. He spent most nights on the Valentina for Alba hated to be alone. She relished the nights when they didn’t make love, when she could curl up against him, his arms around her, his breathing brushing her skin and his voice murmuring into her ear. He was more than her lover; after all, lovers were two a penny. He was her friend. She had never had a friend like Fitz.

Alba took him shopping at Mr. Fish in Beauchamp Place and persuaded him to buy new shirts. “Your clothes were in the Dark Ages,” she said when he wore one to lunch at Drones. “Really, you fitted in much too well at Beechfield Park for my liking. I bet the Buffalo was sizing you up for Caroline. I won’t burn the old shirts, just in case.” Fitz didn’t like her teasing. Didn’t she know she was going to marry him?

They went to Andy Warhol’s exhibition of pop art at the Tate and, in an effort to be trendy, Fitz bought her Led Zeppelin’s new LP which contained her favorite song, “Stairway to Heaven.” In the evenings they went to Tramp or Annabel’s and danced until dawn. The only thing that kept him dancing into the early hours was Alba’s new pair of hotpants. It was all right for her; she didn’t have to get up in the mornings, although Reed of the River often came calling at dawn, remaining obediently downstairs. Fitz, on the other hand, had a job to do. Viv was pestering him about her book tour, which looked like it would encompass more than just France. He also had to get up early to take Sprout for a walk in Hyde Park.



“You look tired, Fitzroy,” Viv commented, dealing the cards.

“I’m shattered,” he replied. Viv couldn’t help but notice his mouth curl up at the corners smugly.

“It won’t last,” she said caustically, flicking ash into the green dish.

“What do you want to play?” asked Wilfrid. “Weak or strong, no trump?”

“Weak,” said Viv with a sigh. “I still see that Reed of the River dropping by in the mornings.”

“I trust her,” said Fitz confidently. “She’s perfectly entitled to have friends.” Fitz would have liked to explain that she had only slept with men out of loneliness. Now she had him, she didn’t have to feel lonely anymore.

“I have plenty of female friends and Georgia doesn’t mind, do you, darling?” interjected Wilfrid, sorting his cards and rubbing his chin.

“I bet none of them are like Alba,” said Viv. Georgia was offended; as much as she would have protested otherwise, she would secretly have loved to have friends like Alba.