Last Voyage of the Valentina(55)

“I’m not going to discuss her over the bridge table. It’s not gallant,” said Fitz defensively. “One diamond.”

“You’ve changed your tune.” Viv was put out. “No bid.”

“One heart,” said Georgia.

“No bid,” said Wilfrid with a sigh.

“Three no trumps. I respect her,” said Fitz.

Viv snorted. “People aren’t always what they seem, Fitzroy. Being a writer I observe people all the time. Alba’s used to being different things to different people. She’s an actress. I’ll bet she doesn’t even know who she is underneath all that bravado.”

“Is she going to go to Italy to find her mother?” Georgia asked.

“Yes, I think so,” Fitz replied.

“What is she hoping to find?” asked Wilfrid, who, having only picked up the odd remark, was confused about Alba’s mother.

“That’s a very good question. I don’t think Alba’s really thought it through. We’re talking thirty years ago. A lot can happen in thirty years. Her mother’s family might have even moved away. But I suspect she’s looking for memories, anecdotes, to be reassured that her mother loved her. She’s never felt she’s belonged in her stepmother’s family. She wants that sense of fitting in, of looking at her relations and seeing her features reflected in theirs.”

“You’re an incurable romantic, Fitzroy. Are you going to go with her?” asked Viv, narrowing her eyes as Georgia won the trick.

“No,” he replied. “It’s something she has to do on her own.”

“I don’t imagine she’s ever done anything on her own,” added Viv.

“Where is this place?” asked Wilfrid, who flattered himself he knew Italy, having studied history of art at Oxford.

“About an hour or so south of Naples, on the Amalfi coast. We’ve already found it on the map. She’s going to break it to her father this weekend.”

“So you still have a role to play in this drama?” said Viv.

“It’s no longer a drama, Viv,” retorted Fitz. “It’s life.”



That night at Beechfield Park, Margo and Thomas were undressing for bed. Outside it was raining heavily, large icy drops that fell like stones against the window panes. “Bloody cold for spring,” said Thomas, peering through the curtains of his dressing room. When he managed to see past his reflection to the dark garden below, wet and glistening in the light that escaped from the house, he suddenly recalled the night he had returned with little Alba. It had rained then too.

“I hope there’s not a frost; it’ll kill all the little buds that have just begun to sprout,” Margo replied. “It’s been so warm lately, and now this. One never can tell in this country.” She stepped out of her skirt and stood in her petticoat, undoing her necklace. “Did you remember to tell Peter to have a look at Boris’s foot? I notice he’s limping.”

Thomas pulled himself away from the window and closed the curtains.

“He’s probably done it chasing those sows around the pen all day,” he said, folding his trousers and placing them on the chair. Suddenly Jack’s face appeared in his head, with Brendan alert and playful on his shoulder. Jack was laughing at his joke, his cheeky smile wide and infectious.

“What did you say?” Margo let her petticoat drop to the floor.

“Nothing, darling,” he replied, undoing the buttons of his shirt.

“Do you know Mabel telephoned to remind me to do the church flowers this Sunday? As if I’d forget!” She took off her pants and bra and slipped into her white nightie. Then she sat in front of the mirror and combed her hair, now almost totally gray. Margo didn’t seem to care. She rubbed some Pond’s cream into her hands, wiping the excess onto her face. “Really, Mabel’s such a busybody. She should run for mayor or something. Put that nosy talent of hers to good use. Alba’s coming down with Fitz,” she added. “That’s three times this month,” she went on when he didn’t respond. “I think Fitz’s a bridge over troubled water, don’t you?”

When Thomas walked into the bedroom his face was flushed and his eyes burning. “Are you all right, darling?” Margo asked, frowning. “Are you unwell?” He hadn’t been himself lately.

“I’m perfectly well,” he replied. “Let’s make love.”

Margo was surprised. They hadn’t made love in, well, ages. She couldn’t remember the last time. There was always so much on her mind: Summer, Boris, the children, Alba, the village fête, the church flowers, the Women’s Institute, not to mention all the entertaining they did. There simply wasn’t time for lovemaking.