Last Voyage of the Valentina(57)

“That’s just it. You think it’s trivial. To me, my mother is the most important person in my life. Finding her is the biggest thing I’ve ever done. To me it’s not trivial at all.”

“Splitting up over it is. Alba, you must understand the world doesn’t revolve around you. You’re beautiful and adorable but you’re the most selfish human being I’ve ever met. If I give in to you I wouldn’t be true to myself or to you. If splitting up is what you want, I’ll leave right now, with enormous regret.”

Alba’s lips quivered and she looked up at him from under her eyelashes. She had pushed but he had not budged. They always budged. “Yes, I want you to leave.”

He shook his head sadly. “I know you don’t really want to do this. It’s a matter of pride, isn’t it?”

“Just leave!”

He dressed and packed up his belongings while she watched him. They didn’t speak. The boat rocked and creaked in the choppy Thames, bumping every few seconds against the rubber tire that protected Viv’s boat from the Valentina. Fitz suddenly felt seasick. He hoped that if he took his time she might reconsider. As much as he longed for her to change her mind, he was too proud to beg and too much a man of principle to bend to her will. The scent of paraffin from the stoves that heated the boat rose up on the damp as the rain continued to fall in sheets. He didn’t like the idea of being out in such weather in the middle of the night. He hadn’t brought his car and had no umbrella. Sprout would be miserable in the rain. He had made himself very comfortable downstairs in Alba’s warm kitchen.

“Right, I suppose it’s goodbye then,” he said, giving her a last chance to change her mind, but her mouth was firmly set into a thin line of resolve. “I’ll see myself out.”

Alba heard the door close behind him, then there was silence but for the forlorn creaking of the boat and the low moan of her own sobbing. She sank onto the bed and put her face in her hands.

Her attention was diverted by the sound of dripping. It was louder and slower than the rattling of the rain on the skylight. She lifted her face out of her hands to see a leak in the roof. The water was falling in large plops, like fat tears, onto the rug below. She heaved herself off the bed, her body weighed down as if by a suit of armor. She took the bin from the bathroom and put it under the drip. It made a loud metallic noise, then a wet plop as it filled up. She wished Fitz hadn’t gone. He would know what to do. Usually Harry Reed or Rupert would do repairs for her, or even Les Pringle from the Chelsea Yacht and Boat Company, who came daily to fill up the water tank. But she didn’t want Harry or Rupert anymore. She wanted Fitz.

Miserably she climbed into bed and curled up on the electric blanket that had begun to steam against the damp. She persuaded herself he might send her flowers in the morning, or a gift from Tiffany. She’d take him back and all would be right again. She wouldn’t be alone. For the rest of the night she slept with the light on.

Fitz stepped onto the gangplank and felt the rain go straight down his back. He pulled his coat up to his chin and hunched his shoulders. Sprout cringed and whined miserably. The Embankment was quiet. The odd car came and went but there was no sign of a taxi. He couldn’t walk home: it was miles away. He had no choice but to knock on Viv’s door. There was a long wait until the lights were switched on. She had not been up writing that night. When she appeared at the door she looked surprised.

“Oh, I thought you were Alba,” she said sleepily. She looked very different without her makeup on. But before he could explain she added, swiftly ushering him through the door and shutting out the rain, “I won’t say I told you so, I’m not a gloater, and yes, you can stay the night. Sprout can sleep in the kitchen. Just one thing. For God’s sake, don’t send her flowers in the morning; it’s terribly cliché and I know you are in the right.”



Alba was first disappointed, then furious, when she received nothing the following day from Fitz. No flowers, no gift, and no telephone call. She waited in her dressing gown, not bothering to get dressed. She wasn’t going to see anyone and if Fitz did come by, there would be less to take off. She just lay on her bed painting her nails red for comfort. Finally, at the end of the third day she realized that he wasn’t going to make contact, at least for the moment. She would have to go down to Beechfield Park on her own.

Her father and stepmother’s reaction to her decision to travel to Italy was entirely as she had expected. This time she picked her moment during dinner. Lavender had appeared, dressed in a silk dress with the pearl choker Hubert had given her for one of their wedding anniversaries. Her short-term memory was terrible but she recalled everything from the distant past as if it had happened yesterday and took great pleasure in recounting to the entire table the story of its purchase. Cook had made a cottage pie which she served with peas and carrots and Thomas opened a bottle of wine. When asked about Fitz, Alba lied.