For the last few weeks Viv had been ignoring her. On the odd occasion that their paths had crossed on the pontoon, the older woman had pursed her lips and snorted, lifting her chin and striding by, as if it were all Alba’s fault. Fitz had obviously been extremely economical with the truth. Well, if Viv was foolish enough to believe his word over hers, then they could both stew in their own juice. She was going to Italy and when she found her family there, she might just decide never to come back. They’d regret their behavior then, wouldn’t they? Once they’d driven her away.
Rupert, Tim, and James had been only too happy to return to her bed, delighted that Fitz hadn’t lasted the course. “He’s not a runner,” said Rupert happily, now confident that he was. Reed of the River came calling again and she allowed him to take her to Wapping, hiding on the floor of his launch when the sergeant cruised by. She hung out with the boys in the Star & Garter, drank beer and joined in their jokes, reveling in their attention.
Les Pringle from the Chelsea Yacht and Boat Company came by regularly to deliver the post and fill up the water tank. Although far too old to take her to bed, he sat at her kitchen table, drank coffee, and gossiped about the odd people he met, confessing, to her amusement, that no one was as eccentric as Vivien Armitage.
“Strange bunch, writers,” he mused. “You know her Elsan is never full. I think it’s because she makes her men friends pee off the side of the boat.”
“Jolly good idea,” said Alba. “I wish I had thought of that myself. Mind you,” she added bitchily, “she may be clever but have you seen her without makeup? I thought Frankenstein was scary until I saw Viv at two in the morning with her curlers in!”
How could she possibly be lonely with so many friends? she thought, closing her bag and sitting on top to zip it shut. It was the beginning of June. The weather was warm in London so she presumed it would be even hotter in Naples. She had packed most of last summer’s wardrobe and was sure that in a small, provincial seaside town she would cut quite a dash. Lonely indeed!
She sat on her deck, scowling at the squirrels and throwing the odd piece of bread into the water for the ducks. She looked over at Viv’s houseboat. It was pristine. Pots of geraniums hung on the railings and their flowers trailed over the side in long red tentacles. There were also large black boxes of lemon trees and perfect spheres of topiary. Even the windows were polished until they shone. Alba looked about her own deck. She had pots of flowers too, lots of them, but they all needed dead-heading, not to mention watering; it hadn’t rained for a good fortnight. She hadn’t swept it for months. The squirrels loved to play there, leaving nuts and excrement which the wind blew away and the rain washed to some extent, but it wasn’t clean like Viv’s. Neither was it tidy inside and no one had mended the leak. She had left it for Fitz. But Fitz hadn’t come back. There was a hole in her heart that leaked as well, but Fitz didn’t care to mend that either. She looked across at Viv’s perfect home again and was struck with an idea.
On top of the cabin Viv had grown grass. She had gone to the garden center and bought ready-made squares of it. Lush and green. Perfect. Over one weekend she had taken great trouble to treat the roof so that the water had a place to drain away and wouldn’t corrode her ceiling and drip into her bedroom, then she had laid the sod out carefully so that the cabin now looked as if it had acquired an expensive haircut. Viv took great pride in it. She grew daisies and buttercups and was experimenting now with poppies. Alba stared at the grass roof and grinned. I bet Viv hasn’t the slightest idea what a good gardener I am, she thought mischievously. I think I’ll show her just how innovative I can be.
Alba had bought a pretty pink Vespa for riding about town. It was easier to park than her car. Her flight wasn’t until the evening so she had plenty of time to kill. Lunch with Rupert in Mayfair sounded appealing. She had told him she was off to Italy, but not that she planned never to come back.
Before lunch she would make a telephone call to her old friend, Les Pringle. He’d do anything for her. And what she was about to ask him was something which, she was quite sure, he had never been asked before.
Viv sat with Fitz in the little café he regularly frequented just around the corner from his mews house. It was quiet, old-fashioned and made exceedingly good coffee. Sprout lay on the concrete, watching impassively the shoes of the people who wandered by. Viv smoked into the air, her eyes obscured by large black sunglasses that left only her small nose and chin exposed. When he had admired them, calling them fashionable, she had retorted crossly. “I’m not fashionable, Fitzroy, you should know that. I’m above it all. Beyond it. Don’t look at me like that. I told you I didn’t want to see your lovely brown eyes brimming with tears.”