Fitz missed Alba. He missed everything about her and was happiest at night when he could lie in the dark remembering the good times. He had enjoyed making love to her, but there was something touching about the way she had lain against him on those nights when she simply wanted to be close. He knew that kind of intimacy was a novelty to her. She hadn’t known how to handle having a man in bed without having sex. Then she had discovered it and quickly thought up a name. Alba was good at names. She called them “pod evenings’ because they lay like peas in a pod, so close they could almost have been one.
Sprout sensed that his friend was out of sorts and wagged his tail as if trying to compensate. Fitz wrapped his arms around his dog and buried his face in his fur. He didn’t want to succumb to tears, not even in front of Sprout. It wasn’t dignified; it certainly wasn’t manly. But once or twice, after a couple of glasses of wine, beneath an exceptionally beautiful sky, he had let himself go.
After he left the office he took Sprout for a walk around the Serpentine. It was too early to go to Viv’s; she was having a drink at the Ritz with her new editor. It was a lovely evening. The sky was pale blue descending into pinks where the sun was low in the sky. The air was warm and balmy, smelling of cut grass. Squirrels scampered over the recently exposed earth, picking up pieces of food dropped by tourists. He thought of Alba, how she hated the little creatures, afraid that they’d find their way into her bedroom and hide beneath the sheets to nibble her toes. That’s what he loved about her; her thought process was unlike anyone else’s. She lived in a world all her own. The tragedy was that, as hard as he had tried, he had not been able to share it with her.
He looked at his watch. He didn’t know what time her plane was due to leave but if he hurried he might just make it to Cheyne Walk before she left for the airport. He should have gone earlier. He should at least have telephoned her to find out how she was. What if she was as miserable as he was? What if she was just waiting for him to extend the olive branch? Had he been too hurt and furious to see beyond it? Viv had advised him not to call her, but he didn’t have to take her advice. He loved Alba. It was as simple as that.
He hurried into the road and hailed a taxi. “Cheyne Walk,” he said, closing the door behind him. “As fast as you can, please.”
The taxi driver nodded glumly. “No one ever says as slow as you like, gov, do they?”
Fitz frowned in irritation. “I imagine not.”
“I always drive as fast as the law permits,” he said, trundling down Queensgate at a gentle pace.
“Most taxis I know take great pleasure in breaking the law,” said Fitz, wishing he’d step on it a bit. Alba might be leaving her boat at that very moment.
“Perhaps they do, but laws are put there for a reason and I abide by them.”
“What about the eleventh Commandment?” Fitz suggested.
“I thought there were only ten.” The taxi driver sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand.
“No, there’s one that’s often forgotten. Thou shalt not get caught.” Even the taxi driver managed a chuckle.
“All right, mate, I’ll do as best I can,” he said and Fitz watched the speedometer push for thirty.
Viv said goodbye to her editor, pleased that she liked the way the current book was going. Ros Holmes was a splendid woman, she thought. Direct, sensible, plain-talking, and warm in a truly British way. Viv couldn’t abide gushers. Ros didn’t gush and never would, however brilliant her work was, and in Viv’s opinion, it was beginning to show flashes of brilliance. She hailed a cab on Piccadilly. It was five to seven, so she’d be a little late; they could wait on her terrace, admire her new roof garden and lemon trees. Then she thought of Alba and felt guilty. Perhaps it hadn’t been right to cut her like that. After all, Alba had spent many evenings in her kitchen, pouring her little heart out over endless glasses of wine. Beneath her sharp talking there was a very lovable girl. Viv was too old to behave in such a childish manner. Alba couldn’t talk to her parents and now she no longer had Fitz. Shameful! She hissed under her breath. I should know better.
“Do drive a little faster, taxi!” she shouted over the drone of the radio. “I’m not a tourist so let’s just hurry on, shall we?” The taxi driver was so taken aback he put his foot down out of sheer panic.
Viv thought it an incredible coincidence when Fitz and she arrived in Cheyne Walk at the same time. Neither spoke; they both knew that it was much more important to get to Alba than to explain why they were hurrying down the pontoon to the Valentina. Fitz knocked on the door. The houseboat looked desolate. Only a gang of squirrels played on the roof of the cabin.