“Bloody hell!” Viv swore. “Are we too late?”
“I think so,” said Fitz.
“Try again!” she encouraged.
“What do you think I’m doing!” he exclaimed irritably, banging on the door with his fist. Still there was no reply and still the squirrels remained, scampering across the roof with their sharp little claws.
“Well, that’s it then. She’s gone.”
“I don’t believe it. I’m such a fool!”
Viv put her hand on his shoulder. “Darling, you weren’t to know.”
“I could have come any day over the last month, but I didn’t. I left her alone when she needed me. I didn’t even telephone to wish her luck.”
“She’ll be back,” she soothed.
Fitz turned to her with angry eyes. “Will she?”
“Well, there’s no point standing here banging. Let’s go and have a drink.” She pulled him away from the door.
It was at that moment of utter despair that they both saw the incredible sight on Viv’s beautifully manicured roof garden. Viv’s hand shot to her mouth as she let out a strangled gasp. Fitz’s face opened into a wide smile.
“Alba!” they both exclaimed in unison.
“How on earth…,” began Viv but her voice trailed off and for once she was lost for words.
“Typical!” said Fitz, feeling a little better.
“Well, I suppose I deserve it,” Viv added with a sigh, shaking her head.
On top of her perfectly clipped grass was a goat, chomping through the buttercups and daisies and probably hoovering up the poppy seeds as well.
Alba was in the cab on her way to Heathrow. She thought of the goat on Viv’s houseboat and hoped it had eaten all the grass by now. With any luck it had fallen into her bedroom and was working its way through her underwear. Good old Les! But, despite the joke, inside she felt miserable. Fitz hadn’t bothered to telephone to wish her luck and now he never would, because even she wasn’t sure where she was going. She knew she had to take the plane to Naples, the train to Sorrento, and then a boat to Incantellaria. The travel agent had said the roads were narrow and winding and she certainly wasn’t going to risk her life with an Italian at the wheel. They drove on the wrong side of the road for a start. No, much better to take a boat. It was an adventure. Fitz had said she had to go it alone. She was on the brink of discovering her mother. It was both liberating and frightening.
The Second Portrait
18
T he moment Alba sank into the seat on the airplane, her reserves of energy dried up and she yawned sleepily. She was weary. Weary of the same old emptiness and weary of hoping that Fitz was going to fill it. It would be good to get away. To leave it all behind. To start afresh in a new place with new people.
She had deliberately chosen the seat next to the window so that she only had one stranger to contend with. At least on a bus she could sit where she liked and move if an undesirable took the place beside her. In an airplane it was quite different. She was stuck with whomever Fate had chosen to put in 13B. The number thirteen did not augur well. A handsome Italian man entered the plane, clearly fed up with the slow line of people who shuffled up the aisle, pausing every few paces while someone placed their case in the overhead locker. He caught her eye. Alba was not surprised when he didn’t look away. They rarely did. She stared back at him confidently until the sheer boldness of her gaze caused him to drop his eyes to the ticket he held in his hand. She hoped he had been dealt the unlucky number, which wouldn’t be so unlucky, of course, if it belonged to him. As far as she could tell, he was the only vaguely decent man she had seen that evening and it would be nice to talk to someone, considering how nervous she felt about flying into the unknown.
She continued to watch him. Her pale eyes obviously disconcerted him. Judging by his sudden diffidence he clearly wasn’t a pouncer, she thought, cheering up. She wasn’t in the mood for a pouncer. He stole another quick glance at her before walking to the back of the plane. She huffed grumpily and folded her arms. Before she had a chance to size up the rest of the passengers, a large, swollen man, a pyramid of blubber, fell into the seat beside her.
“Do you mind,” she said haughtily.
The man apologized in a thin, reedy voice and tried unsuccessfully to squeeze himself into a small person.
Alba huffed. “They should make special seats for people like you,” she said, without smiling.
“I suppose they should.”
He extracted a white hanky from his trouser pocket, with some difficulty, and wiped his forehead. Sweaty too, she thought in distaste. Just my bloody luck. He strapped himself in and Alba thought it miraculous that the airline made seat-belts big enough. How very inconsiderate of him to be so fat, she thought meanly. He’s obviously a very greedy man. She wondered whether the handsome Italian was still thinking of her and wishing that he had been lucky enough to sit next to her. Anything would have been better than Fatman, she mused crossly. She turned to face the window in order to make it quite clear that she had no wish to engage in conversation. When he opened a book she felt it was safe to read Vogue.