“I’m so sorry,” she sniffed, dabbing her cheeks with a damp tissue. Then she lifted her eyes and he took a step back. They were the palest gray, like rare, bewitching crystals and so exquisite that his mind went blank. “My lover has left me,” she wailed. The official looked appalled and his face suddenly stopped its violent twitching. “He doesn’t love me anymore, so I’m leaving Naples. I can’t live in this city knowing that the one who has crushed my heart is living here too, breathing the same air, walking the same pavements. You do understand, don’t you?” She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. Her ploy was working beautifully. His still face was frozen into an expression of the deepest compassion and for a moment she forgot herself. She stopped crying and smiled at him. “You have a lovely face,” she said truthfully, for now that she could see it properly, she realized that he was still a boy, and surprisingly handsome. He blushed but did not turn away.
“Grazie, signora,” he said finally in a soft, shy voice.
She gripped his arm with her fingers. “Thank you,” she said meaningfully, before hurrying down the platform, her spirit buoyant with the knowledge that she had got away without showing a ticket, but also that her scam hadn’t humiliated him. She had made him happy. The surprising thing was that his obvious joy had infected her with happiness too.
Alba had learned a valuable lesson: people wore their bodies like coats. Whether ugly or beautiful, fat or thin, still or twitching, they were all vulnerable human beings beneath, deserving of respect. Then she remembered something Fitz had once said. “If you look hard enough you’ll find beauty and light in the ugliest and darkest places.” Alba realized she rarely looked at all.
She placed her bag in the luggage rack at the end of the carriage, then found a seat beside the window. When the ticket collector came through she would simply explain that she must have dropped hers on the platform. She wouldn’t have been allowed through the gate without a ticket, obviously?
A couple of attractive young men took the seats opposite her and placed sandwiches and drinks on the table dividing them. She wished she had brought a book. The last time she had read an entire volume had been at school: Jane Austen’s Emma, which had been such a struggle she was still getting over it a decade later. Reluctantly, she pulled out the well-handled Vogue she had read on the plane and flicked aimlessly through it.
It wasn’t long before the young men attempted to ignite a conversation. Normally she would have been only too happy to talk to them, but today their attention offended her. Did she look that approachable? That easy?
“Would you like a biscuit?” asked the first one.
“No thank you,” she replied without smiling. The first looked at the second for encouragement. The second nodded.
“Where are you from?” he persevered.
She knew her accent gave her away. Then she was struck with an idea and a smile crept onto her face.
“I’m English, married to an Italian,” she said, leaning forward and looking up coyly from under her lashes. “It is so nice to talk to a couple of handsome young men. You see, my husband is old. Oh, he’s rich and powerful and gives me everything I want. I live in a vast palazzo. I have houses all over the world. Enough staff to sink a liner and countless pieces of jewelry. But when it comes to love, well, as I said, he’s old.”
The daring one nudged the other excitedly. They both wriggled in their seats, barely able to restrain their lust as they contemplated this frisky young woman whose husband was too old to make love to her.
Then, remembering that she was seated in a second-class carriage, she added, “Sometimes I like to be anonymous. I like to ride with normal people. So I leave the car and the chauffeur at the station and take the train. One meets fascinating people on trains and, of course, I am beyond my husband’s reach.”
“What you need are a couple of young men to give you what your husband can’t,” said the first, bolder now but speaking in a hushed voice, his eyes feverish with intent. She appraised them slowly through narrowed eyes, withdrew a cigarette from its packet, placed it between her lips, and lit it. As she blew out the smoke she leaned forward again, placing her elbows on the table.
“I’m more careful these days,” she said casually. “The last lover I took had his balls chopped off.” The two men blanched. “As I said, my husband is powerful—very powerful. With power comes possessiveness. He likes to keep all that he owns for himself. But I like to take risks. I like the challenge. I like to defy him. It gives me pleasure. Do you understand?”