“So, Fritz,” she began in an imperious voice. “Where do you fit into Viv’s life and why haven’t I met you before?”
“It’s Fitz,” he corrected earnestly. “Short for Fitzroy. I’m her literary agent.”
Viv swept into the room with one of Fitz’s bottles of wine and three glasses.
“Darling, you’re much more than my agent. He’s my friend too,” she added to Alba. “I’ve kept him hidden away on purpose. I want him all to myself. I’m only sharing him with you tonight out of kindness, though don’t be fooled, I’ll bear a heavy grudge if you steal him, my dear. You see, one can always rely on Fitzroy to put a smile on one’s face even when there’s very little to smile about. That’s why I invited him. I thought you needed cheering up.”
Fitz cringed; he didn’t feel very amusing. His throat was dry for a start. Perhaps a little wine would loosen things up. Thank God he’d brought his own.
“Oh, Reed of the River has already done that,” she said, without considering the way it sounded. Fitz felt deflated. “I hooted with laughter when I saw his silly boat had run aground.” Then she smiled her large, mischievous grin at Fitz and he felt inflated again. “We saved the day, didn’t we? Without our cunning he would have certainly lost his job. No more rides up to Wapping. I should miss that.”
“What was all that about the floating head?”
“Oh, Revel, one of the boys who works with him, found an arm floating in the Thames. Disgusting!” She lifted her chin and laughed heartily. “I said that if he came across the head he should let me know. I’d adore to send it to the Buffalo in a box.”
“Ah, the Buffalo,” said Viv with a sigh, sinking into the armchair. “That’s the ghastly stepmother I was telling you about.”
Alba didn’t concern herself with Viv’s gossiping; it was perfectly natural that people should talk about her.
“I think I know the type. Capable but totally insensitive.”
“Exactly,” Alba agreed, flicking ash into one of Viv’s lime green dishes. “What are we going to do about her?”
“Like a good book, we need a plot,” said Viv importantly. “Being the writer among us I have taken the liberty of coming up with one.”
“You never fail your public,” said Fitz jovially, remembering guiltily that he had forgotten to call the French.
“If it’s anything like your books,” said Alba, who had never read one, “it’ll be spellbinding!”
Viv paused for dramatic effect, took a long sip of wine, then began very slowly, clipping her consonants.
“You’re never going to get rid of the Buffalo. Neither can you win your father’s affection if you fight with him all the time. No, it’s really very simple. You are going to go down to Hampshire for the weekend with Fitzroy.”
“With Fitz?”
“With me?” said Fitz with a gulp, thrilled to be included.
“Yes. You are going to present to your parents your perfect new boyfriend.” Fitz took a deep breath to control his excitement. He liked this plot better than anything else she’d written. “You see, darling,” she said, turning to Alba. “You have always been the unconventional, rebellious child. Now you are going to turn up with the most conventional, charming, suitable man. Fitzroy will be everything they consider fitting and proper. He’ll play bridge and tennis, pat the dogs, enjoy an after-dinner port with your father, talk about art, literature, politics, and his opinions will all mirror theirs. What a coincidence! His father also fought in the war, in Italy of all places. Did they know one another? Where was he stationed? Fitzroy will endear himself to Thomas Arbuckle, who will be so grateful to him for taking on his difficult daughter that he will let down his guard. Perhaps they will discuss the war over an after-dinner cigar, man to man, once the women have retired to bed. He’ll confide in Fitzroy the story of his past. Yes, I can see it all happening.” She spread her fingers and moved her hand slowly for added effect. “It is late. A crisp, starry night. Thomas feels wistful and there’s nothing more effective than flattery at arousing the desire in a man for intimacy. If anyone can draw an old duffer out of his shell and into his confidence it is you, Fitzroy. Sir Fitzroy Can-Do.” She put her cigarette between her lips before exhaling the smoke in a long thin trail, clearly thrilled with her presentation.
Now Fitz sat forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “Let me take this one step further, Viv,” he said, getting into the spirit of it.
“By all means, darling.”
“Once I have found out the details, there is one thing left to do,” he stated seriously.
Alba, who had remained quiet and watchful throughout, now spoke. “What is that, Fitz?”
“If you really are serious about learning the truth about your mother, then you must go to Italy.”
Alba narrowed her eyes. Although that very thought had often crossed her mind she had never imagined doing it on her own. She had never done anything on her own. She considered Fitz. He was handsome, charming, and kind and obviously in love with her. Let me take this one step further, Fitz, she thought to herself. You’re coming with me.
4
A fter dinner and a third bottle of wine, they moved out on to the deck to lie under the stars that peeped out every now and then from behind heavy black clouds. It was cold, so they lay close together beneath a blanket, staring above rather than at each other. After so much laughter it was inevitable that the wine, combined with the beauty of the tempestuous night, would arouse in them a certain melancholy. Viv thought of her ex-husband and wondered whether her books had replaced the children she had never had. Fitz was unable to think of anything other than Alba’s warm body pressed up against his and the idea of playing such a large role in her salvation, while Alba filled the emptiness in her spirit with the image of her mother’s gentle face.
“I have never known a mother’s unconditional love,” she said suddenly.
“And I have never given it,” said Viv.
“I have had it,” said Fitz. “And it’s the most wonderful thing in the world.”
“Tell me about it, Fitz,” Alba asked. “How is it so wonderful?” She felt as if her chest were being compressed by an invisible object that was solid and heavy.
Fitz sighed. He had always taken it for granted. Now his mind conjured up pictures of those times when, as a small boy, he had run into his mother’s arms for comfort, and he felt desperately sad for Alba, who had never known that.
“As a child you know that you are the center of your mother’s world,” he began. “Nothing comes before you in importance. She’ll sacrifice everything for you and often does, because your health and happiness are so much more important than hers. As a man, you know that whatever you do, however badly you behave, she will always love you. To your mother, you are brilliant, clever, handsome, and special. I cannot speak for everyone, only myself, but I believe that is the way it should be. My mother is my dearest friend. My love for her is unconditional too. But children are selfish. They don’t put their mothers first. Perhaps we should.”
“I should have liked to have had a child,” said Viv in a quiet voice.
“Really, Viv? Would you?” Fitz had never heard her talk about a yearning for children.
“It’s a very deep longing, Fitzroy, and most of the time I do not listen to it. However, when the night is so beautiful and I’m with friends, I start to think about the value of life and my own mortality. It is then that I feel I have somehow missed out on a very important aspect of it. But I am old and those useless thoughts do nothing but corrode one’s spirit.”
“You would have been a good mother,” said Alba truthfully. “I wish you’d married my father instead of the Buffalo.”
“I don’t think I’d like your father,” Viv replied with a gentle cackle.
“No, I don’t suppose you would.”
“Have you met him?” Fitz asked.
“No, but let’s just say that I don’t like the sound of him or his wife.”
“I sha
ll reserve judgment until I meet them,” said Fitz.
“So, you will come?” asked Alba.
He wanted to reply that he’d do anything for her, but she must have heard countless men say those words so he just said that he wouldn’t miss it for the world.
They lay on the deck until the stars retreated and the sky clouded over, giving way to a light, persistent drizzle. The boat began to rock as the river flowed faster, and the creaking and bumping intensified so that Viv decided she wouldn’t even try to sleep but would sit at her desk and write another chapter. Alba had unwittingly opened an old wound. It was no use trying to close it tonight; only daylight could do that and she had no desire to lie in bed chewing over old regrets.
She bade them good night and returned inside where the candles had burned out and the gramophone ground to a halt. Incense still lingered in the air and there was another bottle of wine in the fridge. She took off her turban and caftan and wrapped herself in a cozy dressing gown. Taking off her makeup was always a sobering experience. Without it she looked old. She glanced in the mirror only when she had to and massaged her tired skin with a thick cream that promised to work miracles and turn back the clock. She would have liked to turn back the clock. Done it all again, but differently.
Love was a precarious business. Far better to write about it, she figured, than live it. She was too old for children now and too intolerant to live with someone. She might find a man with children of his own, God forbid, and have a stepdaughter like Alba. Secretly she felt some sympathy for the Buffalo. Alba was a handful and a self-centered one at that. She hoped Fitzroy would be able to control his tender heart. He deserved better than Alba. What he needs is a sure thing, she thought. A woman of substance who’ll look after him, not an Alba who only thinks of herself.
Fitz escorted Alba to her boat. He wished it was the other end of the Embankment, so they could walk together in the drizzle and talk. There were so many things he wanted to ask her. Her arrogance was beguiling but it was her fragility that attracted him. He wanted to be her knight in shining armor. He wanted to be different from all the others. He wanted to be the one she held on to.
When they reached her door she turned to him and smiled, not her usual charming grin but the sad smile of a lonely little girl. “Will you stay?” she asked. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Fitz was about to embrace her, kiss those plummy lips, and assure her that he would stay forever if she wanted, but he felt an insistent pull at his gut that he could not ignore. If he stayed he’d just be like all the others.
“I can’t,” he replied.
Alba’s eyes widened. No one had ever declined such an offer.
“Just to sleep,” she explained, wondering why she of all people was being reduced to begging in such a humiliating fashion.
“I’ve an early appointment in the morning and my briefcase is at home. I’m sorry,” he said lamely, also remembering Sprout shut up in the kitchen. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he added when her lips pursed in fury.
“Well, good night then,” she stated, coldly flinging him a withering look before disappearing inside her boat and locking the door behind her.
Fitz walked back onto the Embankment and tried to remember where he had parked his car. He felt miserable. She had opened up to him on Viv’s deck. They had been intimate. Now they had parted as strangers. He longed to return and knock on her door and rehearsed the lines he would say. “I’ve had second thoughts…I’ve changed my mind…I’m a fool to have put my work before you…I want to share your bed and your life…I love you madly…” He was drunk and emotional and couldn’t find his car.
The evening had started off with such promise, he thought unhappily. She probably wouldn’t want him to pose as her boyfriend now that he had turned her down in such an ungallant manner. He felt cold and dizzy and still couldn’t find his car. He usually parked it just around the corner, there on that yellow line. He strode up and down in bewilderment, scanning the streets in the hope that it might magically appear. Finally, after a good while standing in the same spot, staring blankly into the road, he hailed a cab. He couldn’t face walking home.
He flopped onto the leather seat and threw his head back. “Clarendon Mews, please,” he stated. The cabbie started the meter and pulled out into the road.
“You’re a bit wet,” he said, hopeful of a conversation. It had been a long night.
“I don’t care,” Fitz mumbled. “I’d do anything for her.”
“Ah, a lady friend,” said the cabbie with a knowing nod. He was used to the broken-hearted unloading their troubles on his back seat.
“The power they have to break us. One glance, one bat of the eyes, and we’re pulp. Pulp. That’s what I feel like, a bit of pulp.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself, gov. She’s not worth it.”
“Oh, but she is,” Fitz sighed melodramatically. The cab swung to the left and Fitz swung with it, his head rolling loosely on the back seat like a melon. “She’s not just anyone. She’s different from all the others.”
“That’s what they all say.” The cabbie chuckled. “I thought that about my missus. Now I can see that she nags me same as everyone else’s missus. Whoever invented love had a wicked sense of humor. The trouble is, by the time the scales fall from your eyes it’s too late, you’re married and she’s on your back whining about the rotten lot she’s been given. If it wasn’t for that trick of love no man would walk down the aisle. Bloody con, that’s what I say and I fell for it, like a right sucker.”
“You don’t understand. This is Alba Arbuckle I’m talking about.”
“Nice name, Alba.”
“It’s Italian.”
“I wouldn’t trust those wops, if I were you. Couldn’t be trusted during the war. Hung about to see who was winning and then sided with the Germans. Bloody fools. We showed ’em, though, didn’t we! Teach ’em to disrespect the English.”
“She’s too young to know about the war.” Fitz rolled the other way as the cab turned into Clarendon Mews.
“Which number?” the cabbie asked, slowing to a crawl, leaning forward to peer through the windscreen, across which the wipers squeaked hypnotically.
“The second war, of course,” he replied with irritation.
“No, which number do you live in?” repeated the cabbie, shaking his head. It was always at this time of night that he picked up drunks. This one was posh and didn’t seem violent, just melancholy.
Fitz opened his eyes. He leaned forward to see his car parked directly outside number eight.
“Damn it!” he said, frowning. “How the hell did that get there?”
In his inebriated state, Fitz couldn’t tell the difference between the coins and paid far too much, to the delight of the cabbie. He fumbled the key in the lock and stumbled inside. He was too tired to undress so he thought he’d lie down on the bed for a few minutes, just to steady his head. When he next opened his eyes it was ten o’clock in the morning and the telephone was ringing.
He dragged himself up onto one elbow and reached for the receiver. He coughed to clear his throat.
“Fitzroy Davenport speaking.” There was a pause. “Hello?”
“Hi.” Alba’s voice was thick and smoky.
Fitz sat up abruptly, unable to contain his joy. “Hi,” he said happily. “How are you feeling?”
“Sleepy,” she purred. She sounded as if she were still in bed.
“Me too.” Then he remembered he had told her he had an early appointment. “I’ve been up since dawn. I enjoyed last night, though the wine has taken its toll. I think it was that last bottle that’s done my head in.”
“I’ve got the most terrible hangover,” she sighed. “In fact, I remember very little about the evening.” Which was a lie. But Alba did not wish to remember Fitz’s rejection. Fitz felt a wave of disappointment. “However,” she continued with a sleepy sigh. “I do recall Viv’s plot. It was a very good one. If you’re still on?” Fitz no
w rode the crest of the wave rather than floundering beneath it.
“I’m most certainly on,” he said.
“Good. I’ll call the Buffalo and book in for this weekend. It’ll be a bore, believe me. We had better get together beforehand to discuss our plan of action.”
“I agree.”
“Say, Thursday evening?”
“I’ll take you out for dinner,” he suggested, attempting to make up for having let her down the night before.
“No, I’ll rustle something up. Come at eight.”
Alba was still furious with Fitz, but she needed him. Besides, Viv’s plot really was tremendous. Once Fitz had learned about Valentina he would then accompany her to Italy where she would meet her family. She pictured the scene. The tears, the embraces, and then the stories of her mother’s life for which she thirsted. There would be photographs. Brothers and sisters perhaps, nephews and nieces, uncles and aunts. Each would have memories that they would share with her. She would fill in the missing pieces and return complete. She would visit the grave, put flowers there, and all would finally be right in her world.
When Thursday arrived Alba made sure that Rupert came for a drink first. He arrived early with a large bouquet of red roses, the scent of which was carried on the breeze before him. Alba welcomed him at the door in a dusty pink silk dressing gown that barely reached her thighs. Her long glistening legs culminated in a pair of pink fluffy mules that revealed perfect pink toenails, carefully pedicured that afternoon in Chelsea. She breathed in the smell of the roses along with Rupert’s familiar cologne, took him by his tie, and closed the door with a slam. Then she placed her lips on his and kissed him. Rupert dropped the flowers. She took him by the hand and led him upstairs to her small bedroom beneath the skylight. It had rained heavily the night before and for most of the day, but now the sky was a pale blue, with only the odd pink and gray clouds floating by.
Last Voyage of the Valentina Page 5
