“I don’t do this often,” she said. “Go home with strange men.”
“I’m not strange. We know each other now. Besides, you can always trust a man with a dog.”
“I just don’t want you to think that I’m loose. I’ve slept with very few men. I’m not one of those girls who has many lovers.”
Fitz thought of Alba and his heart suddenly felt heavy again. When he’d met her she had had an army of lovers. The gangplank to her door was worn thin with all the coming and going of suitors. His footprints were now lost beneath theirs.
“I don’t think you’re loose and I wouldn’t think less of you if you were.”
“They all say that.”
“Maybe, but I mean it.” He shrugged. “Why shouldn’t women sleep around just like men?”
“Because we’re not like men. We should be paragons of virtue. Settle with one man and bear his children. Does a man really want to marry a woman who has had lots of men?”
“I don’t see why not. If I loved her it wouldn’t matter how many men she’d slept with.”
“You’re very open-minded,” she said, looking across at him with her eyes full of admiration. “Most men I know want to marry virgins.”
“How very selfish of them. I don’t imagine they’re doing much to keep girls in that state, do you?”
At his house he poured two glasses of wine and showed her upstairs to the sitting room. It was small, masculine, decorated in beige and black, with wooden floorboards and white walls. He put on a record and sat beside her on the sofa. The walk back had depressed him. He wished he had not asked her home. Even Sprout knew that this wasn’t a good idea.
Still, better get on with it. He knocked back his glass and kissed her. She responded enthusiastically. The novelty of kissing someone new aroused him a little. He undid her blouse and slipped it over her shoulders. Her breasts were restrained in a large white bra. Then her hand was unzipping his trousers and sliding in and he was quickly recharged, forgetting about the oversized breasts in the pleasure of her touch.
They lay back on the sofa, which was deep and comfortable. Louise withdrew her hand, disappearing from view to take him in her mouth. He closed his eyes and let the warm, tingling sensation of arousal wash over him, emptying his mind once more of Alba. Louise might not have slept with many men but she was certainly experienced. Fitz had found an old box of condoms in his bathroom cupboard, dreadful things they were, robbing him of practically all sensation, but in this instance he knew it was right to use one. Louise opened the packet with her teeth, looking up at him flirtatiously from beneath her brown lashes, then fitted it over his penis as if she were putting on a sock.
She mounted him, lifting up her skirt and sitting astride him, her naked breasts white and doughy in the dim light of the sitting room. He closed his eyes to the brown nipples that swung in front of his face, catching every now and then on his nose or lips, and tried to concentrate on keeping his erection. It must be the beer, he thought as he felt the slow deflating of his member. As much as she tried, Louise was unable to stimulate him. With an embarrassed cough she let him slither out like a worm.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said kindly, climbing off.
“I’m sorry, it must be the beer,” he explained, ashamed. This had never happened before.
“Of course. I don’t mind. You’re a lovely kisser.”
He forced a smile, watching her pile her breasts back into their slings. “Can I call you a cab?” he asked, knowing that he should have offered to drive her back to Chelsea. To his shame he couldn’t bear to remain with her a moment longer than necessary. He wanted her out of his house as soon as possible. He wanted to forget he had ever met her. Why did I bother? he thought miserably as she pulled on her pants and sat down to put on her shoes. No one can compare with Alba.
Fifteen minutes later the cab arrived and the driver rang the bell. Those fifteen minutes had been agonizingly awkward. Louise had resorted to commenting on the books in the bookcases. He hadn’t even had the energy to tell her that books were his business. Why bother when the relationship had died before it had started? He accompanied her downstairs and bent to kiss her cheek; as he did so she turned her head to the door and his mouth kissed her ear instead. Then she was gone. He closed the door and locked it before climbing the stairs to turn out the lights in the sitting room and switch off the music. What a debacle.
Sprout lay sleeping on the rug, looking very dear with his eyes closed and his graying face all crumpled and warm. Fitz bent down and pressed his face to the dog’s head. It smelled familiar and comforting. “We miss Alba, don’t we?” he whispered. Sprout didn’t move. “But we have to move on. We have no choice. We have to forget about her. Someone else will turn up.” Sprout’s nose began to twitch in his sleep; he was chasing a rabbit across a field, no doubt. Fitz patted him tenderly, then went to bed.
When he awoke in the morning he was relieved to see his penis standing to attention, proud and majestic.
He was in his office when the telephone rang. His concentration was suffering. His in tray was piled high with documents that demanded his attention: contracts to read, manuscripts from his authors and from those hoping to be represented, letters to write, documents to sign, and a list as long as his desk of telephone calls to make. He watched the pile grow higher and higher, his mind hundreds of miles away, beneath the cypress trees on the Amalfi coast. He put down his pen and picked up the receiver.
“Fitzroy Davenport.”
“Darling, it’s Viv.” Her voice was sleepy.
“Hello, stranger.”
“Don’t be angry, Fitzroy. Forgive an old bird?”
“Only if I can see you.”
“That’s why I’m calling. Dinner tonight, my place?”
“Good.”
“Lovely, darling. Don’t bother to bring wine. I’ve just been given a case of the most expensive Bordeaux. Had half a bottle on my own last night, it’s gorgeous. I wrote the most delightful sex scene on the strength of it; it just goes on and on and on and on. Delicious.”
Fitz frowned. Viv sounded more “Viv” than normal. “See you later then,” he said, winding up the conversation. When he put down the telephone he felt his spirits lift. Viv was back; he had missed her. With renewed energy he picked up the first document in his in tray and placed it on the desk in front of him.
Fitz and Sprout appeared at Viv’s houseboat a little before eight o’clock. Her roof was now bright with grass and flowers. The poppies, replanted, had grown wild and crimson, and the daisies and buttercups nodded their little heads in the breeze that swept up the Thames. He recalled with amused admiration the sight of the goat munching through all her newly planted grass and plants. Alba had an ingenious mind, not even Viv could deny her that. The Valentina now resembled a sad and empty shell. The flowers had died, the deck needed washing, the paint was beginning to peel. She looked dry and lackluster, as if in desperate need of a drink. Alba had gone, and autumn had come early to the boat.
When Viv opened the door she saw him looking wistfully at Alba’s home. “Oh, darling,” she said with a sigh, waving her cigarette in the air. “Still not better?”
“How are you?” he said, deflecting her question because somehow, coming from Viv, it would be too painful to answer.
“So much to tell. Come in!” He followed her through the rooms to the deck. He sank into a deck chair and put his arms behind his head.
“Well? Where have you been and what’s all this about sex?” It was good to see her. She looked as blooming as a fresh peach and shamefully pleased with herself.
“I’m in love, darling. Me of all people. Lost my heart, gone!” She flicked her hand into the air. “I’m enraptured, Fitzroy, like one of my heroines.”
“I thought you looked rather too well. Who is he? Would I like him?”
“You’ll love him, darling. He’s French.”
“Hence the wine.”
“Exactly.”
“
Thank God. I can tell you now that your wine was shocking.”
“I know, but I was always too mean to buy the good stuff. I thought it all tasted the same. I was wrong, of course. Will you forgive me for making you drink it?” She poured him a glass of Bordeaux and handed it to him proudly. “Pierre has his own château in Provence. I’m going to write there. It’s so peaceful. Long lunches of foie gras and brioche.”
“This is good, Viv,” said Fitz, surprised. “Well done, you. He’s got good taste in wine.”
“And women,” she interjected playfully.
“Naturally. What does he do?”
“He’s a gentleman, darling. He doesn’t do anything. He’s not into doing.”
“How old is he?”
“My age, which for you is old. But he’s young at heart like I am and he makes love like a young man with a hundred years’ experience.” Fitz smiled at her affectionately. There was something very girlish about her that hadn’t been there before. “I’m very happy, Fitzroy,” she said a little sheepishly. “And I want you to be happy too.”
Fitz inhaled the warm summer air and looked away. “I’m getting there,” he said.
“I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you be impulsive? Go to Incantellaria. Go and get her back.”
“But you were totally against that. You said…”
“It doesn’t matter what I said, darling. Look at you. You’re losing your shine and I just hate to see your eyes like that.”
“Like what?” he asked with a smile.
“Sad, desperately sad, like a bunny’s.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!”
“What have you got to lose?”
“Nothing.”
“Quite. Nothing. God only helps those who help themselves. How do you know that she’s not sitting on a beach somewhere pining after you? Regretting the breakup, which was for a very silly reason, if I recall. If I were writing the script, which I jolly well might do, I’d send my hero out to Incantellaria at once. He’d arrive all anxious, his heart in his mouth, praying that she hasn’t married some Italian prince during the summer. He’d find her alone, sitting on the cliff top watching the sea longingly for a sight of the man she loves and has never stopped loving. When she sees him she’s too happy to be proud. She rushes into his arms and kisses him. They’d spend a long time kissing, I think, because at that point words just aren’t sufficient to express what’s in their hearts.” She took a drag on her cigarette. “Desperately romantic, don’t you think?”
“I wish it were true.”
“It might be.”
“It’s worth taking the chance, though, isn’t it? After all, as you said, what do I have to lose?”
She raised her glass to him. “You know I’m very fond of Alba. She’s exasperating, but there’s no one as entertaining or as charming as her. Perhaps you can smooth down those rough edges. She’d be lucky to get you. There’s only one Fitz too, you know. I’m in love so I’m feeling generous. I’d make sure the book had a happy ending.”
The Third Portrait
26
Italy 1971
W hen Valentina’s spirit finally moved on, a change came over the house. More remarkable, however, was the change in Immacolata. Out of the cupboards came the dresses of her past. Pinks and blues and reds, imprinted with flowers. Although fashion had moved on since the prewar days, Immacolata hadn’t. She still wore the shoes she had worn when her husband had taken her dancing in Sorrento. They were black, and buckled at the ankles. Her waist might have expanded but her feet hadn’t; they remained as small and delicate as her figure had once been. The revival of her old look provoked much teasing from Ludovico and Paolo, who returned with their families from the north for Valentina’s memorial service and the laying of her headstone. And Immacolata smiled the wide, open smile of a woman savoring joy for the first time in many years, as surprised as the rest of them that, like riding a bicycle, the art of smiling, once learned, is never forgotten.
Alba enjoyed her own new look too, and it was much commented upon. Cutting off her hair had been a dramatic expression of self-loathing but it became an outward display of her own emotional evolution. Now she was forced to appraise her life and its lack of purpose. She wanted to become part of the fabric of the community. She wanted to be useful.
Once the celebrations of Valentina’s life had passed and the visiting families had returned to their homes, Alba asked Falco if she could help out in the trattoria. “I want to work,” she explained over lunch beneath the awning, watching the coming and going of the little blue fishing boats.
Falco sipped his limoncello. His eyes were still solemn.
“I could do with some help, if you’re serious,” he replied.
“I am serious. I want to stay here with all of you. I don’t want to go back to my old self and my old life.”
He looked at her. “Who are you running from, Alba?” His words took her by surprise.
She stiffened. “I’m not running from anyone. I just like who I am here. I feel I belong.”
“Didn’t you belong in England?”
She lowered her eyes. “I can’t face Daddy now, not after what I’ve discovered. I certainly can’t face Margo, whom I’ve accused all my life of being jealous of Valentina. I can’t face Fitz, either.”
“Fitz?”
“The man who loves me, or did. He doesn’t deserve someone like me. I’m not a very nice person, Falco.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Three,” corrected Alba. “Valentina wasn’t nice, either.” She thought of Colonel Heinz Wiermann but said nothing.
“She was a whirlwind, Alba. A force of nature. But you’re young enough to change.”
“And you?”
“This dog’s too old to learn new tricks.”
“Can I draw you sometime?” she asked on impulse.
“No.”
“Why not?”
He looked uncomfortable, as if he were too large for the small chair. “Your father was an artist. An extremely good one too.”
“I know. I found a drawing of my mother in my houseboat. He must have hidden it there a long time ago. Then there’s the one he drew of me and my mother that Immacolata has.”
“There was another one, I believe,” said Falco, casting his eyes out to sea. “I remember your father desperately searching for it in Valentina’s room after her death.”
“He never found it?”
Falco shook his head. “I believe not. When he left with you he gave one to my mother so that she would have something to remember you by.”
“Why didn’t he bring me back to see her? Surely he knew that she would miss her granddaughter?”
“I think you should ask your father that.” He drained his glass.
“One day, I will. But for now I’m staying here with you. Do I have a job, then?”
Falco smiled in spite of himself. Alba’s charm was disarming. “You have a job for as long as you want.”
And so began a new chapter for Alba. By day she worked in the trattoria with Toto and Falco and in her spare time she drew. Cosima, to whom she had grown deeply attached, was always happy to pose for her. They sat in the evening sun on the cliff tops by the old lookout point, or down on the pebble beach after exploring the caves.
As the months went by, Cosima began to look upon Alba as a kind of mother, slipping her hand into hers as they ambled up the path home through the rocks. In the mornings she climbed into her bed and snuggled up, nestling her curly head into the soft curve where Alba’s neck met her shoulder. Alba told her stories, then wrote them down and illustrated them. She found a talent she didn’t know she had. She also discovered an enormous capacity for love.
“I want to thank you for loving Cosima,” said Toto one evening.
“It is I who should thank you,” she replied, noticing that his expression was unusually serious.
“Every child needs a mother. She never says she misses her. We’ve never talked about it. Bu
t I know that if she does, then having you around makes it so much less painful.”
“Of course she misses her mother. She probably doesn’t want to talk about it, in case she hurts your feelings. Or maybe she’s too busy playing to give it much thought. One can never tell. But perhaps you should mention her from time to time. What hurt me about losing mine was that no one ever spoke of her. Cosima needs to be reassured that her mother didn’t reject her. That it wasn’t her fault. She needs to feel loved, that’s all.”
“You’re right,” he said with a sigh. “It’s hard to know how much a child that young understands.”
“A great deal more than you give her credit for.”
“So, you’re going to stick around for a while, then?”
It was Alba’s turn to look solemn. “I have no intention of leaving. Not ever.”
Alba was at ease with herself. She was happy to lie alone at night, listening to the song of birds and the ringing of crickets. She was no longer frightened of the dark or of being on her own. She felt secure. But her mind often wandered to Fitz, wondering what he was doing, remembering with a bittersweet nostalgia the good times they had shared. But then she would toy with Gabriele’s card, running her finger over the name and telephone number, wondering whether the time had come for her to move on and explore new pastures. He had been handsome and kind. He had made her laugh in spite of the disasters she had suffered on arriving in Italy. They had somehow clicked. Fit together nicely, as if cut from the same piece of wood. After so much time on her own, she now felt ready for love.
Then Fate made the decision for her. It was the first week of October and still warm, except for a slight chill on the wind that swept in off the sea. The trattoria was full of people: tourism was picking up; articles had been written about the secret wonders of the town so that foreigners were stopping off on their way down the Amalfi coast to more famous locations like Positano and Capri. Alba was busy taking orders and returning with trays of steaming dishes. She enjoyed chatting to the locals and the new faces who were always happy to talk to the lovely young woman with short spiky hair and strange pale eyes. As she served drinks she heard the motor of a boat and lifted her gaze. Before she could identify the passenger, her heart began to thud. She put down her tray and stepped out from under the awning. With one hand on her hip, the other shielding her eyes from the sun, she squinted to get a better look. When the boat slowed down at the quay she forgot the customers and her duties and ran along the beach, her eyes stinging with excitement. “Fitz, Fitz!” she shouted, waving her hand in the air.
Last Voyage of the Valentina Page 29
