Last Voyage of the Valentina

  TOUCHSTONE

  Rockefeller Center

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2005 by Santa Montefiore

  All rights reserved,

  including the right of reproduction

  in whole or in part in any form.

  TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  Originally published in Great Britain in 2005 by Hodder and Stoughton

  Designed by Melissa Isriprashad

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Montefiore, Santa.

  Last Voyage of the Valentina / Santa Montefiore.—

  1st Touchstone ed.

  p. cm.

  1. London (England)—Fiction. 2. Amalfi Coast (Italy)—

  Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6113.O544L37 2006 823’.92—dc22 2005057601

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-9332-7

  ISBN-10: 0-7432-9332-0

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  To my aunt, Naomi Dawson

  Acknowledgments

  The idea for this book was inspired by my aunt Naomi Dawson, who lived on a motor torpedo boat conversion in the 1960s. I can’t thank her enough for sharing photographs and anecdotes as well as shedding light on her vibrant past, providing me with much amusement. She’s a tremendous support and a true friend; therefore I dedicate this book to her.

  Due to the more challenging nature of this novel, I called upon many friends for their help. I extend my thanks to them all: Julietta Tennant for her extensive knowledge of Italy’s Amalfi coast and the loan of her daughter Valentina’s name. Commander Calum Sillars R.N. for an insight into the navy and a wealth of books on MTBs in the Mediterranean during the war. Valeska Steiner for her beautiful singing voice which transported me into my imaginary world and her father, Miguel, my godfather, for the odd German phrase which my dictionary couldn’t provide. Katie and Caspar Rock for allowing me to sit not so quietly and observe their bridge nights and for a heavenly week among the crickets and pine in Porto Ercole.

  I edited the book in the apogee of hotel luxury, the sumptuous Touessrok Hotel in Mauritius, now my home from home, so Paul and Safinaz Jones get an enormous thank-you for making my stay so serene and peaceful. When the domestic chaos of my home threatened to undermine the completion of the book, Piers and Lofty von Westenholz kindly lent me their dining room and it was there that I finally managed to write the much longed for words: The End.

  My Italian friends, Alessandro Belgiojoso, Edmondo di Robilant, and Allegra Hicks were enormously helpful when I had queries about their country, and Mara Berni was always on hand for a taste of Italy at San Lorenzo.

  I thank my new friend, Susie Turner, for enthralling me over lunch with stories of her extraordinary life in the 1960s, much of which will have to keep for another book. My uncle and aunt, Jeremy and Clare Palmer-Tomkinson, once again trawled through their memories of those hazy days (my uncle Jeremy denies the haze, but I don’t believe him!). Clarissa Leigh-Wood, my best friend, is always positive and always there: thank you. I thank Bernadette Cini for looking after my children, thus allowing me time to write, and Martin Quaintance for sharing with me his great knowledge of boats.

  My parents, Patty and Charlie Palmer-Tomkinson, for giving my life such color as to embroider my books in many shades. My parents-in-law, Stephen and April Sebag-Montefiore, for showing such interest and enthusiasm. Tara, James and Sos, Honor, India, Wilfrid and Sam, for their loyalty and inspiration. My children, Lily and Sasha, for changing me profoundly and opening a door into a more compassionate world.

  I’d like to say thank you to Jo Frank, who was a dedicated and effective agent, taking me on when my first book was little more than an idea. I wish her luck on her new path and hope it takes her to bright and happy places. Welcome to my new agent, Sheila Crowley, a force of nature. I look forward to our working on many more books together.

  Once again I cannot underestimate the role of my editor, Susan Fletcher. She’s key at every stage of the book. Both sensitive with her criticism and wise, she is someone I trust completely.

  Most importantly, however, is my gratitude to my husband, Sebag, for without him there wouldn’t be a book at all. His help with ideas and plots is invaluable. We’re a great team.

  Prologue

  Italy 1945

  I t was almost dark when they reached the palazzo. The sky was a turquoise blue, fading into pale orange just above the tree line where the sun was setting. The stone walls rose up, sheer and impenetrable, to quixotic towers, and a tattered flag drooped on its pole. Once, when the winds of Fate had blown more favorably, it had danced on the breeze with vitality, dominating all around it. Now ivy was gradually choking those walls to death, like the slow poisoning of an old principessa, whose breath now rattled up from her belly in fits and starts. Memories of her celebrated past, that lay within the fabric of the ramparts, were evaporating beyond recognition and recovery, and a foul smell emanated from her bowels where decay had set in, along with the putrefying foliage of the wild gardens. The stench was overpowering. There was a sharp edge to the wind, as if winter resisted the call of spring and clung on with icy fingers. Or perhaps winter lingered there, in that house alone, and those icy fingers belonged to death, who now came calling.

  They did not speak. They knew what they had to do. Bound together by anger, pain, and a deep regret, they had vowed to seek revenge. A golden light glowed from a window at the back of the palazzo, but the thickness of the encroaching forest, the overgrown bushes and shrubs, prevented their reaching it. They had to risk entering from the front.

  It was silent but for the wind in the trees. Not even the crickets braved the malevolence that surrounded the place, choosing to chirrup further down the hill where it was warm.

  The two assassins were used to creeping about. They had both fought in the war. Now they were united again against a very different evil, one that had touched them personally, beyond all reason, and they had come to eliminate it.

  Without making a sound they climbed in through a window left carelessly ajar. They made their way across the shadows. Silently like cats. Their black clothes allowing them to blend with the night. When they reached the room where the light melted through the crack beneath the door, they paused and stared at each other. Their eyes shone like marbles; their expressions grave, resolute. Neither felt fear, just anticipation and a grim inevitability.

  When the door opened their victim looked up and smiled. He knew why they had come. He had been expecting them. He was ready and he wasn’t afraid to die. They would see that killing him would do nothing to ease their pain. They didn’t know that, of course; otherwise they would not have come. He wanted to offer them a drink. He wanted to enjoy the moment. To prolong it. But they were eager to get on with it and get away. His cool affability was sickening, his smile that of an old friend. They wanted to slice it off his face with a knife. He sensed their offense and it made him grin all the more. Even in death he’d smile. They’d never be rid of him and of what he had done. What he had taken from them he could never give back. He had won at their loss, and the guilt that would eat away at them would be his final victory.

  The blade of the knife glinted in the golden light of the lamp. They wanted him to see it. They wanted him to anticipate it and fear it, but he did not. He would die willingly, joyfully. He would take pleasure fro
m his pain as he took pleasure now from theirs. They looked at each other and nodded. He closed his eyes and lifted his chin, exposing his white neck like that of an innocent lamb.

  “Kill me, but don’t forget that I killed you first!” he gloated, his voice resonating with triumph.

  When the blade sliced through his throat, a gush of blood spurted over the floor and walls, turning them a rich, glistening crimson. He slumped forward.

  The one with the knife stood back while the other kicked the lifeless body to the ground so that he lay face up, his neck a crude, gaping gash of flesh. Still he smiled. Even in death he smiled.

  “Enough!” the knifeman shouted, turning to leave. “We have done enough. It was a matter of honor.”

  “It was more than honor to me.”

  The First Portrait

  1

  London 1971

  “S he’s enjoying the attentions of that young man again,” said Viv, standing on the deck of her houseboat. Although it was a balmy spring evening, she pulled her tasseled shawl about her shoulders and took a long drag of her cigarette.

  “Not spying again, darling!” said Fitz with a wry smile.

  “One can’t help noticing the comings and goings of that girl’s lovers.” Viv narrowed her hooded eyes and inhaled through dilated nostrils.

  “Anyone would think you were jealous,” Fitz commented, grimacing as he took a sip of cheap French wine. In all the years he had been Viv’s friend and agent she had never once bought a bottle of good wine.

  “I’m a writer. It’s my business to be curious about people. Alba’s engaging. She’s a very selfish creature, but one can’t help being drawn to her. The ubiquitous moth to the flame. Though, in my case, not a moth at all but a rather beautifully dressed butterfly.” She wandered across the deck and draped herself over a chair, spreading her blue and pink caftan about her like silken wings. “Still, I enjoy her life. It’ll do for a book one day, when we’re no longer friends. I think Alba’s like that. She enjoys people, then moves on. In our case, it shall be I who moves on. By then, the dramas of her life will no longer entertain me and, besides, I’ll have grown bored of the Thames too. My old bones will ache from the damp, and the creaking and bumping will keep me up at night. Then I shall buy a small château in France and retire to obscurity, fame having become a bore too.” She sucked in her cheeks and grinned at Fitz. But Fitz was no longer listening, although it was his job to.

  “Do you think they pay for it?” he said, putting his hands on the railing and looking down into the muddy water of the Thames. Beside him, Sprout, his old springer spaniel, lay sleeping on a blanket.

  “Certainly not!” she retorted. “Her father owns the boat. She’s not having to fork out twelve pounds a week in rent, I assure you.”

  “Then she’s simply liberated.”

  “Just like everyone else of her generation. Following the herd. It bores me. I was before my time, Fitzroy. I took lovers and smoked cannabis long before the Albas of this world knew of the existence of either. Now I prefer bog standard Silva Thins and celibacy. I’m fifty, too old to be a slave to fashion. It’s all so frivolous and childish. Better to set my mind on higher things. You may be a good ten years younger than me, Fitzroy, but I can tell the world of fashion bores you too.”

  “I don’t think Alba would bore me.”

  “But you, my dear, would bore her, eventually. You might think you’re a swaggering Lothario, Fitzroy, but you’d meet your match in Alba. She isn’t like other girls. I’m not saying you’d have trouble bedding her, but keeping her, now that’s a very different story. She likes variety. Her lovers don’t last long. I’ve seen them come and go. It’s always the same, they skip up the gangplank; then, when it’s all over, they plod off like ill-treated mongrels. She’d have you for dinner then spit you out like a chicken bone, and that would be a shock, wouldn’t it, darling? I bet no one’s ever done that to you before. It’s called karma. What goes around, comes around. Pay you back for breaking so many hearts. Anyway, at your age, you should be looking for your third wife, not a transitory thrill. You should be settling down. Set your heart on one woman and keep it there. She’s fiery because she’s half Italian.”

  “Ah, that explains the dark hair and honey skin.”

  Viv looked at him askance and her thin lips extended into an even thinner smile.

  “But those very pale eyes, strange…” He sighed, no longer noticing the taste of cheap wine.

  “Her mother was Italian. She died when Alba was born. In a car crash, I think. Has a horrid stepmother and a bore for a father. Navy, you know. Still there, the old fossil. Has had the same desk job since the war, I suspect. Commutes every day, very dreary. Captain Thomas Arbuckle, and he’s definitely a Thomas and not a Tommy. Not like you, who are more of a Fitz than a Fitzroy, though I do love the name Fitzroy and shall continue to use it regardless. No wonder Alba rebelled.”

  “Her father might be a bore, but he’s a rich bore.” Fitz ran his eyes over the shiny wooden houseboat that gently rocked from the motion of the tide. Or from Alba’s lovemaking. The thought made his stomach cramp competitively.

  “Money doesn’t bring happiness. You should know that, Fitzroy.”

  Fitz stared into his glass a moment, reflecting on his own fortune that had brought him only avaricious wives and expensive divorces.

  “Does she live alone?”

  “She used to live with one of her half sisters, but it didn’t work out. I can’t imagine the girl’s easy to live with, God bless her. The trouble with you, Fitzroy, is that you fall in love much too easily. If you could keep control of your heart, life would be a lot simpler for you. You could just bed her and get her out of your system. Ah, about time too! You’re late!” she exclaimed as her nephew Wilfrid hurried down the pontoon with his girlfriend Georgia in tow, full of apologies. Viv could be quite fearsome when they showed up late for bridge.

  The Valentina was a houseboat unlike any other on Cheyne Walk. The curve of the prow was pretty, upturned, coy as if she were trying to contain a knowing smile. The house itself was painted blue and white with round windows and a balcony where pots spilled over with flowers in springtime and leaks let in the rain during the winter months. Like a face that betrays the life it has lived, so the eccentric dip in the line of the roof and the charming slope of the bow, like a rather imperious nose, revealed that perhaps she had lived many lives. The overriding characteristic of the Valentina, therefore, was her mystery. Like a grande dame who would never be seen without her makeup, the Valentina would not reveal what lay beneath her paint. Her mistress, however, loved her not for her unusual features, or her charm or indeed her uniqueness. Alba Arbuckle loved her boat for a very different reason.

  “God, Alba, you’re beautiful!” Rupert sighed, burying his face in her softly perfumed neck. “You taste of sugared almonds.” Alba giggled, thinking him absurd, but unable to resist the sensation of his bristles that scratched and tickled and his hand that had already found its way past her blue suede clog boots and up her Mary Quant skirt. She wriggled with pleasure and lifted her chin.

  “Don’t talk, you fool. Kiss me.”

  This he did, determined to please her. He was heartened that she had suddenly come alive in his arms after a sulky supper in Chelsea. He pressed his lips to hers, relieved that as long as he entertained her tongue she couldn’t use it to abuse him. Alba had a way of saying the most hurtful things through the sweetest, most beguiling, smile. And yet, those pale gray eyes of hers, like a moor on a misty winter morning, aroused a strange kind of pity that was disarming. Drew a man in. Made him yearn to protect her. To love her was easy, to keep her unlikely. But along with the other hopefuls who walked the well-trodden deck of the Valentina, he couldn’t help but try.

  Alba opened her eyes as he unbuttoned her blouse and took a nipple in his mouth. She looked up through the skylight to wispy pink clouds and the first twinkle of a star. Overwhelmed by the unexpected beauty of the dying day she momentar
ily let down her guard and her spirit was at once filled with sadness. It flooded her being and brought tears to those pale gray eyes, tears that stung. Her loneliness gnawed and ached, and nothing seemed to cure it. Appalled by the ill timing of such weakness she wound her legs around her lover and rolled over so that she sat on top, kissing and biting and clawing him like a wild cat. Rupert was stunned but more excited than ever. He eagerly ran his hands up her naked thighs to discover she wore no pants. Her buttocks lay smooth and exposed for him to caress with impatient fingers. Then he was inside her and she was riding him vigorously, as if aware only of the pleasure and not of the man who was providing it. Rupert gazed upon her in awe, longing to put his mouth to her lips that were slightly parted and bruised. She looked wanton and yet, in spite of her lack of inhibition, she possessed a vulnerability that made him yearn to hold her close.

  Soon Rupert’s thoughts were lost in the excitement of their lovemaking. He closed his eyes and surrendered to his desire, no longer lucid enough to contemplate her lovely face. They writhed and rolled over the piles of discarded clothes on the bed until they exploded onto the floor with a thud, out of breath and laughing. She looked at his surprised face with eyes that shone and said with a throaty chuckle, “What did you expect? The Virgin Mary?”

  “That was wonderful. You’re an angel,” he sighed, kissing her forehead. She raised her eyebrows and laughed at him.

  “I do think you’re absurd, Rupert. God would throw me out of Heaven for misbehaving.”

  “Then that is not the Heaven for me.”

  Suddenly her attention was diverted by a brown scroll of paper that had been dislodged from between the wooden slats under the bed. She couldn’t reach from where she was lying, so she pushed Rupert away and crawled around to the other side. She stretched her arm beneath the bed.

  “What is it?” he asked, blinking at her through a postcoital daze.