Last Voyage of the Valentina Page 4

  “She’s very cruel and stupid,” Viv said venomously, patting Alba’s hand, “to be jealous of a dead woman.” Alba’s strange pale eyes welled with tears again and Viv felt the gentle tug of the mother in her. Alba was twenty-six, but a large part of her had never grown up. Beneath the self-confidence was a child just wanting to be loved. Viv handed her a tissue. “Now, darling, what are you going to do about it?”

  “There’s nothing I can do,” Alba replied miserably.

  “Oh, there’s always something one can do. Remember, God only helps those who help themselves. I have a friend who might be able to help you,” she continued, narrowing her eyes. “If there’s a man capable of charming his way into someone else’s business, it’s Fitzroy Davenport.”

  3

  F itz spent a fitful night dreaming of Alba, and when he woke in the morning her face was emblazoned on his memory. He lay in bed, heartened by the white beam of sunlight that streamed in through the gap in the curtains, enjoying her features all over again. Her oval face and large sensual mouth. He hated to think of the men who had kissed those lips and swiftly moved on to her unusually pale eyes. They were deep set, framed by black feathery lashes and rather heavy eyebrows but the shadows around them, not on the skin but somehow there, in the hollow, gave her a haunted look. The way she walked had aroused him too. Those long legs in boots. The smooth length of thigh before the little skirt only just protected her modesty. The confident manner in which she walked. The “young colt” cliché that Viv thankfully avoided in her novels. Then she had been so unforgivably rude. But her smile, with that crooked tooth, had been so beguiling it was as if she had poured warm honey onto his skin and licked it off with one delicious flick of her tongue.

  He heard Sprout downstairs in the kitchen and sighed. He did not want to get up. He tried to think of an excuse to visit Viv’s houseboat again, just on the off chance that he might encounter Alba. Perhaps he could telephone her on the pretext of discussing an up-and-coming foreign deal, a possible publicity tour in France—the French loved her books—or recent sales figures. Viv was easy to please, as long as she talked about herself, and today he was very much in the mood for listening. He leaned over to pick up the telephone just as it rang. “Bugger!” he muttered and lifted the receiver.

  “Good morning, darling,” came Viv’s cheerful voice. Fitz’s spirits rose and soared to the ceiling.

  “Darling,” he breathed. “I was just going to telephone you myself!”

  “Oh? What about? Something good, I hope.”

  “Of course, Viv. You’re my star client, you know that.”

  “Well, don’t keep me guessing.”

  “The French want you to do a tour. Your public demand to see you,” he lied, biting his cheek. It doesn’t matter, he thought, I’ll swing it later.

  Viv’s voice rose in tone and she clipped her consonants with even more emphasis than usual. “Oh, darling, that’s tremendous. Of course, one must do one’s duty. One mustn’t keep one’s public waiting. After all, I need them as much as they need me.”

  “Great, I’ll get on to them this morning.” He paused as Viv took a sharp intake of breath; he imagined her dragging on a Silva Thin in her purple kitchen. “What did you want to talk to me about?” he asked, hopeful of an invitation.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot.” In the shadow of Fitz’s news Alba had paled into insignificance. “Come for supper tonight. I have a job for you. I think you’ll enjoy it. A certain damsel in distress needs a knight in shining armor to rescue her from a ghoul of a stepmother and a walrus of a father. It’s right up your street and besides, you fancy her, don’t you? Just don’t fall in love, Fitzroy.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said, his voice hoarse with excitement.

  Viv rolled her heavily made-up eyes and put down the receiver. She didn’t think she was doing him any favors in the long run. It was all going to end in tears.

  Alba awoke to a terrible emptiness. She rose and made a cup of tea. There was nothing to eat in the fridge, only half a pint of milk, a couple of bottles of wine, and rows of nail varnishes. It was a chilly morning and she was cold in spite of the paraffin stoves. She wrapped her dressing gown about her and rubbed her eyes, yawning loudly. She’d do a bit of shopping to cheer herself up and perhaps lunch with Rupert, who worked for an estate agent in Mayfair. Maybe he could take the afternoon off and they could roll around in bed until dusk. He was just what she required to lift her depression and make her feel good about herself. He had made love with great tenderness as well as enthusiasm and was exceptionally good at it. No fumbling and heavy breathing; she hated that, and she hated grabbers too. Rupert didn’t grab and so far he hadn’t pestered her with telephone calls either. He was simply there when she needed him and she felt better for his company.

  She was about to telephone him when there was a heavy knock on the door. She recognized it immediately and smiled. It was Harry Reed, also known as “Reed of the River.” In his stiff blue uniform and cap he patrolled the Thames as part of the River Police. Besides stopping off every now and then for a cup of coffee, he had warmed her bed on more than one occasion. However, his rough loving was not what she needed today. “Hello,” she said, poking her head around the door. Harry was tall and willowy, like a bulrush, with soft brown eyes and a wide, cheeky smile on a handsome, though slightly coarse, face.

  “I’d forgotten what you look like in the morning,” he said longingly, taking his cap off and holding it in his large, calloused hands.

  “Is that why you’ve come knocking on my door?”

  “Do you have time for a cup of coffee with a cold policeman? At least you know you’ll be safe!” He had said that before and laughed at it, too heartily.

  “I’m afraid I don’t, Harry. Sorry. I’m in a bit of a hurry. I have an appointment,” she lied. “Why don’t you pass by tonight, before dinner?” Harry’s eyes shone in the cold and he put his cap back on, rubbing his hands together happily.

  “I’ll pop in for a drink at the end of the day. I’ll be meeting the boys in the Star and Garter after my shift, perhaps you’d like to come along?”

  Alba remembered Viv’s invitation to dinner with Fitzroy what’s-his-name and had to decline, although she rather enjoyed sitting in the fug with the off-duty police in their blue pullovers.

  “Not tonight, Harry.”

  “I’ll take you for a ride sometime. Do you remember when I had to drop you off at Chelsea Reach? The sergeant would have had my guts for garters if I’d been caught.”

  “That was fun,” she agreed, recalling the exhilarating feeling of the wind raking through her hair. “I’ll try to keep out of sight, though I might like your sergeant.”

  “He’d certainly like you, Alba.” They all do, she thought. Sometimes it was wearisome being so adored.

  “A drink then?” he confirmed, not wanting her to forget.

  “If you’re lucky and I feel like it.” She smiled at him, revealing her crooked tooth. He seemed to wilt with pleasure.

  “You’re one in a million, Alba.”

  “As you keep reminding me, Harry.”

  “See you tonight, then.” And he climbed back into his launch and sped off up the Thames, waving his cap at her with gusto.

  Alba went shopping. She bought a shirt and flares at Escapade on the Brompton Road for £14 and a pair of shoes at the Chelsea Cobbler for £5 before making her way by taxi up to Mayfair for lunch with Rupert. Rupert was barely able to conceal his delight, having worried that he had bored her. He hadn’t expected to hear from her again. To his frustration he had a client to see in the afternoon, so they parted at two and Alba was left to brood in the park while Rupert showed people around houses in Bayswater, imagining a honey-colored Alba lying in every bed he looked at.

  Bored of the park and tired of traipsing around shops, Alba went home on the bus for entertainment. She no longer noticed people staring at her loveliness and glowered at men who tried to chat her up, but it was more amusing than ta
king a cab and it took up more time. She enjoyed watching people, listening to their conversations, imagining how they lived. She looked forward to dinner at Viv’s and to Reed of the River dropping by for a drink. It didn’t occur to her that her life was empty. She had friends and she took lovers whenever she needed company at night. She didn’t analyze her existence or try to fill her days with something worthwhile, she just muddled through. Besides, nothing inspired her. Not like Viv, who had a hunger for life, eating away the time with hours at her typewriter producing books that reflected her enthusiasm (some would say cynicism) for people and their foibles. Alba didn’t yearn for marriage and children, although she was twenty-six and “getting on” as Viv was apt to remind her. She didn’t think about the future. She didn’t realize that she avoided it out of fear, because it was empty.

  Alba was wrapped in a towel, having had a bath and washed her hair, and was painting flowers on her toenails when Reed of the River’s launch motored up. In his keenness he was early. He smelled heavily of aftershave and had slicked his hair back with a wet comb. He looked handsome and Alba was pleased to see him. She didn’t need to show him where the drinks were and he went straight ahead and poured them both a glass of wine. She noticed his eyes creeping up beneath her towel and shifted her position defensively. She wasn’t in the mood and, besides, she had a dinner date. Having painted the last nail, she sat back on the sofa to let them dry.

  “Revel found an arm in the river this afternoon,” said Harry, settling comfortably into a chair, stretching his long legs in front of him, making himself at home.

  “How disgusting,” Alba gasped, scrunching up her pretty nose. “What happened to the rest of him?”

  “That’s the mystery, isn’t it,” he replied importantly. “It’s our job to find out.”

  “Was it an old arm or a new one?”

  “Old, I think. Pretty rotten I can tell you. The stench! I don’t want to give you nightmares, though of course there’s a cure for that!” He raised an eyebrow which Alba ignored.

  “Perhaps it’s the remains of a tortured Elizabethan courtier. You’ll find the head next,” she said with a laugh.

  “Have you been to Tower Bridge? It’s quite a thing to have a piece of history like that bang in the center of the city!” Alba hadn’t been to Tower Bridge and, as for history, well, she didn’t care for it. What was the point of discussing dead people one had never known? The only history she was interested in was her own.

  “About the head, it’ll pop up when you least expect it,” she said.

  “Or when you least expect it,” he added with a chuckle, running his eyes up her legs again. Alba wondered how Viv would react to an old dismembered head bobbing off the side of her boat and smiled as she contemplated sending it to the Buffalo in a cardboard box.

  “If you find it, let me know,” she said with a smirk.

  They continued to chat while Alba wandered upstairs to change for dinner. There was no door to close on him, for the bedroom and bathroom were built on a landing where one side was a balustrade overlooking the stairwell and corridor that led into the sitting room. It was getting late and Harry had been there for some time. She chose a pair of Zandra Rhodes hot pants, which she wore with boots and a cashmere sweater patched in calico. When Harry appeared at the top of the stairs, glass in hand and a lascivious glint in his eye, Alba was carefully applying black eyeliner in the mirror.

  “Don’t creep up on me like that,” she complained grumpily.

  “I want you,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “Oh, Harry, please. I’m going out for dinner. Besides, I’ve put my clothes on. You don’t expect me to take them all off again, do you?”

  “Oh, go on, Alba,” he encouraged, coming up behind her and kissing her neck where her hair was still wet and tangled.

  “All I can think of is that arm in the water, Harry. It’s the least romantic thought I’ve had for some time.”

  Harry wished he hadn’t mentioned it. She finished the eyeliner and turned on the hair drier, blowing Harry onto the bed, where he draped himself mournfully.

  “Just a quickie, lovely. Keep me going in the cold.” He grinned mischievously and Alba couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t their fault she was so desirable.

  She finished drying her hair and walked over to the bed, where she lay with him a while, kissing. It felt nice to be held. Reed of the River was another shelter where she could take refuge. When he ran his hands over her thighs she moved away.

  “I think you had better go now, Harry.”

  “Who are you having dinner with tonight?” he asked, not bothering to hide his jealousy. “I hope it’s not a man.”

  “My neighbor, Viv.”

  “The writer?”

  “The writer.”

  “Well, that’s all right, then. Don’t want you to get into trouble. It’s my job to protect you.”

  “And the rest of London—from floating limbs,” she said with a laugh, kissing him again and pushing him out of the door.

  To Harry’s horror, while he had been enjoying an illicit glass of wine while still on duty, the tide had gone out leaving him marooned. He gazed in disbelief as his launch shuffled about like a beached whale, unable to break free, while a couple of ducks swam by, quacking in amusement.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed, suddenly losing his sense of humor. “I’m garters.”

  At that moment, Fitz walked down the pontoon. This time he had brought his own wine. Two bottles of good Italian red. He wore a jacket over a green and white patterned shirt and his sandy hair bounced about in the wind. The moment he saw Alba and the policeman standing on the deck of her boat, he felt his gut knot with jealousy. Her hand on his arm suggested their intimacy and Fitz wondered whether they had just climbed out of bed. Viv had said she had tons of lovers. As his mouth twisted into a grimace she turned and waved, flashing him the most charming smile. Did she remember him from the evening before? To his annoyance he found himself beaming back and raised the wine.

  “Don’t be long,” he shouted, “or it’ll all be gone!”

  “My friend’s got himself into a bit of bother,” she replied, beckoning him over. She explained that Harry was stuck in the mud. “He’s like a dear old walrus, heaving on the beach,” she said, throwing her chin up and laughing. Fitz recalled Viv’s having described her father in a similar fashion and dropped his shoulders with relief. Surely no woman would refer to a lover like that. Harry was not amused. He felt humiliated and irritated because Alba hadn’t said a man was also coming to dinner.

  As the three of them discussed what to do, another patrol launch motored up containing a very severe-looking man scowling beneath his navy cap. Harry visibly shrank.

  “Well, well, well, what’s going on here then?”

  “I’m grounded,” Harry replied and was on the point of trying to explain why he’d been there in the first place, when Alba interrupted.

  “Sergeant, how fortunate that you should arrive at this very moment.” The sergeant straightened up at the sight of Alba’s hotpants and boots and his face softened into an expression of concern. “My husband and I are so grateful to PC Reed.” She placed her arm around Fitz’s waist. Fitz suddenly felt very hot. “You see, I’m sure I saw a head, yes, a head, I swear it. Without a body. Bobbing about just there.” She pointed into the brown water. She raised her eyes to the sergeant and did her best to look frightened. “It was most distressing, as you can imagine. A head without a body.”

  “I’ll have the team come and check it out, Mrs….” Alba realized she did not know Fitzroy’s surname.

  “Davenport,” interjected Fitz, unprompted. “Mr. Davenport. I’ll be most grateful if you would. I don’t wish my wife to come across it again.”

  “Of course, Mr. Davenport.” He cast his eyes to Harry’s pitiful launch. “I’ll take PC Reed with me in my launch and send him back when the tide’s in. Leave it to me.”

  “I most certainly will, and with the greatest confidence
. Now I wish to take my wife out for dinner. Very nice to meet you, Sergeant and PC…” He stammered on purpose.

  “Reed,” said Harry grudgingly.

  “Of course, and thank you.” With that he drew Alba away, leaving Reed of the River to the mercy of his sergeant.

  As they motored off, the sergeant turned to Harry and said with a knowing nod, “Beautiful girl. Damn lucky she’s married to a strong man or she’d get into an awful lot of trouble.” Harry watched helplessly as she disappeared into her neighbor’s boat with Fitz.

  Viv had donned a turban of old, Indian silk for the occasion. She sat wearing a sky blue caftan, smoking through an elegant ebony holder, her red nails so long it was a wonder they managed the keys of her typewriter. With her blond hair hidden from sight, her face looked much older, the makeup dry and caked into the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. However, her features came alive when Fitz and Alba walked through the door and her cheeks glowed a natural pink.

  “Come on in, darlings,” she said languorously, waving at them and indicating that they should make themselves at home. “What a rumpus you two were making out there. I see old Reedy’s stuck in the mud. I’d like to have watched him squirm his way out of that one.” She cackled and took a slow drag of her cigarette.

  Fitz was nervous, being in the company of the woman he had watched and dreamed about. He perched on the orange velvet sofa as if he were at a job interview, and fiddled with his fingers. Alba flopped onto the pile of brightly colored silk cushions piled on the floor, curling her legs under her, and lit up. She watched Fitz with her strange pale eyes, wondering how he was going to solve her problem. The boat smelled heavily of incense. Viv had lit candles and placed them in vibrant glass cups around the small sitting room. The lights were dimmed and music played softly. Alba watched him through the smoke. He was attractive in a very aristocratic way: intelligent eyes that sparkled with humor; a wide, infectious smile; a strong chin and jaw line; scruffy, with curly hair the color of hay that obviously hadn’t seen a brush for a long time. She liked his eyes immediately. They were honest, and soft like Demerara sugar but with a generous sprinkling of pepper. She hated men whose kindness made them dull. He obviously wasn’t one of those. Now he just looked anxious and she felt sorry for him. In her company men fell into two categories: the ones who pounced and the ones who were too decent to pounce. Fitz clearly fell into the latter, which she much preferred. So far she had never met a man who fell into the third: the indifferent.