She continued to watch him. Her pale eyes obviously disconcerted him. Judging by his sudden diffidence he clearly wasn’t a pouncer, she thought, cheering up. She wasn’t in the mood for a pouncer. He stole another quick glance at her before walking to the back of the plane. She huffed grumpily and folded her arms. Before she had a chance to size up the rest of the passengers, a large, swollen man, a pyramid of blubber, fell into the seat beside her.
“Do you mind,” she said haughtily.
The man apologized in a thin, reedy voice and tried unsuccessfully to squeeze himself into a small person.
Alba huffed. “They should make special seats for people like you,” she said, without smiling.
“I suppose they should.”
He extracted a white hanky from his trouser pocket, with some difficulty, and wiped his forehead. Sweaty too, she thought in distaste. Just my bloody luck. He strapped himself in and Alba thought it miraculous that the airline made seat-belts big enough. How very inconsiderate of him to be so fat, she thought meanly. He’s obviously a very greedy man. She wondered whether the handsome Italian was still thinking of her and wishing that he had been lucky enough to sit next to her. Anything would have been better than Fatman, she mused crossly. She turned to face the window in order to make it quite clear that she had no wish to engage in conversation. When he opened a book she felt it was safe to read Vogue.
She absorbed herself in the fashion pages of her favorite magazine, forgetting about Fitz and Italy for a while, focusing instead on the pictures of girls in hotpants and boots. She lit a cigarette regardless that Fatman began to wheeze beside her like an old steam engine. When the trays of food were handed out she was appalled that he took one and tucked into the bread roll without so much as a thought for the pounds he was piling on.
“You know you shouldn’t eat so much,” she said, tapping him on the hand. “You’ll just get bigger and then seats on airplanes will be the least of your worries.”
Fatman suddenly looked crestfallen and stared miserably down at the white roll and butter in his fingers, while Alba returned to her own food and Vogue. He put down the roll and swallowed the ball of anguish that had lodged itself in his throat.
Finally they touched down in Naples. It seemed a small airport, though it was too dark to see much of it. Alba’s travel agent had booked her into a hotel in the city. The following morning she would take a train to Sorrento and then a boat to Incantellaria. She was relieved to stand up and stretch her legs. Fatman made way for her but she was too busy searching for the handsome Italian to thank him.
She saw him inside the airport while they both waited for their luggage. After catching his eye a couple of times she decided to be a little more encouraging. She smiled before lowering her gaze coyly. It didn’t take long for him to get the message and stride up to talk to her. As he approached, she appraised him appreciatively. He was tall with broad shoulders and light brown hair that fell over a wide, angular face. His eyes were pale green and deep set. As he grinned, the crow’s feet darkened into his temples giving him a humorous, insouciant air.
“I see that you are alone,” he said in English. She liked his accent; it sounded wonderfully exotic after a lifetime of English ones.
“Yes, I am,” she replied, grinning at him. “I’ve never been to Italy before.”
“Then welcome to my country.”
“Thank you.” She tilted her head to one side. “Do you live in Naples?”
“No, I’m here on business. I live in Milan.” He looked her up and down without trying to hide his admiration. “You’re staying in a hotel?”
“Yes, the Miramare.”
“What a coincidence. So am I.”
“Are you?”
“I always stay there. It’s one of the nicest hotels in the city. We can share a taxi. As it’s your first time in Italy you will allow me to be your host and take you out for dinner.”
Alba was scarcely able to believe her luck. “I would love that. After all, what is a girl to do in Naples all on her own?”
“My name is Alessandro Favioli.” He extended his hand.
“Alba Arbuckle,” she replied. “It doesn’t have the same ring to it as yours. My parents obviously didn’t think very hard about how the words would sound together. My mother was Italian.”
“She must have been very beautiful.”
Alba smiled, recalling the portrait. “She was.”
“What are you here for? You don’t look like a tourist.”
“Certainly not! I’m going to Incantellaria.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t tell me. You’re going there too!”
He laughed. “No. But I know of it. A magical place, so I’m told. Full of ridiculous miracles and strange supernatural phenomena.”
“Really? Like what?”
“Well, apparently, one day just after the war, the townspeople awoke to find the beach covered in pink carnations. Then the tide came in and washed them away.”
“Do you believe it?”
“Oh, I believe it happened. But I don’t believe the sea brought them all in. Some sly joker was probably having a laugh. The funny thing is the local priest declared it a miracle. That is Italy for you. Especially Naples. It is full of saints who bleed. We are rather top-heavy with regards to religion.”
“Well, I’m not at all religious so they’ll probably cast me into the sea.”
Once again he looked her up and down with his lazy gaze. “I don’t think so, Alba. They’ll probably sanctify you and fashion you in marble.”
They shared a taxi to the hotel. Alba liked his good manners in opening the door for her and helping her in and out. She showered in her room and changed into a simple black dress, before meeting him downstairs in the lobby. She laughed as he kissed her hand. He smelled strongly of lemon cologne and his hair was still wet.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied graciously, suddenly realizing that she hadn’t thought of Fitz since leaving England. I think I’m going to like Italy, she mused. “Are all Italians as charming as you?” she said out loud.
“No, of course not. If they were, all the women of Europe would live in Italy.”
“That’s good. I like to feel I have something that is unique.”
“So do I, which is why I noticed you on the plane.”
“Shame we weren’t sitting together. I was squashed up against the window by a big, greedy, fat man.”
“Thirteen is not a lucky number.”
“No, but I’ve been rather lucky since, haven’t I?” She grinned at him with her characteristic arrogance and he seemed to fall, as they all did, into her strange, pale eyes.
They dined in a small restaurant on the waterfront, overlooking the sea and the castle of Sant’ Elmo. He didn’t want to talk about himself. He asked her about her life in England.
“My father is rich and spoils me rotten,” she said. “But I have a ghastly stepmother who raises pigs and rides horses. She has a big bottom and a big voice that she uses for bossing people about. My half brother and sisters are conventional and hearty, the result, I’m afraid, of an uninspiring union.”
He found her amusing and laughed at most of the things she said. She noticed, as he smoked over a cup of coffee, that he wore a simple gold wedding band on the third finger of his left hand. It didn’t bother her; in fact, it delighted her. She liked to think that she had the power to lure a man away from his wife.
They chose to walk back to the hotel so that Alba could see a little of Naples. It was a hot, sticky night. The air was still and heavy. Alba admired the narrow streets, the pretty pale houses with iron balconies and shutters, the ornate moldings that gave them character and charm. The city had come alive with music, laughter, cars, horns, and the aroma of good Italian food. The sharp, staccato voice of a mother berating her child soared above the rise and fall of engines, like the cry of a bird against the roar of the sea. Dark-skinned men stood talking in
the alleyways, their eyes on the women who walked by. Although they didn’t wolf-whistle at her, she could feel their eyes undressing her, peeling her naked layer by layer. She knew she was protected by Alessandro and was thankful she wasn’t having to walk through the city alone. She rode London like a docile pony; Naples, on the other hand, was like an uncontrollable rodeo horse and it unnerved her.
They arrived at the hotel and Alessandro didn’t wait to be invited to her room. He followed her up in the lift and along the corridor. “You’re pretty sure of yourself,” she said. But her smile told him that he was right to be so.
“I want to make love to you,” he murmured. “After all, I’m only a man.”
“I suppose you are.” She sighed in sympathy and turned the key in the lock.
Before she had time to switch on the light, he had swung her around and was kissing her ardently on her surprised mouth. For the first time since their breakup she was sufficiently distracted to fend off comparisons with Fitz. She didn’t think about him at all. Alessandro, consumed with lust, pressed her against the wall and buried his face in her neck. She smelled his lemon cologne that had now mellowed with the natural scent of his skin, and felt his rough bristles against her flesh.
He ran his hands up her legs to her hips. His touch was strong and masterful, taking her breath with each stroke. He fell to his knees and lifted her dress to her waist so that he could kiss and lick her naked belly with his tongue. She was allowed no control. Every time she attempted to reclaim a little lost ground he withdrew her hands and buried his head further into her flesh, giving her such shivers of delight that she soon gave up the battle and succumbed.
They made love five times, finishing in a heap of exhaustion on the bed. They slept draped over one another, though the intimacy had gone. The excitement of the chase was over and Alba knew, even in her sleep, that she would have to dismiss him coldly in the morning.
She didn’t dream of Fitz. She didn’t dream of anything. But when she woke, she was sure that she was still within the realm of fantasy, for she didn’t recognize the room. Streams of light filtered in through the gaps in the shutters. The sound of the city outside penetrated the sleepy silence of her room, although it seemed very far away. She blinked and oriented herself. As usual, she had had too much to drink. Her head ached and her limbs felt as if they had been given the most strenuous workout. Then she remembered Alessandro and she smiled inwardly at the memory of the devilish Italian she had met at the airport. She turned, fully expecting to see him in her bed, but it was empty. She listened for a noise in the bathroom, but the door was ajar and the light was off. He was gone. Just as well, she thought. She hated it when they outstayed their welcome. She was a physical wreck. The last thing she needed was to make love again.
She looked at the clock beside the bed. It was still early. She didn’t have to be at the station until ten. She had time for a shower and breakfast. On second thought, she’d order room service. She didn’t want to bump into him in the dining room.
After her shower, during which she washed off the scent of lemon, she dressed and packed her bag. As she looked at her reflection in the mirror, she recalled the excitement of the night before. Alessandro had been good for her. He had at least put a plaster across her broken heart and mended it temporarily. He had taken her thoughts away from Fitz to a more exotic world of adventure, where she was free to be whoever she chose, in a place where no one knew her. In a moment of enthusiasm she decided she would telephone Alessandro’s room and thank him. After all, he had given her an enormous amount of pleasure. Perhaps they could breakfast together; then, at least, she wouldn’t have to eat alone.
She called reception. “I would like to be connected with Alessandro Favioli,” she demanded in a haughty voice. There was a pause while the receptionist looked in the book.
“Alessandro Favioli,” repeated Alba. God, they don’t even understand their own language, she thought irritably.
“I’m afraid there is no one by the name of Favioli in this hotel.”
“Well of course there is. I dined with him last night.”
“No Signore Favioli.”
“Look again. We arrived together yesterday evening, then returned together after dinner. Surely you saw him.”
“I was not on duty last night,” the receptionist informed her coldly.
“Well, ask your colleague. I didn’t dream him up, you know.”
“Do you know which room he is in?” The receptionist was getting impatient.
“Of course not, that’s why I’m calling you!” Alba retorted. “Maybe he’s checked out.”
The woman repeated herself with forced politeness. “There was no one by the name of Favioli in this hotel. I’m sorry.”
Alba suddenly felt sick. On reflection, it did seem too much of a coincidence that he had booked into the same hotel. He hadn’t invited her back to his room, either. At the time she hadn’t thought it strange at all, but now it did seem a little odd. With a suspended heart, she opened her handbag and shuffled around for her wallet. This has got to be a joke, she thought, feeling as if she were swimming against a strong current. The wallet wasn’t in her bag. She swallowed hard, desperately turning the bag upside down so that all the contents tumbled onto the bed. She was relieved to find her passport still there, but no money. He had taken her wallet containing all her travelers’ cheques and lire. How the hell was she going to pay the hotel bill, train, let alone the boatman to take her to Incantellaria?
She sank onto the bed. The bastard. He used me, then robbed me. He had it all worked out, the shit. And I fell for it like a fool. She felt too angry to cry and too embarrassed to telephone anyone in England to admit her stupidity. She’d simply have to work it out for herself.
As she wasn’t intending to pay the bill, she thought she’d at least go and enjoy a good breakfast. Besides, she’d need to eat as much as she could now for she had no money for food later. She’d steal a few bread rolls from the buffet.
Downstairs, she greeted the receptionist in the most friendly tone she could muster and strode confidently into the dining room. She sat down at a small table in the middle of the room, and ordered coffee, orange juice, croissants, toast, and fruit salad. While she watched the other guests, she began to feel increasingly alone. She had no friends in Italy. No one at all. What if her family had moved away from Incantellaria? What if she were chasing a rainbow? She had no money. It would take a few days to get it wired to the bank in Incantellaria. She wasn’t prepared to hang around in Naples in case she bumped into Alessandro again. She remembered the sinister-looking men who had leered at her in the dark alleyways the night before and suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable. He might just as well have robbed her of her clothes, she felt so naked and lost.
Suddenly, to her enormous relief, she spotted Fatman sitting alone at the other end of the dining room. With a wave of affection for the person she had previously thought beneath contempt, she swept over to his table. She didn’t notice the look of horror that crossed his features when he laid eyes on her. He looked down at his bread roll, already buttered and dripping with strawberry jam, and tried to hide it under his pudgy hand. She sat down and put her elbows on the table.
“I hope you don’t mind if I join you,” she said in the sweetest voice she could manage. She looked up at him with big doe eyes. “I’ve been robbed. An Italian man has stolen everything. My money, my clothes, my passport, my ticket home. Everything. You’re the only person I know in the whole of Italy. In the whole of Europe, in fact. Could I be so bold as to ask you the hugest favor? Could I borrow some money off you? Just enough to get me to Incantellaria? I’ll take your address and pay you back with interest. I’d be so grateful.” She smiled at him and added, “Don’t stop eating on my account.”
Fatman considered his position for a long moment. Suddenly, in a violent gesture that caused Alba to shrink in horror, he stuffed the entire roll into his mouth. She gasped, trying not to show her disgust, as
he chewed it slowly and deliberately, butter seeping between his lips and dribbling on to the stairway of chins that descended from his mouth. Finally, he wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Delicious!” he exclaimed. “I must order more!”
Alba’s hopes slowly began to deflate. She recalled with shame that she had not only been rude to him on the plane, but unforgivably offensive. Why should he do anything for her? “It’s okay,” she stammered, feeling tearful. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“You shouldn’t pick up strange men at airports,” he said, gaining confidence. “Being robbed is the least of your worries.”
Alba’s mouth hung open. “I’m sorry?”
“You heard me. What do you expect? Have you no sense of decorum or are you as easy with every man who offers to pay for your dinner? In fact,” he said, clearly enjoying humiliating her, “if you suck my cock I’ll pay for your flight home!” Alba recoiled, struggled to her feet and hurried out of the dining room as fast as her shaking legs could carry her.
Back in her room, she exploded in fury, kicking the bed and the cupboard and anything else she could attack with her foot. How rude! How ungallant! How could he?
Self-pity didn’t suit her. She pulled herself up and dusted herself off. Fury and revenge were as always her best options. She couldn’t pay the bill and she had no one to do it for her. There was only one thing to do. When in doubt, flee.
She dragged her bag down the corridor, took the lift to the first floor then searched for a suitable window. Finding one in a dark corner where the light bulb had expired, she threw her bag into the back street below, then jumped down after it. She didn’t stop running until she reached the station.
Last Voyage of the Valentina Page 21