When the Siren Calls (10 page)

“I don’t think you appreciate how serious things are,” he said, referring to his work problems and ignoring his own failure to share them.

“But you are the star man,” she said, in an attempt at conciliation.

“Star man or not, the client is threatening to sue.”

“But that’s Tokyo’s problem, surely, not yours? And you’ve done nothing wrong.”

But her curiosity only inflamed his agitation. “Right and wrong doesn’t come into it. If the client sues then the firm will settle out of court. It will cost millions, and heads will roll. And the buck ultimately stops with me because they are my client.”

“But what if—” she started to argue, but he cut her off.

“But what if nothing, now can we leave it, please.”

She sat now, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, staring ahead as the events of the weekend played on her mind and his heavy breathing and restless shifting scraped at her skin like sandpaper.

Finally, Isobel could bear the silence and the tension no longer. Without warning, she jerked down on the wheel and across the oncoming traffic. The sudden change of direction threw Peter to one side and he grabbed instinctively for the handle above his ear, expecting an imminent collision, as the long and uninterrupted sound of a car horn blaring increased his fear for his life. The front wheel of the vehicle hit a low curb at twenty miles per hour, and Peter’s head went upwards as the car came downwards, and collided painfully with the roof.

“I need a coffee,” announced Isobel, braking hard and bringing the hire car to a jarring halt, and in the process throwing Peter’s torso forward toward the dashboard, and his phone out of his hand. “You can stay here sulking like a spoilt child, or you can come inside. But don’t come if you are going to bring that horse’s face and self-righteous look with you.” And having set her terms, Isobel got out and sent the car door crashing closed with all her force.

Peter had either sat to consider his options or to compose himself, because by the time he came through the café door, entering somewhat sheepishly, or so it seemed to Isobel, she was seated with a coffee before her. A second coffee sat in front of the seat opposite, under the saucer that Isobel, in spite of herself, was forced by habit and good nature to place over it.

“You have already ruined one day in Florence,” said Isobel with a threatening look, “and now you seem determined to ruin another. It’s bad enough driving on these roads in this weather, without having to listen to your silent disapproval.”

Peter was not minded to apologise, but neither did he welcome the prospect of finding himself abandoned at a roadside café, which Isobel looked fully capable of arranging. “This is a fool’s errand in this weather. We should have just cancelled. I’m not even sure the agent will be expecting us to show.”

“Well, we are going to show, and we will look around Bagni di Lucca even if she doesn’t.”

“To what purpose?” asked Peter, “To buy a pig in a poke?”

“No, to enjoy it like normal people. Tourists come from all over the world to see the Garfagnan; it’s famous for its natural beauty, and it’s been a spa town for hundreds of years. Napoleon even had his court there at one time.”

Peter let out a dismissive snort. “Look, Isobel, I am here because you asked me to come. And it’s turned out to be the worst possible time, with everything that’s going on at work.”

“And when won’t things be going on at work? Your clients can live without you, remember that.”

“Yes, but can we live without them?”

“For three days? Yes, I think so. Now get yourself out of whatever doom and despair is gripping you, and let’s give the exercise our best shot.”

Isobel’s assault was not a recipe for lifting his spirits, but Peter decided to show willing nevertheless. And he also had life and limb to think about. “I’ll drive for a while if you like.”

“I have started so I will finish. You can spend the rest of the journey on your precious machine, just be civil when we get there. Please.”

Isobel’s account of the previous day was true to the facts. Florence, in all its beauty and splendour, had been utterly ruined for her by his presence. As she sought to soak in the sun and the culture of her favourite city he scuffed along behind her, complaining about everything and rarely looking up from his hands. He trailed silently around art galleries — more concerned with his screensaver than the paintings — was sullen and introspective when they sat down for lunch, and accidentally dragged his feet through an artist’s chalk painting as they walked along the Ponte Vecchio, leaving Isobel to apologise profusely and to offer a few coins in penitence as he slunk into the shadows to take a call.

Despite the attempt at an armistice in the roadside café, the rest of the journey continued as before. Each car that came too close, or bend that turned too sharply, pushed Isobel closer and closer to a new breaking point. Peter’s eyes darkened and narrowed as the rain grew heavier, the rugged beauty of the Garfagnan obscured by raindrops that coated the windows, falling into one another in playful flirtation, growing and shrinking as they traversed the glass. When they arrived at their destination, the historic town of Bagni di Lucca, scant sign of life was visible; each swipe of the wipers revealing empty streets and dull, colourless rows of houses that bled watery dust into the gutters.

“The god forsaken place is deserted,” announced Peter, indicating what giving it his best shot was going to involve. “Where are the bustling streets and the outside markets? Isn’t that what you told me was a feature of every Italian city, large or small?”

“It’s raining, Peter.”

“I can see that. I suppose the locals have decided it’s too bad to put out the dog, so they’ve decided to do what we should have done, and stay at home.”

“We are here now,” said Isobel, “and the rain seems to be easing.” And as she said it they heard a dog barking.

They were due to meet Sophia, the estate agent that found Maria her villa, in the car park of the Marco Hotel in forty-five minutes, and they had intended to explore the town on foot to pass the time. But despite Isobel’s optimistic forecast, the rain continued to pour and they were confined to the car, like two prisoners in isolation, Isobel watching the forlorn path of the raindrops as Peter glowed in the light of his phone screen.

Sophia was twenty minutes late when she finally arrived, and both Peter and Isobel jumped out of the car in relief at her coming, not even thinking to complain about her tardiness. Sophia was an uninspiring looking woman in her mid-twenties, with hawkish eyes and scraped back hair. She greeted the two warmly enough, but otherwise displayed all the enthusiasm of a funeral director for a cancer cure. The pace of her speech and the curt rapidity of her movements suggested that she viewed them as the worst type of timewasters, her eyes flitting between Peter’s surly face and Isobel’s anxious gaze suggestive of someone who wished she were somewhere else.

“How well do you know the area?” she asked, in a transparent attempt to establish whether the couple before her did have some genuine interest in a holiday home.

“We know several British people with homes here,” said Isobel, feeling a white lie or two was justified. “And I’ve read quite a bit about the area, novels set here, and so on. And we’ve been told now is a good time to buy.” In deference to Peter, Isobel spoke in English, while itching to show off her language skills.

Anytime would be a good time to buy, thought Peter, based on stories of the wholesale flight of Italy’s youth from the hills to the civilisation in the cities below; but only so long as you were never expecting to sell what you bought.

Sophia gave a grudging nod of acknowledgement. “Yes, we have many British here. The weather reminds them of home.” It was a half-hearted attempt at humour, and was greeted with the enthusiasm with which it was delivered.

She gave them a brief itinerary as they climbed into her Fiat Panda; they were to visit some of the scenic villages and hamlets in the spartan hills above Bagni di Lucca before descending back into the town itself to see two or three properties that “might be of interest.” Her mood was polite but sour as they drove into the hills, and was made worse by the continuing drizzle, the only respite from which was the occasional bank of mist and fog encountered on the pot-holed and narrow winding roads.

“I don’t think these roads have been repaired since the roman legions first trod them,” said Peter, offering his own attempt at dry humour to contrast with the wet conditions. “And not much else has been repaired either.” Isobel ignored the comment and strove to lighten the atmosphere, as she had been desperately attempting to do all weekend, making conversation as Peter sat silently staring at the rain.

“So, Sophia, do you live around Bagni di Lucca?”

“God, no,” exclaimed Sophia, without further explanation, as none was needed given the sheeting rain and the spine juddering shocks from the road. But Isobel pressed on regardless, eventually switching to speaking Italian, given Peter’s vacant look of resignation. Sophia took this familiarity to launch into a litany of complaints about everything from her sick mother to the decline of the local olive oil industry, all of which Isobel took to be an encouraging sign. “This country is finished,” Sophia announced by way of conclusion, which Isobel thought was a curious observation from a woman whose livelihood depended on encouraging investment.

Peter’s sullen silence continued largely unabated, but he became more vocal as they reached the villages, finding no charm in the consistently dark, damp, and dilapidated properties that Sophia showed them and, unlike Isobel, feeling more than happy to say so. He initially contented himself with grumbling to Isobel but snapped when Sophia led them into the fifth mildew-ridden apartment and suggested that, “this one might need a bit of doing up.”

“Doing up? More like pulling down!” he responded in exasperation as Isobel hid her face in her hands in embarrassment, cursing herself for thinking this could ever have been a good idea.

Sophia responded with a derisive snort and led them back into the rain, turning to Isobel and saying, “I have more properties to show back down in the centre of the town, but I think perhaps they are not what you are looking for.”

“Are they like these ones then?” Peter asked. “Falling down and inhabited by stray dogs, with neighbours who look like they belong in the village that time forgot?”

Isobel turned to Sophia in apology but she had already retaken her seat at the wheel, remaining silent for the entire journey back as Isobel and Peter argued with angry whispers in the back seat, he adamant that this fool’s errand was her fault and she hating him for his blindness and arrogance.

The rain depleted to a drizzle when they arrived back in the town but this did not stop Sophia from limiting their exploration to just two properties, each, she assured them, boasting views over the River Lima.

Isobel nudged Peter from his phone as they approached the first apartment.

“The whole of Tuscany appears to be in a state of disrepair,” he noted with sagging shoulders, glancing up at the tall blank building before returning to his messages. “I’m beginning to think that the only thing the Italians ever finish is their food.” Isobel stormed inside after Sophia and, determined to like what she saw, scrutinised everything at careful length. Peter, after a perfunctory glance around the lounge and diner area, did not advance more than two steps beyond the apartment entrance and stood in the doorway like a petulant child.

“It is very relaxing to live beside a river,” said Sophia, as the swollen waters crashed below them in the unseasonal rain.

“It would be quieter to live next to the motorway,” snarled Peter.

“Shall we see the next one, Sophia?” asked Isobel with a quiet sigh, her tone flat and angry as she glared at her husband who stared back without repentance.

Sophia, seemingly equally anxious to bring the pain to an early end, signalled that they follow her, and led them back down to the overgrown garden area. As the three surveyed the view over the river, a dog howled miserably in the rain and a flock of bedraggled pigeons rose from the rooftops like sad little balloons. The last apartment, only a five-minute walk away, was more promising, larger and brighter, even in spite of the heavy French curtains that masked the balcony.

A deathly glare from Isobel ensured that they both ventured forth to view the property like serious buyers, encouraged, perhaps, that if time and money were no object, it may have potential. Sophia, briefly encouraged, gestured to the two to move towards the balcony, a miserable jutting stone that, if one was willing to toy with fate, provided a view of the river beneath. Peter exhaled loudly at the prospect and headed for the door, Isobel motioning apologetically in his wake like a mother at the supermarket. As they walked back towards the hotel where Sophia’s car was parked alongside the hire car, it was difficult for either side to know how to bring proceedings to a close. Sophia, for her part, seemed to have already concluded that the Roberts were the last people likely to buy a place in Tuscany, and that the sooner they reached the car park and said arrivederci, the better. But one final hurdle now presented itself, as Isobel’s attention was drawn to a balcony in the building alongside the hotel. Even from where they stood it seemed that it would enjoy direct sunlight, and offered a panoramic view down the Lima valley and over the river. “Maybe something like that apartment would be interesting?” she said, putting to one side the umbrella to point towards the balcony. “Somewhere with an outside terrace or balcony to enjoy the views from…”