When the Siren Calls (18 page)

Isobel kept her eyes downwards, avoiding his gaze.

“I don’t know, the dinner has been arranged a long time.”

“Dallas is more important than Maria,” he said. “We need to get back Sunday.”

“So business over friendship?”

“I’d prefer to call it common sense.”

“Maybe I could stay over,” Isobel suggested, as an argument threatened. “You could drop me at Lucca and continue onto the airport, and Maria can drop me off on Monday?”

Peter glanced at Isobel, and then shrugged. “If that’s what you want to do, sure, no big deal either way.”

They continued the rest of the walk in silence, only assuming smiles and forcing conversation as they came into view of Il Paradiso, from which calm music and polite conversation emanated, dissolving into the buzz of the cicadas.

As they entered the high arched doors of the restaurant, an immaculate waiter ushered them to a circular corner table at which Jay was already sat, the warm and roughly hewn red brick of the walls tinting his brown hair a shade of auburn in the low light. He stood up immediately and shook Peter’s hand first as Isobel’s mind processed the seating options; the three places were set so all were looking away from the wall, into the restaurant, and Jay, curiously, had not secured the centre setting. Even before Jay offered his hand, she placed her bag to secure the centre seat.

“Ah Peter, I’m so glad you made it,” he said. “You’re probably the first real expert on wines to grace this fine establishment.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Peter, in no mood for toady flattery.

Isobel observed her husband’s wry smile and the knowing glint that never left his eye and it made her heart fall into the pit of her stomach. It felt like many years now since Peter had truly lived life, lived it as an emotional experience and not as a series of business transactions. Jay turned his eyes to her as Peter busied himself with the prosecco.

“Isobel,” he said, his voice low, “it’s so lovely to see you again.” He reached out to shake her hand and held it in his for what seemed like hours. She glanced at Peter but all that was manifest in his eyes was that same glint again; no jealousy, no fear, just arrogant assumption that it was all a sales technique. She stubbornly ignored it as she turned her gaze back to Jay and, fuelled by passion and rebellion, allowed herself to be lost in his eyes. She barely saw the sommelier as Jay beckoned him over and asked for his recommendation for the evening, seeing only the strong hand that demanded his attention and the perfect lips that formed his words. A brief discussion between her husband and their host decided the meal and it arrived in seven courses, all well presented on square earthenware plates.

It seemed to Isobel that Peter was determined from the outset to lock horns with Jay like a rutting stag as he assumed the role of inquisitor, whereas Jay was equally determined to make light of every loaded question.

“You are a chartered accountant, I notice, and you qualified with BB&T, but now you don’t practice,” said Peter, challenging Jay to explain his career choices.

“It seems to be the way more and more,” said Jay with a disarming wave of his hands. “Lawyers, doctors, accountants, they qualify and then they run off and pursue their real passion. We must all pursue our passion sooner or later, must we not?” Isobel fancied Jay threw her a furtive glance at the mention of passion.

Peter was not so easily thrown off the scent. “But BB&T are the biggest show in town. And you were with them, how long was it, over ten years, so you must have left when close to partnership?”

Isobel could feel her anger rising at Peter’s rudeness and his ingratitude for the food and wine before him, and she feared the rising tension. “Must we talk history all night,” she interjected, “when we should be talking about this absolutely unforgettable food and wine? Your chef and sommelier are to be congratulated,” she concluded, her attention directed at Jay.

“I must apologise, Isobel, we are forgetting our manners. How is the wine, Peter? I know Marco will value your expert opinion.”

Peter held the wine to the light before burying his nose in the glass, and to Isobel’s relief, nodded his appreciation. The wine continued to flow with Peter drinking most of it; inevitably his phone bleeped and he became distracted, paying no heed to Isobel’s growing absorption in the man opposite her, which, as the wine took hold, was clearly visible on her face in the candlelight. Had Peter glanced up from the screen he would have seen happiness melt into confusion and then disappointment, Jay’s careful sentences and professional manner crushing her secret hopes. He turned to Peter with just as much, if not more, interest and struck up a conversation about his work and quickly latched on to his mention of an opportunity in Dallas.

“In Texas, the lone star state? You may need to go carefully there. You’ve seen the ‘Don’t Mess With Texas’ car stickers, I guess? Well I reckon they should say ‘Don’t Mess With Texans.’ I found that out the hard way. I went and married one.” His eyes flicked from Isobel to Peter and then back again, resting on her face.

“And you are still married to Texas then?” Isobel asked, cutting into the wild boar and careful to keep her tone casual as she pushed back her hope.

“I can’t afford not to be. Rusty is a trained lawyer and a US citizen. So you can probably imagine the damage she could do if she ever needed to,” said Jay, smiling as if speaking in jest but his eyes serious.

Isobel ran her hand up and down the table leg, scraping it with her nails as she did so. “Well, you know, it can be difficult for us wives with you men globe-trotting. Being left on our own so much. And when you are around, your mind is elsewhere half the time. And it is also difficult for the kids too I should imagine?”

“The boys seem to manage ok. I inherited them from Rusty’s first marriage. And to be fair, they still see a lot of their natural father. Holidays in the States and all that.”

“So you were married in Texas then?”

“No, Rusty didn’t want a re-run of the first time around, and she didn’t want to be surrounded by rednecks. Her family have roots in the highlands, so we tied the knot in Scotland. Pipers and kilts and all those shenanigans. Damn near bankrupted me.”

Isobel smiled apologetically as Peter lifted his eyes back up from his phone at the word ‘bankrupt’ and she moved the conversation into less personal territory, concerned not by Peter’s lack of discretion, but her own.

“I expect Eamon has updated you on our discussions today, and in particular the situation with the Visconti suite?”

“Yes, he gave me a quick debrief earlier on how things were going. And one of the things he did mention was that you might want to talk about the Visconti suite in particular. I hope I’ve got that right. I will be happy to see if I can help in any way.”

“Eamon believes that the suite is still reserved for one of the directors, but he wasn’t certain on the exact status.”

Jay leant towards her and lowered his voice. “I think Eamon might be being a touch diplomatic. Andy Skinner has indeed reserved the Visconti suite, but that was some time ago now. It may be that his thinking has changed; he certainly hasn’t mentioned anything about keeping it, to me at least, for some time. He may even have forgotten he put down the reservation. I would need to check.”

Isobel nodded, her eyes in her lap, as she tried to stop herself inhaling his breath that reached her in mint and champagne waves. She raised her face but not her eyes as she spoke again. “If we were to make an investment here, I think it would most likely be in the Visconti suite, assuming we could come to a fair agreement.”

“It may well be that we are discussing a problem that doesn’t exist,” he said, staring straight at her until she met his gaze again. “What I might suggest, if you are happy to wait a few days, is that I discuss it with Andy. I will be speaking to him on Monday anyway, or I can call him tomorrow if necessary.”

“No need to bother him at the weekend, next week is fine,” Peter said, “let’s not harass the poor man.”

“Actually, there may be something we could do to hurry this along that won’t risk a restraining order,” said Jay. “Something that could definitely help Andy come to the right decision on the Visconti suite.” He did not even glance at Isobel but locked his eyes on Peter. “Andy is looking to his next project. He’s already eyeing an investment opportunity in Capetown. I do know he has prepared a short prospectus with a view to selling his interest here at Capadelli. Maybe, if you wouldn’t mind, Peter, it’s something you might run your eye over on the flight to Dallas? With your background, and as someone who has seen what has been developed here, I think Andy would find your input very helpful.”

Peter shrugged, but Isobel sensed the compliment had hit home. He glanced at her before replying, her eyes wide in encouragement. “Sure, I’d be happy to have a look at whatever he’s put together.”

“That’s very kind of you, thank you.” Jay’s eyes returned to Isobel and his voice became measured and formal. “I really appreciate you making the time to join me this evening, and trust you have enjoyed what the team has put together here in Il Paradiso. This area is blessed with many excellent restaurants, which I very much hope you will be discovering in the future. And we are determined that Il Paradiso will be amongst the best of them.”

“It’s been our pleasure,” said Peter. “Thank you for your hospitality. It’s been a lovely evening.” They shook hands and said their goodbyes, taking deep breaths as they entered into the fragrant night air. Jay seemed to have forgotten Isobel was even there as he turned towards the car park.

The lure of soft music carried across the courtyard as they passed the enoteca. But Jay was gone and there seemed no point to prolong the evening. Nevertheless, she could not keep mention of Jay from her lips. “That was very generous of him, wasn’t it? With the wine and everything.”

Peter scoffed at her naivety. “Don’t confuse generosity with inducement.”

“What do you mean?” she said, feeling compelled to defend their host, and risk her husband’s wrath.

“What I mean is I felt no sincerity in anything tonight. Everything he said and did tonight was cold calculation.”

“Like when you entertain your clients?”

“That’s different. I have a long-term relationship with my clients. Brooke is only interested in a transaction.”

Isobel wanted to scream at Peter’s double standards, but held her tongue. He would be off to Dallas in two days, and all of a sudden she felt those two days could not pass quickly enough. But Peter was not finished with his character assassination.

“And I don’t buy for a minute all that tosh about following your passion; no-one walks away from a winning lottery ticket.”

“I’m sure you’re right, dear,” said Isobel craving nothing more than silence and pulling her pashmina around her shoulders, now too exasperated to care what Peter thought.

They returned to their suite to find two bottles of wine in a wooden presentation box, with a card signed by Jay thanking them for their company. “How very thoughtful,” said Isobel.

“He’s a smooth operator, I’ll give him that,” said Peter with a distinct lack of bonhomie.

It had been a tiring day, and Peter tossed aside the card and announced he was turning in. By the time Isobel finished her bedtime routine he was already asleep, his breathing deep and heavy. She picked up the card as if it were precious to her before slipping into the bed — so wide that she could have been alone — and reached for her book on the side table, tucking the card in between the pages. It was a thriller she had been engrossed in but tonight she was unable to concentrate, the conflicts in her head screaming their arguments over the pages until they turned black and the words swarmed like flies. She looked at the card again, her finger running back and forth along Jay’s signature. She put the book aside and tossed and turned as the sound of the pulse within her head reverberated off the pillow, until she found herself staring at the ceiling. She tried deepening her breathing as she fidgeted and fumbled, and then began drawing circles around her belly button with her finger as if zoning in on a target. Peter contorted in his sleep as her hand moved itself lower and rested in the warm area between her legs, its fingers beginning to twirl themselves into the soft triangle of hair. They touched wetness and began to shake.

Isobel moved them slowly, but her body was quick to tense, and she soon found herself biting down on her lower lip to hold back any sound that might betray her rising emotions. As the intensity neared its height she turned her head to the side and sought to press her face into the soft whiteness of the pillow. The sensations ran hotter and faster through her body; when the climax was at its most intense, she forced the pillow hard against her mouth, absorbing the sounds of a woman releasing all of the tensions within her body.Twenty-one

The pink evening sun of the next day gave a rosy hue to the inner courtyard as Isobel aimlessly wandered across its smooth grey stones, their dullness cast into featherlike shades of dove and pigeon in the muted glow of the afternoon’s end. The scraping of chalk broke the silence as the waiter from the enoteca wrote up the evening specials on a blackboard. She stopped to read the list, unsure if Peter had decided on where they would dine that evening.

“How is the white?” she asked in Italian as the man smiled and cocked his head, seeming to welcome the interest of such an elegant guest.