When the Siren Calls (20 page)

“And if the Visconti suite does not become available you will, I expect, wish to choose one of the other two—?”

Peter again stopped him short. “At the moment that is not the way we are thinking. We will simply stick with apartment forty-two, and primarily see it as an investment. On those occasions we visit, we would either stay in the Villa or a larger apartment.”

“The Visconti apartment, of course,” added Isobel.

“A very shrewd approach,” said Eamon, his voice congratulatory but business-like. “But for this to work you’ll need to pay the deposit for both apartments at the same time. If I cannot secure the Visconti suite, then of course that part of the deposit will be refundable.”

Peter opened his mouth to speak, his eyebrows set in refusal, but it was Isobel’s voice that broke the silence.

“Of course, we’d be happy to,” she said with a smile.Twenty-three

Peter dropped Isobel off at the end of Maria’s sweeping driveway and did not glance back as he headed for the airport, his eyes on the road and his mind already in Texas. Had he thought to look back, he would have seen his wife fall into her friend’s arms in desperation, confusion and loneliness set like gemstones in her eyes.

“Maria, I have to talk to you,” she cried, her face half-buried in her friend’s shoulder. “I have made the most terrible mistake, which I still can’t believe, and I am so scared, I am so afraid.” Her face was fragile and beseeching, and Maria could not help but smile as she looked at it, finding it full of human frailty after all.

“So you are pregnant, but you are not sure who the father is?” she asked.

“Please don’t taunt me, my nerves are in pieces already.”

“Because of your new friend, Jay, yes?” Isobel nodded like a mute, as if afraid to repeat the name.

“Get your coat. We are going into Lucca right now, because if you start to tell me here, we will be here all night, and we have nothing to eat.” She headed for her car, leaving Isobel no choice but to follow her.

Maria’s driving was fast and sporadic but for once Isobel was too occupied to complain and, as they zipped round the winding hill roads, she set out her dilemma.

“Today I left him a note with my phone number on, giving him an excuse to call me about the apartment. I tried not to be too obvious, but I really had no need to do it, and he will know that. I can’t believe I did it. I don’t know what he will think of me. And I am out of my wits that he actually might call.”

Maria grimaced into the mirror, disappointed at the slightness of her sins. “You did the right thing, if you are sure you want to see him, that is. Men cannot read our minds, however much we like to think they should be able to. Even if he wanted to make a pass at you, he’s going to be very hesitant to do it. You are a wealthy woman, you are married; he’s going to need some sort of a clear signal before he risks making a fool of himself.”

“Like I made a fool of myself?” Isobel asked, hesitant and tragic.

“No. You had to make the first move. And you have done it very cleverly. If he calls then you know that he wants to at least explore the possibility of taking things forward. And if he doesn’t call, there is no loss of face all round.”

“So now I just wait to see if he does call?” asked Isobel, so out of her depth she was unwilling to even think without instruction.

“No, you are going to eat,” said Maria, pinching Isobel’s increasingly slim arms as she pulled the car to a halt outside the grey city walls. “And you are going to forget about it and enjoy yourself here in Tuscany with me. If he calls, he calls. If he doesn’t, it wasn’t meant to be.”

“But now I’m not sure I want him to call; I’m afraid I will make the most enormous fool of myself. Peter is the only man I’ve ever known.”

Maria blew the air from her mouth in exasperation. “Do not tell me another thing until we are in the restaurant. Some wine will calm you, and I want you to talk me through everything that has happened.”

She led Isobel to a typical osteria hidden away in a narrow side street. It was crowded with Italians, all conversing and laughing in the evening’s quiet, the soft street lighting dyeing their smiles orange with its invasive hue.

“I’m sorry about running off that night in London,” Isobel began, as they waited for the wine. They had not seen each other since and she was conscious of the void it had left between them.

“Think nothing of it,” said Maria, shooting her a broad smile, “it was fine. Everyone had a good time. All three of us.”

“So he wasn’t disappointed?” said Isobel, shuddering in the warm night at the memory of Mo’s persistent touch.

Maria laughed. “Oh Isobel, you can be so innocent sometimes. The three of us went back to the penthouse and had a party.” She looked at Isobel’s bewilderment with pleasure and beckoned her closer, her eyes aflame in the candlelight. “You cannot imagine how it feels to have two men inside you at the same time.”

Isobel stared at her in open-mouthed disbelief that gave way to morbid curiosity. “But surely no pleasure is to be had from it, not for the woman, anyway?”

“The pleasure is in the thrill of it,” Maria replied. “Of course you must relax, and use something to help things along. You should try it sometime.” Her last words were purely for her own entertainment; she was not a natural confidante and had no need to ask Isobel’s advice, gaining amusement rather than solace from their conversations.

“But we must talk about you, and your new man,” she declared as the wine arrived. “What has happened, Isobel, that you are now leaving love letters? The last time we spoke you were certain that this man Jay was just a memory?”

Isobel squirmed at the recollection of her own arrogance.

“I really did think that at the time. But then I met him again, at the Italian evening in Cobham, and ever since I can’t stop myself thinking about him. I even wonder that he might be the real reason that I am in Tuscany, buying a property.”

She waited for Maria to express some kind of astonishment but none was forthcoming and she was subdued by her transparent predictability.

“It sounds crazy, I know, to buy a property in the hope of seeing more of someone you hardly know, but I think that is what is happening. When I came out of that estate agents’ it was as if my mind was made up.”

“Is it that Jay is someone special, or is it that he is someone in the right place at the right time, who can help you deal with the feelings you are having?”

“I’m not sure. But what I do know is that he is very different to Peter.”

Their waiter arrived with the antipasti and they fell silent, both reflecting on what had been said as he topped up their glasses.

“How is he different from Peter?” said Maria, breaking the silence with genuine curiosity.

Isobel contemplated the question for a while as she fiddled with her bruschetta. “He picks up on what I’m thinking and takes my thoughts somewhere else, somewhere that feels better,” she said, learning as she spoke.

“What you are describing could just be a very slick operator. Have you thought about that? That he is just somebody else that wants something from you? And maybe you are a little vulnerable because you feel something is missing in your life?” Maria bit into the centre of Isobel’s fears with precision, and she halted her questioning with humanity as agony contorted her friend’s mouth.

“Yes, I have thought about that. But I can normally tell when someone is sincere or not.”

Maria nodded like a sage. “Tell me more about him.”

They had eaten their first course by the time Isobel finished; she covered everything she knew of him as she tried to piece him together.

“So it sounds like he’s definitely not some bottom feeding low life type,” concluded Maria with typical frankness, “which are the worst kind. But then I never thought for a moment a man like that would interest you. And he does not sound like your typical gigolo, like Angelo; he’s too old for that. And he’s probably not looking for a simple meal ticket, because he seems well able to make his own way in life. But he is trying to sell you a property,” she concluded, pressing again on to Isobel’s deepest fears.

“If all he wants is to sell me something, then I suppose I don’t have too much to worry about other than making a clown of myself,” she conceded, tired of her own uneasiness.

“I think, Isobel, the most important thing is that he is married. The last thing he is going to want is some psycho stalker on his hands. He has as much to lose as you. Which is a good thing, unless you are thinking of leaving Peter, that is?”

Isobel shook her head in certainty. “Maybe if someone like Jay had come along ten years ago, and had evoked these feelings earlier, then who knows what might have happened. But these needs, these feelings, they aren’t enough to turn my life upside down for, not now. I couldn’t imagine life without the horses for one thing. ”

“Did you not tell me that you were happy with Peter in the bedroom, or at least not unhappy?” asked Maria, seeing straight through her euphemisms.

The waiter interrupted with the main course and they barely heard his approach; every table was now taken and the osteria was bustling with noise and movement. Isobel felt private enough to be frank with her friend.

“Maybe I just see things clearer now. We haven’t made love in three months,” she admitted, hating herself for her previous conceit.

“And you haven’t tried to initiate it?”

“Not for a long time, maybe not since Marrakech.”

“Why ever not?” exclaimed Maria, genuinely appalled.

“Because I don’t feel anything. Not anymore. For the last year I have just lain there and let him take me, giving my body but not myself. I hold him of course, even encourage him sometimes to get it over quicker, but I still don’t feel anything.”

“And you thought this would be enough for you, forever? A life with no physical satisfaction?” laughed Maria, now satisfied her friend was intent on infidelity.

Isobel shrugged in embarrassment under her friend’s piercing gaze, her silence confirming her foolishness and her intentions.

“So,” said Maria with finality, “let us speak nothing more of Jay, we must—” She froze as Isobel’s bag vibrated against the table and a pealing ring fractured the night with the sound of beginnings.Twenty-four

As she wandered across Piccadilly Circus, her hands raw from the cord handles of a collection of designer store bags, Lucy’s gentle pace slowed further. The afternoon had been an expensive one but, as Tessa told her, the price tag is the last thing a well-dressed woman should look at. Particles of London dust and grime floated in the air around her, rendered star-like by the low afternoon sun that fell over the buildings and hung in the streets. Everything seemed slow as she drifted along with the foot traffic — now fifteen minutes late for her meeting with Rob but not caring, her eyes on the more distant future.

A wiry young man drew up next to her on a bicycle drawn buggy, blocking her route.

“Can I interest you in a ride, luv?”

Lucy considered smiling and just going on her way, but she liked the cheeky grin enough to dally. “I’m not a tourist.”

“Did I say you was? Anyway, no crime being a tourist, not in my business. Come on, gal, do a bloke a favour?” He nodded towards the shopping. “I reckon you can spare a shilling.”

“You can drop the Oliver Twist routine. I’m from Croydon, and I’m only going to Covent Garden.”

“With those bags? Well, you’re lucky you got this far, all sorts of terrible things might ‘appen to a luvly girl like you between ‘ere and Covent Garden.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

“Well, as it ‘appens, I was moving up Long Acre anyway. So the ride’s free… as long as you give me your number.”

“So it’s not free then,” said Lucy with a grin as she hopped into the back, lolling fearlessly over the ripped and discoloured seat like it was velvet.

“You don’t have to give me the right number.” He smiled back at her, weaving through the traffic like lightning, twisting so instinctively through the taxis and buses that they seemed static in his wake.

“Why wouldn’t I? I’ve always wanted a guy with his own transport.” She lurched to one side as they tipped almost horizontal, rounding the corner.

The first hints of evening threatened and Rob was sitting at an outside table. He was a mountain of a man, a great wall of muscle, dressed in black and leant over a pint; his breath smelt of mint and his skin of plaster — the pleasant dry scent a constant reminder of his profession. The strength of his physique was echoed in his handsome face, with a defined jaw and a heavy brow. Yet the granite features were paired with a pleasant countenance; he had a soft voice and gentle eyes, which flitted between impatience and excitement as he waited for Lucy.

He sprang to his feet as she came into sight, dangling her shopping bags in the air by way of apology. He ran forward and caught her in a bear hug, lifting her off her feet and planting a kiss full on her lips.

“Steady, Tarzan, this body’s got to last a lifetime, even if the lipstick doesn’t.” She pushed playfully at his face and he delivered her gently to the floor as if afraid she would break against the Covent Garden cobblestones.

“We need to move,” he said as he gallantly sank the remainder of his pint, “we’re late already.”