When the Siren Calls (3 page)

“I’m sorry about this afternoon,” she said, conciliation and warmth in her tone as once more she fought against what threatened to be nature’s course.

He stayed quiet a few seconds before reaching out and pulling her to him, an increasingly unfamiliar gesture that made her jolt in surprise.

“It was my fault. And the evening too. I behaved unforgivably, sulking like that. I know how much you wanted it to be a success, to be a romantic evening. It was just…” His explanation trailed away. “I will make it up to you,” he promised with a reassuring hug, his thoughts seeming to drift off with his words.

“Why don’t we make it up now?” She slipped her hand inside his pyjamas. “It can still be a romantic evening.” It had been many months, perhaps six, since she last prompted lovemaking, or since she last responded fully to his initiations. At times when the mood of martyrdom most gripped her, she would try to convince herself that she was content to lie beneath him and wait, until finally rolling away to let sleep envelop her.

She squeezed and massaged him, but he was slow to respond to her coaxing. As she stroked and caressed she pushed the guilt of her straying imagination aside, picturing herself the confused heroine in an epic romance. She felt again the adrenaline of the souk, and an unfamiliar lust coursing through her veins, her frustration rising at the lack of progress her efforts were instilling. At last she felt his readiness and rose to straddle him, gently helping him inside her with a mix of platonic affection and stifled fear.

His surprise at her initiation was almost comical, a jarring note of humour in her serious romantic drama. Yet she pursued her cravings nonetheless, strangely aroused by her experience with the man from the market and spurred on by fear, needing to reassure herself about her marriage. But his familiarity was crushing; she felt no possibility in Peter’s embrace — only his inevitable climax and her seemingly eternal disappointment.Three

Strange feelings of guilt surged and ebbed within Isobel as she sat with Peter at the breakfast table; she pushed her food round the plate with her fork, eyeing it listlessly and eating nothing. She had lost almost a stone in the past six months, the weight falling off as Peter’s absorption in his latest client reached its peak. He, of course, failed to notice. Failed to feel her hip bones against his as they lay together, remained oblivious to the wedding ring that now slid loosely up her finger and back to the knuckle with a dull thud.

She studied him as he prodded his mushroom omelette, his attention temporarily distracted from the business section of the newspaper. His face and body were as lean and athletic as the day they met, but the vitality within him was so changed from the man she married. And without knowing why, she found herself resenting that he was the same, yet different.

“Peter, about yesterday…”

But her words were drowned by the quiet bleep of his phone, the ‘please stay quiet bleep’ as she once called it; it was late afternoon in Tokyo, and his eyes and mind went to the message on the screen instead of the anxiety on her face. She reached across and put her palm over the phone; he looked at her with impatience, perhaps even anger, in his eyes.

“I had quite a fright in the medina. At one point one of the sellers grabbed my arm, you know, really grabbed it, and a crowd gathered.”

“Those guys don’t take no for an answer. If you had just waited half an hour we could have gone together,” he said, failing to sense any impending drama as he removed her hand from the screen. “Can I just deal with this, and then I’m all yours.” But he was not and she feared never would be.

She rose and stood for a moment in exasperation. “I’m going to the room to pack, then I’m off to the pool.”

He gestured to the phone pressed to his ear and batted off her words with a flick of his hand.

All guilt dissolved as she made the short walk to the elevator, her vision narrowed by rage she focused only on the shining doors ahead. A man leapt up from a chair to her left but she did not see him. He threw down his newspaper and ran up behind her, pressing his hand playfully to her back.

“Going my way,” he said, as she almost jumped out of her skin, whirling round as the last of her tired nerves snapped.

“Oh my god, don’t do that,” she said, trying to disguise the contortion of emotions on her face.

He laughed a boyish laugh. “Sorry, I just can’t seem to help myself jumping out of nowhere to rescue damsels in distress.”

“I’m not in distress,” she said smiling, “and the lift only goes one way.”

The lift came and went as they exchanged pleasantries, Isobel offering her thanks once more for his heroics and he convivially dismissing them, his humour as pleasant and energetic as the day before. He seemed content to chat idly as the doors opened and closed, but Isobel found her eye straying to the breakfast room entrance. He seemed to sense her discomfort and stepped into the elevator at the next opportunity, silently beckoning her with his smile to follow him.

She looked at her watch.

“We’re leaving in a couple of hours,” she said, to which he muttered a nonchalant “uh um,” obliging her to continue. “I thought I’d spend the last hour around the pool… just while Peter makes his calls.”

“Sounds good, I was thinking about doing the same.”

Isobel had to stop herself from running as she stepped out to the corridor and made for her room. Once there she threw her clothes haphazardly into the suitcase, rehearsing her reasoning as she went. “Why should I avoid someone who did such a chivalrous thing, if Peter’s going to ignore me?”

She paused to consider her clothing options, dallying only seconds over the idea of travel clothes before opting for a swimming costume. Modesty and disquiet compelled her to choose the one-piece over a bikini but it was a striking black number, with a lace effect around the neck and midriff that allowed a veiled glimpse of both cleavage and waistline. She stood before the mirror touching up her lipstick; the woman looking back at her was strikingly attractive. Although her skin no longer shone with the dewy freshness of youth, it was firm and polished, taut across her fine bone structure. Taller than average, she was a sculpture of a woman, viewing herself in the mirror like looking at art behind glass. She subconsciously nodded her approval and moved to the door, grabbing a bathrobe as she went.

When she reached the pool, Jay was already there, his suit jacket draped over the lounger at his side. He looked effortlessly smart, his attractions in no way dulled by his unexposed flesh. Isobel broke her stride, now feeling foolish in her swimsuit and hating herself for her lack of subtlety. She pulled the bathrobe belt even tighter and made the walk across to him. She wanted to take the lounger next to his but her nerve failed her.

“Shall we talk at the table?” she suggested, as she hung her bag decisively on the nearest chair.

He was charming but professional as they chatted, and with every sentence struck another crack in her fragile, still almost unconscious, hopes and imaginings.

“Your husband not joining us then?” he asked.

“He’s busy making calls to save the world,” she said, reproaching herself for her bitterness.

“Ah yes, you said. What does he do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“He flies from boardroom to boardroom making fat cats look good.” She tried to make her tone blasé, even amused, as she discreetly loosened the bathrobe. “You know, strategy. Buy this, sell that.”

“So he travels a lot, I guess?”

“All the time. One luxury hotel to the next, like this place.”

“That must be great for you.” He smiled and raked his fingers through his hair before continuing. “The opportunity to travel with him, I mean.”

“I used to think so. But after ten years it can get nauseating. Talking trivia with pampered spouses in the same bland function rooms all over the world.”

“While the boys swig their brandy and swing their dicks?” His crudity should have shocked her and she blushed when it didn’t.

“It sounds like you know the game he’s in,” she said, the bathrobe slipping from her shoulders as she put down her drink. His eyes lingered for a moment on her torso as curved black materialized from the soft, shapeless white.

“A little bit, maybe. But what brought you both to Marrakech, if he’s so busy?”

She could not resist the invitation for disclosure. “My dreams, I suppose. You know, the romance of the place. But I did have to drag Peter here kicking and screaming.”

“And your dreams were fulfilled?” His eyes burnt into her, seeming to see everything, to know everything.

“It hasn’t been the right time, there’s a lot going on.”

She felt all of a sudden afraid of being quizzed further and drew herself up to become the questioner.

“And you, what brings you here?”

“Business. I’m checking out an investment possibility. A tourist development.”

“And that’s what you do all the time?”

“Some of the time. Right now I’m spending most of my time in Italy, in Tuscany; it’s a new concept — a luxury hotel and spa, an idyllic retreat in the hills — somewhere for a romantic getaway, or just to get some ‘me-time,’ while being pampered like a princess. If you visit you’d love it, I’m sure, and if you didn’t, then I’d know we were getting it wrong.”

She smiled at the compliment. “Maybe I will,” she said brazenly, taking a sip of iced tea through the straw, moulding her lips round it into a soft pink ‘o’.

He laughed, and pulled a card from his wallet. “Here are my details, and there’s a link on the back to a website; it will show you what we’re up to much better than I can describe.”

She tucked it away in the pocket of her robe as he stood up to say his goodbyes. As she rose to receive them, the bathrobe fell fully to the floor.Four

Some eighteen months earlier, in an airport hotel, Lucy Baker basked in the familiar feeling of knowing she was turning every head as she entered the bar. A peek beneath her tight fitting outfit would have revealed a near perfect body, a breathtaking alliance of nature’s gifts and a surgeon’s steady hand. She had almost feline eyes; perfectly shaped, astonishingly green, and as angular and beautifully formed as the rest of her captivating face. They were restless eyes, full of energy and playfulness, but as she and her colleagues walked into the lounge of the airport hotel, her eyes rested on one man, and her thoughts stayed firmly on him for the remainder of the evening. He sat centre stage in the middle of the bar, nonchalantly straddling the back of a chair and holding half a dozen or so young men under his spell, their shoulders shaking with laughter, their faces exuding pure admiration.

“Let’s sit over here, shall we ladies?” she volunteered, as the group behind her milled about in confusion. She led the way to the middle of the lounge, right behind the gathering and its enigmatic leader, and beckoned the others. Her movements were smooth and supple, exuding the sensuality that defined her appearance. Her skin glowed sunbed-brown and her hair was a carefully manufactured blonde. It had been every shade of this hue over the years — pearl white as an exotic dancer, sunflower yellow as a glamour model. Now she was an airhostess and this was reflected in the darker, and she fancied, more demure, honey tones that hung around her face like an unlikely halo.

As Lucy perched on her chair, luxuriously extending her long shapely legs to exhibit them to their best potential, she covertly returned her gaze to the man, watching with a hidden smile as he awarded a gangly but handsome man in his early thirties, attired in a ridiculous bow tie and plus fours, an award for his exceptionally bad play on the golf course.

“On one knee if you please, Eamon,” he said, as the recipient came forward for his prize. He spoke with all the command and presence of a king, and as Lucy looked about her, it seemed the whole bar was watching and enjoying his showmanship. She was surprised that applause did not break out as, with a flourish, he produced a plastic funnel from beneath his chair and proceeded with much ceremony to concoct a punishment.

“The committee has decided,” he proclaimed, obliging the now beaming Eamon to accept the funnel to his lips, “that your forfeit is a quad-vod, to be washed down with a half-pint of the vilest concoction of sangria and punch ever mixed at this fine hotel.”

Lucy zoned out as the jovial Irishman took his punishment with pleasure, and willed herself to pay attention to the tortuous conversations of her colleagues, who were discussing at length the policies, practices, and pitfalls of a life in the skies. Her antenna tuned in as the discussion turned to sexual harassment at work, a continuation of one of the afternoon’s topics. Lucy interjected boldly, “That was the problem at my last place - sexual harassment.”

All heads turned as her colleagues focused on her, their faces expectant and hungry for a titillating personal disclosure. “Go on, Lucy,” said one, “what was the problem?”

“There simply wasn’t enough of it,” she exclaimed, slapping her thighs with gusto as laughter broke out around her. She lowered her head in mock modesty and stole a sideways glance at the floorshow, but only the grinning Eamon, his eyes fixed on her, seemed to have heard.

The rounds of drinks came and went and her gaze was drawn back once again to the dashing compere. Her eyes travelled up his body, resting on the gold watch, the designer-buckled belt, the wellheeled suede loafers and, lastly, on the chunky platinum wedding ring - the only adornment to strong and animated hands. Three years ago that humble piece of jewellery would have been the end of Lucy’s quest. But her career of late nights with her body wrapped around a silver pole taught her that the world, or at least one part of it, was stocked full of wealthy and generous men, married and otherwise, who were only too ready to spoil her. She attempted to engage him in eye contact as the spoof awards descended into bedlam but it seemed pointless; he was the one man in the room who didn’t see her.