When the Siren Calls (32 page)

“So it could be something worth considering?” she asked, full of nonchalance, yet uttering the same question that Jay had whispered in her ear the last time they lay together, their bodies mingled and wet from the sweat of their lovemaking.

Peter looked at Isobel quizzically, surprised by her interest.

“Much too early to be thinking like that.”

Isobel nodded and stared out the window, now willing the airport closer.

She began to imagine a game she might play, teasing Jay that she had good news for him, but would only tell him if he could make her really, really scream. The heat of her excitement flowed to her face, illuminating her like a beacon.

“Do you want me to open a window?” asked Peter, looking at his wife with even more puzzlement.

As soon as Peter went through the departure gate, Isobel took out her phone to call Jay. She had been consumed by an almost itching nervousness since the call from Eamon, unable to understand why he hadn’t called and with a million awful possibilities circling round her head. It took her eight attempts and nearly an hour to get through, in which time doubt turned into suspicion and then into fear.

“It’s Isobel,” she said the second the phone was answered.

“Isobel, great to hear from you. Is everything ok?” His voice sounded false and exaggerated and she had to hold back the words with all her might.

“Yes, I, I’m just ringing about the apartments; I haven’t been able to get through to Eamon, so I thought I would call you. Peter wants to go ahead.” She rattled out the words like a machine gun, afraid to let him speak and confirm her fears.

“With the Visconti suite? That’s excellent news. Do you want me to get Eamon to call you?”

“Peter wants to go ahead with both.”

“I’m really pleased for you. And Peter, of course.”

“Please, Jay,” Isobel burst out, his business-like tone pushing her to the very edge of her panic. “You know I am not just calling about the apartments. I want to see you. Why are you making this so difficult for me?”

“I’m sorry; it’s just that I had someone here with me. So I needed to be professional. But it’s ok to speak now.”

“I want to see you; why haven’t you called me?” She tried to hide everything, to be calm and measured, but she could hear the desperation spilling over the words.

“I have wanted to call you every day. Ten times a day. But I don’t want you to feel I am putting any pressure on you. And remember, we said that when you were back in England you were going to take some more time to think about things, away from me, away from Tuscany and everything; to think whether it was still all a good idea or not. So that’s what I have been letting you do.”

Isobel shuddered with relief. “I have thought about it. I’ve hardly thought about anything else these last five days. When can I see you?”

“Well, when are you next in Tuscany?”

“Why does it have to be when we are in Tuscany? And anyway, when I am next in Tuscany, and I don’t know when that will be, Peter will probably be with me. I thought maybe we could meet up in London this week. Peter’s in Dallas till Saturday, so this week I don’t need to explain anything.” She could hear her own eagerness but did not care, so sure that he would share it, even exacerbate it.

“I can’t get to London before Thursday at the earliest. And then I am only passing through on my way to the airport.”

“Thursday in London is good for me,” she said, before he could change his mind.

“Not so good for me,” he said firmly. “I’m tied up in the morning, and I have a flight to catch in the evening.”

She said nothing, bewildered by his evasion. He seemed to sense it and relented. “How about a late lunch Thursday?”

“Jay, I want to spend the night with you. It won’t always be as easy for me to get away. Please can you get down Wednesday, or stay over till Friday morning. Or I could come to you, if you wanted me to.” Again Isobel’s words poured out uncontrollably; she heard the neediness in her voice and immediately regretted the suggestion that she travel to him.

“Let’s see,” said Jay, “I would love to do London, but this week I really can’t do an overnight. But I can get down early Thursday, and book us in somewhere. We can spend all afternoon together. And if anything changes we can stay longer. How does that sound?”

“Thursday morning I’m going to the solicitor in London to finalise the purchase of the apartments. We can meet right after that, at about eleven. It is something for us to celebrate. It is not every day you buy two holiday homes abroad.”

“That works perfectly,” he said with enthusiasm. “Let’s meet in the foyer of the Savoy at eleven thirty then, if that’s ok with you?”

“Eleven thirty at the Savoy. I’ll bring an overnight bag, just in case.”Thirty-seven

Isobel’s emotions were tangled in impenetrable knots as she left the solicitor’s office. She knew she should be celebrating. But as she had signed over the money, Peter’s money, the hands of doubt had clasped her in a deathly grip. She had wrestled with many doubts over the period of her infatuation with Jay; she had questioned her values, her self-esteem, her morality, her emotional worth, everything — but money’s gruesome head had never reared itself. It had been too exterior, too superfluous for her attention, readily available and seemingly unlimited. But as she put pen to paper on Peter’s behalf — etching her signature under his name — she felt as if she was buying a lover. She knew deep in her heart that she only wanted to be with Jay, to please Jay, not to drink or to uncoil herself in the Tuscan sun. Peter was paying for his own betrayal and the very thought of it made her feel sick. As she walked past St. James Palace and along the expansive pavements of Pall Mall, past imposing buildings that were home to several of the exclusive London business clubs of which Peter was a member, she tried to justify herself, saying over and over that he could afford it, that the money was nothing to him.

But the principle stabbed at her heart like a dagger as she reflected on the woman she had thought she was. Did she really have the principles and the strength of character that she supposed? Or was she in reality no different from all the thousands of other women in London, who met their lovers in seedy, pay by the hour motels? Yes, she could at least console herself that she would be doing it in the comfort of a luxury hotel, but that was a bitter consolation that poisoned her integrity like arsenic. She could not hide from herself the knowledge of her own wanton urges; that every day she was apart from him she craved his touch, burnt for the feeling of him exploding within her.

Jay was waiting for her in the foyer when she arrived. It was a few minutes after eleven thirty and every step towards him seemed too long, like a waste of their precious time. She wanted to go straight to the room, to run upstairs like light itself and make him hers again and again. But she restrained herself; lunch first would make her feel more civilised and perhaps somehow less debauched.

He embraced her warmly and kissed her on the lips, gently and politely. They walked hand in hand to the bar like the lovers they were, and secreted themselves at a corner table.

“Everything go ok with the solicitor?”

“Yes, I am now the owner of two properties in Tuscany that I probably didn’t need,” Isobel replied with a weak smile, almost wanting him to judge her.

“But you are happy with the purchase? I know Eamon goes over the top sometimes. Tells people want he thinks they want to hear.”

“Yes, I’m happy. As long as it means we can see each other, then I’m very happy. I don’t think Peter will have much interest in coming out to Tuscany, so hopefully I can lead the kind of life that Maria has enjoyed, only with you on my arm.” She sounded almost cynical, although her smile was saccharine.

He looked at her hard, as if trying to place the wistful distance in her manner.

“So no regrets? You are sure this is the right thing for you. You and me I mean?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said with decisiveness, as much for herself as for him. “As long as you don’t hurt me.”

She affected a self-effacing humour in her tone, but her expression was serious, as Jay searched her face.

“Why should I want to hurt you?”

Isobel lowered her gaze, afraid of what he could see. “I don’t know. I don’t plan to give you any reason to hurt me. But Maria thinks you might be the kind of man that…you know, has their fun and then moves on.”

He laughed at the suggestion. “And you think I am like that?”

She summoned her strength and held his eyes with some force.

“I think you have probably done that sometimes in the past.” She spoke slowly and earnestly, beseeching him with every fibre of her being not to hate her. “I just hope you don’t do it to me, because I don’t want to hold back with you. And if I give everything, then, well—” She lowered her head. “Then I will be very vulnerable.”

“Maybe you should spend less time with Maria,” said Jay with an agreeable smile. “I think she might be a girl that has attracted the wrong kind of guy. And I think you are very different from Maria. Much softer, much gentler.”

Isobel looked at him, her head cocked in amusement as he stroked her arm with the backs of his fingers.

“Maybe Maria gets what she deserves,” he concluded, bringing his hand up to her chin and cupping it in affection.

“Sounds like you didn’t warm to her?” Isobel tried to be cross but couldn’t hold back a smile.

“I thought she was a great girl, right up to a minute ago when you told me what silly thoughts she was planting in your head.”

Isobel laughed, filled once more with the heady desire that he always awoke in her, that banished all doubt and guilt until he left again and the shadows crept back in.

Jay put his palm to his breast in mock sincerity. “It would take a very stony hearted man to hurt you. And I do not think I am that kind of man. At least I hope not. And anyway, I can feel it beating, so it can’t be all stone.” He checked his watch. “Are you hungry?”

“Maybe a little.”

“I have booked us a table here in the Savoy Grill, if that’s ok? Maybe we can just order a glass of champagne and some oysters. They’re very good here.”

Isobel simply smiled and allowed herself to be led away, her fingers safe in his.

The maître d’ welcomed Jay with friendly familiarity and he responded in kind, immediately likable and instantly charming. Isobel watched him in admiration, the fluidity of his speech and movement, the utter absence of airs and graces, endearing him to her even more.

“Your usual table is waiting for you Mr. Brooke,” said the maître d’, walking ahead and beckoning them to follow.

“Looks like you’re a regular here, not everyone has their own table in the Savoy Grill,” she said.

“Don’t be fooled. I tipped the maître d’ to say that. Normally he sticks me by the door to the kitchen with the tourists.” Isobel laughed again, feeling lighter and freer with each burst of mirth.

When they were seated she plucked a rose from the centre glass and sniffed its freshness, looking furtively around for anyone she might know. Peter did not lunch in the Savoy and Isobel was confident she would not be recognised, but she scanned the room nonetheless, determined not to become complacent. As her eyes lingered on the tables she noticed that each had a single white flower in its centre. Only Jay’s table had the five red roses. Her fingers went back to the vase and she again inhaled its perfume, somehow sweeter now. She felt a rush of warmth in her veins that he had made such a gesture. “Are you always this romantic?”

“Of course. It comes with the stony heart.”

She felt an urge to kiss him, refraining momentarily for fear that he might think her heart could be bought for a single rose. But she leaned across anyway, knowing it to be already lost.

When the champagne stood empty and the oyster shells were piled up, beautiful and forlorn in their iridescence, Isobel and Jay made their way back to the foyer, discussing what to do next.

“It’s a beautiful afternoon, we could take a stroll along the Strand, or we could go out the back and walk along the Thames, stretch our legs a while,” Jay suggested, always in charge of the decision making.

“We could.”

“Maybe go as far as the Ritz and have afternoon tea?”

“We could.”

Isobel smiled at him coyly, inching her body closer to his until they touched, becoming one unified shadow in the light of the revolving doors.

“Maybe later then,” he said, pulling her to him.

He took her by the hand and led her to the lifts as she almost skipped alongside him in perfect happiness.

When she entered the suite her ecstasy intensified yet further: all London stood before them in its majesty. Isobel resisted the urge to throw herself on the bed and inspected the suite, revelling in every aspect of it.

“A walk-in shower, very nice. Do you mind if I take five minutes to freshen up?”

“Be my guest, as long as you don’t mind me catching up on a few emails while you do it?” Isobel laughed, wondering if maybe there were some similarities between the two men who shared her bed after all.

She took her case into the bathroom and re-emerged shyly in a short black silk top, buttoned at the front that revealed her midriff, and matching French knickers. Black stockings clung to her lean, shapely legs and high heels exaggerated her lithe body to supermodel proportions. She twirled herself around for Jay’s inspection as he sat on the bed, his eyes hungry and triumphant.