When the Siren Calls (38 page)

Isobel stared past her as the image flashed before her like a premonition. Maria left her to think, saying nothing more for a long time before leaping up to rouse her from her thoughts.

“Now it is time to enjoy the beach,” she declared. “Let us splash our feet through the sea and show off like we are as vain as the Italians.”

She strutted out to the water’s edge, absorbing and pointedly ignoring the admiring eyes, her beauty untouchable and infallible, almost other-worldly.

Isobel stared after her as she stood up to follow, feeling the hot sand on her feet and the spray on her face. She knew she could never be Maria, and a chill ran over her skin as she remembered his hands upon her again, as dread cast its shadow over the sun.Forty-three

Isobel stood in the blank expanse of Florence airport waiting for Peter’s flight to disembark, her inner turmoil contrasting with the organised rush all about her. Peter had agreed to meet Andy at the airport to discuss investing in Castello di Capadelli and Isobel invited herself along, puzzled and disappointed that her husband had not thought to ask her. It was to be a fleeting visit on his part — his flight home being only six hours later — but her pleas that he stay over had fallen on deaf ears, he had things to do in London. Nevertheless, she sent the briefest of texts to Jay, saying that Peter was in Florence till the morning, grateful for a plausible reason to stay out of Jay’s bed. As she waited there alone she wondered when the lies would end, if they would ever end.

She flopped down with a thud, feeling sick with the fear that now resided in every corner of her life. She took out a magazine, convincing herself it was important to read a little Italian every day, but soon found herself going back over the same sections, taking nothing in, and growing increasingly uneasy. Maria’s words of the previous day echoed in her mind, stamping themselves over the magazine in great cruel letters — “it only takes one wagging tongue.”

She knew her behaviour since her arrival had been faultless; she had not spoken to or seen Jay, even though her phone had several messages and unanswered calls. Yet still she fidgeted as she waited, feeling that her very appearance might somehow betray her, if it had not already. The consequences of discovery did not bear thinking about, yet she thought of little else; the tears, the hurt, the slamming of doors, and the nightmare of taking apart in days what twenty years had put together. Where would she live? Back in the Cotswolds with an infirm mother or in an empty flat in town perhaps? She could always stay in Capadelli, in her new romantic hideaway, she thought bitterly.

The automatic arrivals door parted as the first of the passengers made their way through the unmanned customs area. Peter would be one of the first out, Isobel was confident of that. He believed in travelling light. She glanced through the doors at the narrow line of approaching passengers who straggled out like ants with their baggage trailing behind them.

After what seemed a lifetime of looking for her husband, she did not immediately recognise him. The school boyish side parting that had been his signature haircut since childhood, and to which he had clung despite the slight thinning and backward progression of his hairline, was gone. A much shorter, almost crew cut, style was in its place; he looked years younger and somehow sharper, less bland. His clothing too was markedly different, complementing the look perfectly with expensive, smart, casual attire that would not have been out of place on Bond Street. As Isobel stared at him in astonishment, her mind went back to the day of his return from Paris, when she found his blue silk boxers in the laundry basket, at first thinking they were her own French knickers, because Peter only ever bought multipacks of sensible cotton Y-fronts from department stores. She had immediately known that Rachel had bought them and, despite herself, examined them for any trace of excitement, but found nothing. She had despised herself for even thinking of suspecting him, because if he had anything to hide he would surely have thrown them away. Because that is what she would have done.

“Wow, Peter,” she said, banishing her thoughts as she reached up to kiss him, “you’ve had a make-over. What brought this on?”

“Nothing,” he said with a casual shrug. “The hairdresser suggested the cut, and I just thought I’d freshen things up a bit.”

“You look great, you really do,” she said, her voice becoming slightly false as a sliver of doubt entered her mind. Peter had been going to the same hairdresser for five years; why the change, and why now? And the casual outfit had not been thrown together; it had been put together, right down to the suede loafers. It was all so unlike him.

Isobel took the plastic bag that he was carrying and put her arm through his. As they walked the long white corridors to meet Andy she grew gradually more uneasy, feeling a stiffness in his arm as if he were suffering her attention, as one suffers the hold of a grumpy old relative. But his smile and his tone were natural enough, so perhaps she imagined it; certainly she was unable to remember the last time she had given real thought to any part of Peter’s body.

They took a window seat in the corner of a lounge with a view across the runway. Peter was not hungry and Isobel professed the same even though nothing had passed her lips all day. She told Peter she did not want a coffee, but he arrived nevertheless with a large latte and her favourite cake, a blueberry muffin, and a green tea for himself.

“There really was no need for you to come across,” said Peter as he watched her pluck a blueberry from the muffin.

“I wanted to see you,” she said with a warm smile, adding, “I’m missing you,” but not quite believing she was. He touched her hand but did not respond in kind, so she continued. “I would like you to stay tonight, if you can.”

“I need to get back, but I thought when we’re finished with Skinner, we could pop into Florence. It beats kicking around the airport for five hours.”

Isobel’s jaw dropped open. Kicking around airports was what Peter did; preparing for calls, making calls, checking mails, working on presentations. It was the first time she could remember him not relishing the prospect.

“So things are quiet?” she asked, recovering her composure.

“No, surprisingly, they’re not. Aside from this circus with these clowns in Tuscany, I seem to be in more demand than ever.” He sat back in satisfaction and took a sip of tea. “Head-hunters every day, a couple of old clients have been on the phone wanting me to help out, and the Telecommunications crowd have a position for me. Not something I’d be interested in, but nice to be asked.”

“Word’s out then,” said Isobel with a nervous smile, not wanting to elicit too much business conversation.

“Yep, seems so, and without me making a single call. Other than fixing our man Brooke, I was planning to take it easy, maybe pop down to the boat for a few days. But looks like that might be difficult.”

Isobel nodded as she rustled through the carrier bag she had relieved him of, pulling forth an inconspicuous airport paperback.

“Why thank you, darling, that’s very thoughtful of you.” She had already turned to the back cover. “A crime thriller?”

Peter leant across and took the book. “Sorry, it’s actually for me.” He winced apologetically, tucking it into his case.

“You are reading a book? Not emails, not airport billboards?”

“I’ve just finished one, as it happens, one of yours that was knocking about, but I thought the crime thriller might be more in keeping with the job at hand, you know with Skinner and Brooke.” He laughed as he spoke, pronouncing their names like some low-budget TV thriller.

She laughed in return, bemused by her own pleasure. “So you want to go into Florence? You weren’t that enraptured last time as I recall. You have a restaurant in mind?”

“I thought we might do a gallery, the Uffizi maybe.”

Isobel almost fell off her chair. “Nice idea, but no chance,” she said ruefully, “the queue will be half way to Pisa this time of year. Remember, we had to skip it last time.”

“I’ve got VIP passes,” he said with a grin.

Isobel was almost speechless. “You mean you’ve actually arranged something. I thought that was my job, or, or Rachel’s.” The laughter died from her eyes as she said the name.

“Well, right now I don’t have an assistant, so I called the concierge service you use, and they sorted it all out.”

Isobel choked on the last blueberry in reply, but before she could ask how Peter even knew she used a concierge service, Andy arrived. He rushed up, spluttering an apology about his driver, red faced and flustered.

“No worries, no worries,” said Peter, with a warmth and friendliness that Isobel wasn’t expecting. “Ok if we talk here?”

Andy nodded and Peter signalled for a coffee as the other man rummaged frantically through his things, his breathing jagged and fast.

“Take a breath for a minute or two, Andy, there’s no rush,” said Peter benevolently. “Ok if Isobel sits in?”

As Andy nodded and sought to compose himself, Peter calmly and neatly laid out two files, a notebook, and a pen — he did not arrive at business meetings half prepared.

“Ok if we get straight down to it?” asked Peter, with no sign of waiting for, or needing, an answer.

“Sure,” said Andy, still catching his breath and fumbling in his briefcase.

“Firstly, Andy, I must congratulate you on the quality of the prospectus, and for all the supporting information; it’s great when things are done so professionally.”

Andy had his doubts about that; quick and dirty was Jay’s style, but he withheld any assumption and latched his eyes onto Peter, buoyed by the eagerness in his eyes.

Peter’s intonation was enthusiastic as he continued. “The reality is that I was sceptical about this opportunity when Jay asked me to look at it. So initially I thought of it as a desk exercise, a favour to Jay mainly, perhaps something I might be able to recommend to one or two of my contacts that are active property investors. Which I am not, by the way, I hardly know a brick from a budgerigar, let alone the business you guys are in.”

Andy nodded; he found Peter’s manner perplexing and took his self-effacement at face value, sounding almost patronising in his reply.

“I’m happy to explain anything that wasn’t clear in the prospectus.”

Peter did not even glance at him and continued as if he had not spoken.

“Anyway I’m now thinking that this is something that I might want to invest in myself, subject to what I hear back from my advisors, but everything they’ve told me so far is most encouraging.” He turned to Isobel and put his arm round her shoulder. “And Isobel just loves the place. And she’s the foremost expert in spending my money,” he said with a smile.

Andy nodded understanding. “Yep, I’ve got a wife like that too,” he replied. Both men laughed, and some of the tension was released. Andy gave her a furtive look as Peter rifled through his papers; she looked too classy for the rumours to be true, but if they were he certainly approved of Jay’s taste.

“The advice I have,” continued Peter, “is that any decision will hinge on what the property is worth now, as future income is uncertain.”

Andy frowned and shook his head a little. “Unfortunately, Peter, I don’t think I could countenance a transaction based on simple property values.”

“Of course, of course, I understand that. But supposing we were looking at just the underlying property values, what figure would you have in mind?”

Andy hesitated.

“Just a ball park,” said Peter with an encouraging smile.

“I would need an updated valuation, of course. But, just as an initial number, around thirty million. Pounds, that is,” added Andy, suppressing a lump in his throat at the gravity of the figure. But Peter, who was used to advising on investments of hundreds of millions for clients, did not blink.

“Well, that’s something we can work around then.”

Andy rushed headlong for the light at the end of the torture, seeing his salvation miraculously materialise before him.

“When would you be able to get back to me? It’s just that I have a couple of other investors looking at this too.”

“That really depends on you. The bank wants to have a look around — due diligence and all that malarkey — just routine I expect.”

“I’d need time to arrange it, set it all up,” said Andy, his eyebrows narrowing. “And I have to think about the staff, this could all be very unsettling to them.”

“No need for that,” said Peter, brisk and authoritative. “I expect these guys do it all the time. Just tell whomever you need to that the taxman is auditing you, and you need to review the accounts. Shall we say tomorrow? Just tell your guys in Capadelli to expect some whippersnappers in suits to poke around for a day or two.”

“A day or two?” said Andy in alarm.

“Beats me too.” Peter gave him a comradely smile. “But I guess they have to spin it out to justify those mind-boggling fees.”

“Which you’re picking up?” said Andy.

“But of course.” Peter turned to Isobel. “If you’ve got nothing else on, darling, maybe you could pop into Capadelli this week, say hello to the team on my behalf. That would be all right, wouldn’t it, Andy?”

He nodded as Peter swivelled one of the files around to face Andy, and offered him a pen. “Now all I need is your signature on a few authorisations; the accountants won’t lift a pebble without permission.” Peter stood up, looking down on him like an examiner.