When the Siren Calls (17 page)

“Well, we are having a look around. It is a beautiful spot. And I think Peter likes it too.”

Peter gave a non-committal grunt and resumed his vigil out the window.

“Well, if you do decide to buy, I have a secret to share with you. Eamon is ok, everyone likes him, but he has a job to do you know. And some apartments are easier to sell than others. Roger says, looking back, he felt Eamon pushed him towards a standard two bedroom, because he had more of those on his books than the better deluxe apartments.”

“Did Roger remember how he felt he was encouraged towards the smaller apartment,” asked Isobel quietly, sure that if they were duped in any way it would be the last time that Peter would give her the reins on anything larger than grocery shopping. But Mrs. Carragher had no time to answer as a knock at the door signalled Eamon’s re-entry.

“Thanks for your patience. The call took a shade longer than I expected. And, Eileen, thanks a million for your indulgence. Next time you visit I will have a bottle of French champagne waiting for you instead of the prosecco.”

“Well, Eamon, that’s very kind of you. But no need to put off until tomorrow what you can do today. I seem to have finished the prosecco, so you may as well drop that French bubbly round this evening.”

Eamon laughed heartily. “I’ll have one sent down from the restaurant, ready chilled for you. But make sure you don’t drink it all in one go now.”

Eamon turned to Isobel and Peter, the remnants of a grin still painted on his features. “One last hurdle and then we are done. The last apartment we are going to view is known unofficially as the Visconti suite; I’m sure the old Count would be flattered, if he were not occupied fertilising the olive trees. I think you may like it. Thank you again, Eileen, and say all the best to Roger for me.”

As soon as Isobel entered the Visconti suite she was conscious of the need to suppress her enthusiasm. She felt immediate wow factor from the open plan arrangement that filled the elegantly furnished space with air and light, its ceilings perhaps twice the height of any other apartments. Unlike the other units which stood in lines — so charming at first but now no longer good enough — the Visconti apartment stood in its own private garden with open views in three directions. Eamon was subdued and matter of fact in his description, without labouring any of the most distinctive features, until he led them out through the kitchen onto a secluded outside terrace.

“Quite a view, isn’t it?” he burst out as he looked over the hills towards the distant mountaintops and into the beginnings of a red Tuscan sunset. “It’s been a busy day and I hope a worthwhile use of your time. I think we have all earned something to refresh us and, as I see it’s past six, perhaps I can persuade you to a glass of fine Tuscan wine?”

“Lead us to it,” said Peter with relief.

“No need for that, I have it on ice in the fridge right here, take a seat and I’ll be right back out.”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him Isobel turned to her husband.

“We have to have it,” she said, “it’s perfect, so, so perfect!”

“For god’s sake, Isobel,” whispered Peter, “can you calm your enthusiasm till we are alone? You are worse than a bouncing puppy.”

Eamon returned with three glasses and a bottle of wine on a silver tray. “I expect you both have many questions, and there has been a lot for you to digest this afternoon. But now, I’d like to suggest, is a time for you to relax, enjoy the beautiful sunset, take the evening to think about things, and for us to talk more in the morning about the choices you have.”

Peter nodded and reached for the fullest glass.

“Apart from Mrs. Carragher’s apartment, are all the apartments we have seen today available?” Isobel asked, unable to restrain herself.

“To answer your question very specifically and very candidly, this has been a busy week for my team here at Capadelli. I think I am right in saying that over the past two days we have seen a record number of people visit us. Not all will invest of course, but yesterday we received several strong commitments on a number of apartments, though I think none of the ones you’ve seen today.”

Isobel reached for the wine in relief but tensed as he spoke again.

“However,” he said, “I do need to make you aware that the Visconti suite is something of a special case. The directors of Tyneside Holdings identified it as one to be held back for their personal use. Originally this was until the end of phase one, which is only two weeks away, so it may not be an issue.”

Isobel exhaled in relief and Peter’s hand went to her knee in warning. Eamon did not appear to notice and continued talking.

“One possible complication is that one of the directors, a Mr. Andy Skinner, may, I understand, have an interest in purchasing it outright for his own family’s private use. I guess you can appreciate why he would want this particular suite,” he said with a smile. “What I would like to suggest, if I may, and if the Visconti suite was one of those you are considering, that this is something you may wish to raise over dinner this evening. I’m told Mr. Brooke will normally guide Andy. And it may be that because apartment sales are running ahead of plan that he’ll be ready to let the Visconti suite go.”

Isobel opened her mouth to speak but was silenced by the hand tightening like a vice on her knee.

“As regards to the other apartments we have looked at today, I could take a holding deposit if that is something you wanted to do, maybe on one of the standard two bedroom apartments?”

Isobel smiled as the old lady’s words became reality, and dug her nails into Peter’s hand so that he removed it with a barely suppressed yelp. She had one up on Eamon now and she was not going to waste her advantage.

“Obviously, price is a consideration, and Peter and I need to discuss things more, but based on what we have seen today, if we were to be interested, I think it would very likely be in this apartment, in the Visconti suite.”

While Peter busied himself with plans for his trip to Dallas, Isobel strolled around the grounds, and found herself drawn back by some compulsion to the secluded vineyard. She took her place on the bench and luxuriated in the stillness as the evening sun cast its long shadow, and bathed her face in a warm glow; she closed her eyes and imagined herself already owning the Visconti suite. And as she imagined it, she again became the heroine in a great romance, a free spirit forced by tragic circumstance to deny herself the passion she craved, the passion she deserved. And soon her thoughts took her to the very centre of her existence: was she to live her whole life having known only one man, what purpose was her faithfulness to Peter actually serving, she asked herself. And why should she not pursue passion if Peter would not even notice, if he would never know, not even suspect?

A light evening breeze rustled through the vineyard and pulled Isobel from her introspection. As she rose from the bench she felt herself somehow calmer, more certain, as her thoughts turned to the evening ahead.Nineteen

As Jay drove, field after field streamed past, punctuated by tall sparse trees, dried by the heat and standing out against the cerulean sky. But they had lost any charm they once held for him, as the world closed in around him and day by the day the threats against him loomed nearer.

The ringing of his mobile interrupted his thoughts. It was an unknown number, perhaps Andy on a hotel line, with news he had relented. He hit the green tab on the screen to take the call.

“Hi, big boy, it’s me,” purred a female voice, “don’t worry though, I just need a quickie again.”

His annoyance at Andy’s continued silence disappeared with her words, their raw sexuality drawing him in like honey.

“Over the phone? I’m driving, Lucy, it will have to wait.”

“Not that sort of quickie,” she said with a laugh. “I just need to check something about the wedding.”

Jay’s heart skipped a beat. “The wedding?” he asked, unable to suppress his excitement, knowing in his gut that Rob must have finally proposed, and Lucy mercifully accepted.

“Yes, Jay, the wedding to which you are escorting me, or have you forgotten that already?”

With a jolt his mind returned to the events of the previous night and everything within him deadened. “No, Lucy, of course I haven’t forgotten,” he said, forcing indignation into his voice. “But I don’t have time to discuss it now, I’m running tight for time.”

“Don’t worry, tiger, there’s nothing to discuss, I just want to let you know that I’ve gone ahead this morning and confirmed a few things to do with the wedding, that’s all,” she said, her voice growing higher as if she was about to hang up.

“Hold on a second, this is something we need to talk through. You know weekends are difficult for me; Rusty expects me to be around, for the kids and stuff,” he said, quickening the pace of his speech in fear that she would drop the call.

“When you are not in Tuscany,” she retorted with such delight that he could hear the glee in her voice.

“Of course when I’m not in Tuscany. What has Tuscany got to do with anything?” he replied, anxious to end whatever charade she had constructed this time.

“Well, that’s why it’s so perfect!” she exclaimed.

“What is so perfect?” he demanded, feverishly trying to put the pieces, the convoluted segments, into place in his head, panicked by the euphoria in her voice.

“The wedding of course, didn’t I tell you? It’s in Tuscany. In some cathedral in Florence.”

“Some cathedral in Florence?” said Jay in transparent disbelief as an image of the iconic church, the Dome of which dominated the skyline of the great Renaissance city, flashed before his eyes. A kneesup in the Croydon Holiday Inn sounded more up Lucy’s street. His anxiety began to ease.

“Ok, maybe not the cathedral,” said Lucy laughing, “but definitely in Florence, the Church of San Marco to be precise.”

Lucy’s precision made the wedding all too real. Italy continued to soar past the windows and Jay could not have hated it more. He despised its beauty, its culture, its architecture; he heaped contempt upon anything that could have drawn Lucy’s friend to have her wedding there.

“So it couldn’t be better,” she continued. “You don’t need an alibi or anything, or to worry about being seen with me in daylight. Don’t you think that’s so romantic? I mean Italy is famous for weddings, isn’t it? People go there from all over the world to tie the knot in Tuscany. Hollywood celebs even.”

Shit, thought Jay, shit, shit, shit. How had simple Lucy anticipated his escape route? But all was not lost; in his nearly forty years he had never truly been brought to account for any of his promises and he did not intend this to be the first time. He decided the best option was prevarication, particularly as he was now about to turn into the grand tree-lined avenue that led up to Castello di Capadelli.

“Let’s talk more about it later,” he suggested, “right now I’m late and I need to get into my meeting.”

Lucy was conciliatory. Jay had a horrible feeling that this was because she knew she had him where she wanted him but he pushed this to the back of his mind.

“Of course, you being the hot-shot that you are, don’t let little old me keep you,” she said, her voice sugar sweet. “And anyway, I still have to sort out my outfit and some naughty new lingerie for you.”

“I don’t wear lingerie,” he said, “and anyway I prefer you with nothing on…except maybe that nun’s outfit.” In his mind he was reliving one of the many bedroom scenes Lucy liked to stage. He pulled into his parking space outside reception and as a slender, dark female emerged from the doorway before him.

But Lucy ploughed on as if she hadn’t heard him, and Jay was obliged to dismiss the young lady with a wave of his hand.

“And maybe you can give some thought to a wedding present, there’s a list, in Harrods I think. But you run along now and do your moving and shaking, and you can call me back when you’ve got more time to talk. Ok, big boy?”

“Harrods? Come off it, Lucy. Who do you know that shops at Harrods?”

“Well, I know you, don’t I?” she said coolly. “Anyway, I’ll let you go. But call me soon, babe, you know I don’t last long without you.”

Jay got out of the car in a daze and made his way to reception. He realised that she had not only cornered him, but that he had recklessly given her the weapons she needed to do it. The thought that Lucy had outsmarted him, that she had planned and connived how to trap him, made him uneasy, uneasy at what more she was capable of. Maybe he had underestimated her. And as he thought it, the resolve to get Lucy out of his life one way or another strengthened within him.Twenty

Cicadas hummed in the olive trees as Peter and Isobel made their way through the balmy Tuscan night to Il Paradiso restaurant. Isobel was silent, her mind on Jay; his image transforming and mutating as she flicked between the dashing stranger from Marrakech and the suave professional at the estate agents. Peter raised his eyes from his phone and broke her introspection, noticing neither her glazed eyes nor half smile.

“Amex has sent through the options for my flight to Dallas. Looks like we need to cut short our stay here, and head to London Sunday afternoon.”

Isobel flinched as reality flooded back in, the world of husbands, airports, and business. “But I’ve arranged dinner with Maria. Can’t we take the early flight to London the next day?”

Peter shook his head. “The connections are tight, and you know how I hate dashing for flights. We need to go back early. You can have dinner with Maria some other time.”