When the Siren Calls (19 page)

“It is excellent I believe, like your accent. But then I did choose it.”

Isobel laughed; he could not be more than twenty and his youthful vivacity was welcome respite from the grey solitude of her day.

“Please, let me offer you a taste,” he said. “It would be my pleasure.”

Isobel assented graciously, in no hurry to get back to Peter who was deep in preparation for his departure the next day. She sat down at a circular, dark wood table and accepted the long stemmed glass, filled with considerably more than a mere mouthful. She took a sip and pressed the glass to her face, relishing the coolness against her skin. The waiter held her eye in expectation.

“It’s every bit as good as you promised,” she said, looking away to avoid further discussion — the coolness of the room and the stillness in the air eliciting a reflective mood within her that did not invite conversation.

She stared into the mirror on the opposite wall but did not see her own face, only the coming and going of people in the courtyard behind.

For the most part they were older couples, walking out for dinner or straggling home after a long day in the heat and sun. They drifted past in varying states of dress; some formal and tailored, others loose and billowing, but all with the same drooping faces that looked straight ahead. They reminded her of fish in a tank, with their bright colours and burnt-red skin, and for a while she amused herself with the idea that if she turned around and walked towards the courtyard, an invisible pane of glass would obstruct her path, and she would press herself against it like a child and watch them walk past, their mouths opening and closing without a sound.

As she swirled the last of the wine around the glass, her attention was caught by a familiar figure passing in the background, a male figure, and her heart jumped a beat or two. It was Peter, the motion in her chest inspired not by feeling but almost automatically — as instinctive as flight to a bird. For a split second she was tempted to let him drift past like all the others, carried on the tide of pebbles out through the courtyard archway and away from her forever. But as she glanced down at the empty glass, at her smooth, tanned hands, the bright yellow wedding band, at the dark surface of the table and the deep red tiles beneath it, she was pulled back to reality, back to the mundane side of the mirror. She turned to face the world and called out, “Peter, over here.” He did not want to hear her and headed resolutely in the direction of reception, his laptop frantically blinking a red light beneath his arm. She turned away from the mirror, all she saw through it saddening her and embittering her heart.

“Deep in thought, or drowning your sorrows?” asked a low, amused voice from the shadow of the entranceway.

She turned towards him, already knowing who it was, his arrival seeming inevitable. “Can I tempt you to another glass, but a warm red perhaps?” She extended her hand in greeting and Jay pulled her towards him, kissing her on the cheek.

“Only if I can pay this time; I still owe you for a blouse,” she said, reverting back to the safety of their first meeting as his kiss burnt on her cheek. He laughed at her offer and accepted, already sliding into a seat close beside her.

She sipped the red. “Perfect,” she said, trying to keep the happiness from her face.

“I didn’t get the chance to say it at dinner last night, but it’s great that you have made it here, it really is.” His face was sincere and she forgave him everything without question. “After our brush in the estate agents, I was so much hoping that we would see each other again.”

She met his eyes in confusion, unsure of everything all over again.

“And few women would have been brave enough to venture where you did in the souk. Which left me intrigued.” She sipped her wine and smiled, wanting to maintain some air of mystery but also at a complete loss for what to say. He took her silence in his stride and continued.

“So there we go, I’m fascinated,” he said. “Unveil yourself and solve the mysteries for me. The things you didn’t tell me that day around the pool. I want all your secrets.”

“Well, as for the souk, there’s not much to tell. I just stayed out a bit too late and walked a little too far.”

“Don’t be so modest, Isobel, you were incredibly brave that afternoon.”

She laughed and began to deny it but he interrupted her and clasped her hands in his in mock-supplication. “Please, don’t ruin the memory for me! I have my dreams too, you know. You must tell me more about yourself.”

He dropped her hands as she assented. She was enthralled by his playfulness and, relaxed now, began to share more about herself, touching on her own feelings, uncovering them for herself and for him.

It was perhaps an hour later when he coaxed her from her introspection. “And so far,” he said, “you like what you’ve seen here?”

“Yes, very much, I love it.”

“And Peter?”

“He’s not much of a romantic I’m afraid.”

Isobel felt herself blush from her forwardness and returned to looking at her glass in embarrassment. He continued talking, not, she thought, oblivious to her discomfort but attempting to heal it.

“I noticed you looking at my ring. Maybe I shouldn’t say it, but Rusty and I are barely married anymore; we’ve grown apart so much, I’m all but waiting for her to serve me the papers.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

He looked her directly in the eyes and said, “Don’t be, sometimes it’s best to move on.”

She sometimes wished she could do the same, but despised herself for thinking so.

“I guess every marriage has its problems,” he said in reply to her silence, “but it’s easy to get carried along on emotion alone, don’t you think?”

Isobel imagined Peter getting carried along on his emotions and almost laughed aloud.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

He looked puzzled as she held back her smile. “This is the most relaxed I’ve been in a long time,” she admitted by way of apology, banishing all thoughts of her husband from her head. “This place is so beautiful, so authentic.”

“That’s exactly why I love it here!” he exclaimed, looking around at the whitewashed walls and the lamps tarnished by age and use. “It’s living, isn’t it? It’s the real world in all its splendour.” He stood up, still looking around in pleasure. “I have to go, I’m afraid, I have a meeting with Eamon that started ten minutes ago.” He dipped his head in playful apology. “And by the way, I’m paying for the wine, just try and stop me!”

She watched as he strode off across the courtyard. The sky had turned dark and the leafy trellises were strewn with twinkling white lights. Two patches of white leapt and bounced in the dark as a black cat with snowy paws batted at a butterfly which flapped its frail yellow wings in the last throes of its short and graceful life.Twenty-two

Isobel was subdued in the back of Eamon’s car watching the Tuscan landscape bounce up and down as they navigated the winding side roads. Peter too kept his own counsel, preferring to let Eamon monologue as they trundled through the countryside.

“We are fortunate to have so many horse riding options around, that at first it was difficult to know where to start.” He sounded upbeat and cheerful, unfazed by the silence of his audience. “And what I have found is somewhere that miraculously is a short walk from the resort. When I discovered it I knew it was the right location but its facilities are a trifle primitive.” He glanced round for a reaction before returning his gaze to the road. “In the end we struck a compromise. The directors agreed to support the location I found, as long as we would be able to bring the place up to the Castello di Capadelli standard. So what I am going to show you now is the site in its raw state, but I am sure you will see the potential.”

Isobel was propelled from her stupor as they turned sharply onto a dirt track and hurtled down a steep hill.

“Could be a bit difficult getting in and out in snow and ice,” remarked Peter as the car became almost perpendicular, his flat tone revealing the extent of the pleasure he took from the excursion.

Isobel looked straight ahead, allowing a few words through her pursed lips. “You rarely get snow in this part of Tuscany, Peter.”

Eamon pulled into a muddy field and hastened them from the car, a slight red tinge to his cheeks as he greeted Gina who was talking to a large sun-crinkled man with a generous stomach that stretched his woollen jumper to breaking point. She stood in the muddy field lacking her usual ease, and Isobel was puzzled that she had not thought to change out of her high heels. Gina turned to Eamon and the two exchanged brief and hushed words. Isobel could feel their eyes on her as she took in the stables, their walls crumbling into dust beneath haphazard and cracked roof tiles; their proprietor smiled broadly to reveal black gaps between yellowing teeth and greeted Isobel with a thunderous “Buongiorno!” and a kiss on the cheek.

“I’m afraid he doesn’t speak any English, Signora,” said Gina, “but he does seem to like you.”

The man beckoned Isobel to follow him to the horses, his booming voice echoing about the yard as he talked jovially of the weather, the horses, and his farming, with Gina trotting behind to translate. Isobel’s face lit up as they reached the animals. The horses, despite the lack of obvious facilities, were fine, well-kept animals in excellent condition. She began to complement each as she stroked their noses and admired the lustrous sheen of their skin, dropping into Italian as Gina struggled to keep up with the quantity and pace of her raptures. The man’s face radiated delight at this revelation and he led her off to another stable block, chattering at twice the previous pace.

Peter shifted from foot to foot in agitation as they walked off, soundlessly cursing the valley for dipping so low that he could not receive a signal, and his wife for charming yet another stranger and wasting his valuable time. Two feet beside him, Eamon echoed his actions, straining his neck to watch them and flapping his hands at Gina to try and make her follow them.

When Isobel returned, Eamon tried to steer her into the car as quickly as possible, beads of sweat forming on his brow as the old man blocked the door to say goodbye.

“Are you all right, Eamon?” asked Peter in concern as his wife nodded along to the stream of Italian in the background.

“Yes, yes, it’s fine. Just been out in the sun a bit too long I think.”

Isobel turned to him in sympathy as her host ambled back to the stables, and with a reluctant sigh got into the car.

“I’m sorry to delay us so long, Eamon. He really was a fascinating man though.” Eamon loosened his collar and flicked on the air conditioning.

“He seemed a very genuine type, what was all that about at the end?” asked Peter.

“He was just saying that it was a pity that I could not spend more time with him and the horses this morning. He said it would be his pleasure to introduce me to the trails around Capadelli, as his guest. He’s obviously passionate about horses and loves riding the trails.”

“He’s got an animal that can take his weight, then?” asked Peter.

Eamon burst out laughing as Isobel directed a fine scowl into the overhead mirror, his face transforming in seconds as the worry ran off like water.

“Now, now, behave you two,” said Eamon. “Let’s keep the arguments to which of the apartments is right for you, shall we?”

Isobel swelled with elation as they drove back to Capadelli and walked through the twisted vineyard — brighter and greener today — towards the marketing suite. She could still smell the horses on her skin and feel the admiring eyes on her back.

“You definitely made a good choice, Eamon. Those horses are in amazing condition. Your man down there knows how to select a good animal, and how to look after one. That’s much more important than the stabling.”

“To be fair, most of the credit needs to go to Gina. She has done the leg work over the last months.” He gestured towards Gina who was standing by a giant model of Capadelli; her arms were folded and she seemed to be scowling in Eamon’s direction. Isobel turned to her with warmth. “Thanks, Gina, you really are to be congratulated.”

“You are too kind, Mrs. Roberts,” she responded with a shy smile. “If you do ever want to go horse riding, then please call me directly, and I will be happy to accompany you, if you would like a riding companion.”

“Thank you again, Gina. I think that will be all for the moment,” Eamon said, beckoning Isobel away from her to the table at which Peter was already seated.

He placed the price and availability list before them once more and Isobel noted with alarm that four new apartments had been crossed off since their last viewing. Eamon reached out and crossed through a fifth. “I just need to update this. One of the existing investors here at Capadelli has asked to take out an option to upgrade to a larger apartment.” Isobel nodded and swallowed her last reservations.

“Eamon, we like what we have seen here and we think we would like to make a reservation. But our preference is the Visconti suite.”

He rubbed his chin and furrowed his brow but allowed himself an optimistic smile.

“Mr. Brooke did seem quite hopeful when I spoke to him this morning; if I might suggest—”

Peter cut him short with a cough and placed a restraining hand on his wife’s arm. “What we wish to do is to put a deposit on apartment forty-two, which is a one bedroom apartment. And if the Visconti suite becomes available, we would intend to transfer the deposit.”