Waves of Betrayal (The Isabel Marsh Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

‘Good actually. Yes, really good. I’m going up to London for a week or so. I was hoping to catch you before I left.’

‘London?’ asks Isabel, unable to hide her surprise.

Joan had lost her husband six months ago and Isabel can’t remember her having been anywhere further than the local shop since. Isabel had thought it very sad to witness such a strong, intelligent woman turn into a timid recluse, sapped of all self-confidence in a matter of days. Isabel knows that her parents have invited her for dinner several times, but she usually declines. She spends most of the day alone, reading or tending to her beautiful rose garden. Isabel remembers thinking that the saddest thing of all, was that Joan’s husband, Derek, had retired just three weeks before he died of a heart attack in Blackpool. They had both worked hard all their lives so had taken early retirement at the age of sixty. Derek had been a skilled carpenter and Joan, the Headmistress of a Girls’ Grammar School in Harbury. They planned to see the world together. She remembers how they had shown her glossy brochures of cruises down the Nile, guided tours of Rome and the Vatican, and of the white sandy beaches of the Caribbean.

‘Just for a week,’ says Joan, fiddling with the buttons on her cardigan. ‘I’m going to stay with my son. It’ll be lovely to see the grandchildren again,’ she smiles, her eyes becoming glassy with tears, betraying her strength.

‘They want me to go to Spain on holiday with them in August,’ she continues hesitantly, ‘but I’m not one for the heat. You teach Spanish, don’t you?’ she asks, looking hopeful, as if Isabel may be able to help her somehow with her decision.

‘No Joan, French. But I did start to learn when I was younger. My dad didn’t give me much choice really,’ she says as she feels her face flush remembering her Spanish teacher, Marcos. That was almost thirteen years ago, she realises. Marcos had been eighteen and Isabel just fourteen. Her father had ended the lessons immediately and she hadn’t seen him since.

‘My father, as you know, is Senior Lecturer of Hispanic Studies at Plymouth University now,’ she stammers on. ‘Being born with olive skin, dark hair and with my nickname
Isabella
, it’s no surprise that I’m often mistaken for being Spanish. I had lessons for two years,’ she says lightly, feeling an unfamiliar fluttering in the pit of her stomach as she remembers her first crush.

‘It’s a beautiful language,’ says Joan, with a wistful look in her eyes.

‘Yes, it is,’ hurries Isabel, aware that she is trying to avoid more questioning on this distant, private period of her life. She realises suddenly that, for some reason, in the five years that they have been together, she hasn’t even told Paul about Marcos. She didn’t feel the need I suppose. Nothing really happened to be ashamed of.

‘Jules is learning Spanish at college, apparently,’ Isabel blurts out smiling, glad of a distraction.

Joan gives a disapproving snort in the direction of Isabel’s neighbours, her diamante hair comb shimmering in the sunlight. ‘Such a pity. That cottage used to be so well maintained. They’re hardly here, that pair. Bringing down the reputation of the village with their bright coloured van with its noisy exhaust and their surfing-gear smothering those beautiful flower beds. Such a shame. Nothing can be done though apparently,’ she continues without pausing for breath ‘they must pay their rent, god knows how though. I’d say they’ve never done a day’s work in their lives. And you, working so hard at that school and never even going away on holiday...’

‘To be honest,’ interrupts Isabel, ‘I’m not much of a traveller myself. More of a home bird,’ she smiles, thinking of Paul.

‘But the way that girl, Jules, dresses,’ Joan widens her eyes and wobbles her head, leaning closer conspiratorially, ‘I’d be surprised if the entire population of Cartheston hadn’t seen her knickers at some point. Miniskirts, hot pants... well, it’s embarrassing really.’

‘Hmmmm,’ mumbles Isabel, gazing down at her own tracksuit bottoms and one of Paul’s old t-shirts. ‘She’s a lovely girl though. Her parents own a house in Tarifa in Southern Spain. Great surfing apparently,’ Isabel smiles, not wanting to run down her neighbours on her doorstep. ‘Sometimes, when they’re away, Paul and I look after their dog, Beth. A lovely, big German Shepherd. You get on really well, don’t you Sasha?’ Isabel looks down at her panting companion and realises that they both need a drink after the five-mile circuit, through fields and over stiles.

‘Well Joan, you have a lovely trip won’t you?’ says Isabel, turning the key in her door, smiling fondly at her over her shoulder. ‘I’m going to go and jump in the shower. Call me if you need anything.’

‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ says Joan, handing over her key hanging on a strand of red ribbon with a tiny embroidered rose attached to it, ‘just for emergencies.’

W
hat to wear? Always the biggest most difficult decision. Even cooking a three course meal for twelve executives from Paul’s bank would be easier than this! ‘It’s only the Ploughman’s across the road for god’s sake!’ Isabel mumbles to herself but collapses backwards in her underwear onto the bed in fake exhaustion.

‘Hey, hard day sweetie?!’ Paul sweeps into the bedroom still smelling of Calvin Klein and looking totally relaxed but professional in his Boss suit and shiny turquoise tie.

Isabel jumps up to wrap her arms around his neck but he laughs, backing away in mock fear, protecting his favourite suit from creasing before removing the jacket and scooping her up and kissing her lightly on the tip of her nose.

‘Guess what happened today?’ he asks grinning cheekily making him look much more like a member of a boyband than a thirty-two-year-old Assistant Bank Manager of one of the biggest branches in the county.

‘I got a rise. One step closer to putting a deposit down on my TT,’ he winks.

‘Woah that’s great, but what TT?’ Isabel frowns, leaning back from his approaching lips.

‘The Audi TT, the black one I showed you in the showroom in Truro.’ He lifts her up and she wraps her legs around his waist.

‘I know you’re joking,’ she says, but eyes him suspiciously ‘Mortgage first Mr Banker, then we’ll see about the TT.’

‘Ohhhh so masterful Miss Marsh,’ he says, spinning her around, her legs gripping tighter. ‘Do you know how gorgeous you are? Especially when your hair begins to dry into those beautiful Spanish curls!’

She kisses him playfully on his neck. His dark brown eyes and thick lashes were one of the first things that attracted her to him almost five years ago. He accidently knocked a pile of books from her arms, running into her outside of Cardiff University Library, where she was a student. He was only a trainee bank clerk back then and his hair was longer. She smiles and admires his thick wavy dark hair, trimmed neatly into his tanned neck, accentuating his broad shoulders. At six-foot-two, he is an excellent football- and basketball-player, but no matter how much he tries to build himself up, he can’t seem to change his natural slim athletic build. Isabel is glad. She is not attracted to big, muscular men. As far as she is concerned, his physique is perfect.

Isabel undoes his top button revealing the wooden beaded necklace he always wears, hiding it beneath his shirt at work. He had bought it in Tarifa in Southern Spain when he went surfing with his two best mates. He was just eighteen. They also had matching tattoos done, a Celtic design with three simple swirls which symbolise “family”. I suppose the three of them saw themselves as brothers back then. That was before he came back and decided that, after a year of travelling, he should settle down and study for his A-levels. He passed them all with average grades in Law, Maths, and Economics. Afterwards, he decided that he’d had enough of studying so started work in a bank in Cardiff, where he later met Isabel.

She giggles as he lowers her down onto the bed, her legs still gripping tightly around his waist.

‘So, Miss Marsh,’ he teases, slipping her bra straps from her shoulders, ‘what have I done to deserve being welcomed home by my gorgeous girlfriend in nothing but her sexy black underwear? There isn’t another man hiding in the wardrobe is there?!’

He jumps up theatrically and begins pulling open cupboard doors. Isabel laughs as he leaps back onto the bed, pinning her wrists down with one hand and unclasping her bra from beneath her arched back with the other. He kisses her deeply as they begin to move rhythmically together, all thoughts about cars or money erased, both caught up in a blissful, overwhelming sea of sensations.

‘O
h crap, I was supposed to meet Claire and Rachel half an hour ago,’ squeals Isabel as she jumps up from her slumber on the bed and retrieves her underwear entangled in the sheets. ‘I was actually trying to figure out what to wear when you came in and distracted me,’ she giggles.

Paul lies back in the bed, his arms behind his head, watching her with a big smile on his face.

‘Jeans,’ she says, ‘it’ll have to be jeans.’ She pulls out her old favourite Levi’s and a brown leather belt with a big decorative buckle. She slips them over her slender hips and chooses a flowery baggy gypsy blouse, wedge heeled brown sandals and a long beaded necklace to complete the look.

‘Hair!’ she screams, as she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, ‘oh well, no time to straighten it!’ Paul watches her proudly as she pulls her hair into a loose bun, adds the minimal amount of pink lip gloss and declares herself ‘ready to go!’

‘You are so low maintenance Miss Marsh,’ he laughs, ‘and that’s one of the many reasons why I love you so much.’

‘You do?!’ she poses provocatively, hands on her hips. He tries to grab her playfully as she leans down to kiss him, but she backs away from him, waving happily. ‘See you later sweetheart. There’s a pizza in the freezer.’

The Ploughman’s is busier than usual, even for a Friday. Isabel winds her way stealthily through the crowds, glancing at the queue, three rows deep, as she passes the bar searching for her friends. She hopes that Claire and Rachel have already got their orders in. It would take at least half an hour to get through the jostling throng of thirsty punters, especially at five-foot-three, unless she crawled through their legs. Definitely an option!

She’s relieved to hear her name being shouted above the overly amplified tunes of Bonjovi “Livin’on a Prayer”. She spots them on a picnic bench out in the beer garden and after a few very near misses involving elbows and full pints of lager, she plonks herself gratefully down on a spare seat next to Claire.

‘I’m soooo sorry I’m late girls,’ she says, her face flushed and tendrils of loose dark curls framing her face.

‘We thought we’d have to come over and drag you out. Thought Paul might have held you hostage or something!’ says Rachel, winking ‘here have a drink.’ She splashes cold white wine from a frosted bottle of Chardonnay into a spare wine glass. ‘You need to catch up! We bought two bottles so we wouldn’t have to queue and lucky for you the kitchen is so busy that there’s a half an hour wait on food! We ordered the usual. Hope that’s ok?’

‘Yeah, great, I’ve been dreaming about it since I left work. Have you seen the mob in there tonight? What happened to our quiet local? I had to fight my way through. Bloody tourists I expect; I hardly recognise anyone!’

Claire, as always, is wearing skinny jeans and a slightly oversized, navy blue t-shirt with a sparkly union jack emblazoned across the front. She has always been slim and athletic, but never likes to draw attention to her boyish figure and small chest. She moved to Cornwall at the age of thirteen from Yorkshire. Claire, Rachel, and Isabel have been best friends ever since.

‘Anyone mind?’ she asks as she slips her mobile phone back into her bag and pulls out her pouch of tobacco and starts skilfully rolling a cigarette.

‘Go ahead,’ says Rachel, rubbing a perfectly manicured finger around the rim of her glass, ‘just make sure the wind isn’t in my direction. This dress just cost me sixty-five pounds, trade price.’ Rachel is wearing a gorgeous LK Bennett black, box-necked shift dress which flatters all her curves. ‘Check out the bling!’ she adds excitedly, leaning forward. ‘Present from Stephen today. Isn’t he just adorable?!’

Adorable isn’t the first word that springs to Isabel’s mind as she admires the Swarovski earrings. Rachel had met Stephen six years ago when he started working on the tills in the same shop as her. She was basically his boss then. He was a good natured, sweet man. Tall and gangly with shoulder-length wavy chestnut brown hair and a piercing through his nose. That was then of course. He has since graduated in Accounting and Economics and is working from home as a freelance financial advisor and doing very well by the sound of it. He got down on one knee, three years ago, on the pebbly shore of Cartheston beach after a romantic picnic of smoked salmon, strawberries and Frank and Audrey’s finest sparkling wine. He’d even remembered the cups!

‘Three scampi?’ Two waitresses arrive at their table and begin offloading knives, forks, serviettes, sauces, coleslaw and three steaming baskets full of delicious crispy scampi on chunky home-made chips.

‘Mmmm, proper pub grub,’ says Isabel, sprinkling her food liberally with a sachet of salt. ‘Jeeez, if ever I had to decide what my last meal was going to be, it’d be this. I’m sure I’d still have an appetite for it even if I was about to meet my maker!’

‘Mmmm, me too,’ says Rachel, blowing steam from her mouth as she struggles to cool a hot crispy chip on her tongue.

‘So when’s the big day Rach?!’ Claire asks, taking a big glug of wine and looking slightly uncomfortable. Jealousy perhaps? Claire hasn’t had a boyfriend that anyone knows about since she was eighteen and that only lasted a few months.

‘We’re planning for august next year. You’ll both agree to be my bridesmaids of course, won’t you?’

‘Of course!’ Isabel jumps excitedly up and down on the bench, creating a small pool of wine that begins to drip through the slatted table onto her jeans. ‘But I think we’ll be more “Maids of Honour” at our age,’ she laughs, reaching over and gripping her friend’s hand happily.

‘Back in a mo,’ says Claire suddenly, ‘Loo.’