When the Siren Calls (44 page)

“Who has told them?” asked Isobel, wondering if this was yet one more charge to put at Jay’s feet.

“The workers council. They are the people outside. I think they are trying to make trouble for Signor Skinner, and his wife too, because she is on the brochure. I think perhaps, Isobel, they mistook you for her; the staff have been listening to the workers council, who are all communists and troublemakers—”

“And feccia?” said Isobel with a smile, drawing strength and composure from Gina’s hysteria.

Gina smiled. “Yes, that too, but you must not say that word. But what the council say has made many people angry. They are waiting to hear from Mr. Skinner, or Mr. Brooke.” Gina lowered her eyes as she said Jay’s name.

“So is Jay here?”

“He was. But he left earlier. He took a call and he went off straight away; maybe he heard the people from the workers council were marching here from Capadelli.”

Gina put an arm around Isobel, and the two walked towards the courtyard in silence, both deep in their own thoughts. To Isobel, her mission now seemed irrelevant. She did not care about getting information anymore. She wanted to see Jay, to confront him, to shame him, no matter what the cost to herself. But first she would do what Peter had asked; that would cost her nothing.

As she entered the inner courtyard she was acutely aware of being watched; it seemed like faces were at every window, each full of questions. But no one approached her. Was it fear that kept them silent, she wondered, fear of the power her husband now wielded, or was it contempt? She walked on with Gina by her side, forcing herself to hold her head high. She knew she had harmed no one, only herself. And Peter.

Gina led her into the offices where the accountants were busy, swarming around a hopeless looking Davide, clutching papers and talking hurriedly as he watched in despair. He approached Isobel, fearing for his livelihood like all the rest. “Are they closing us, like the rumours say?” he asked her.

“I’m sorry, Davide, you must talk to Mr. Brooke,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

“I am worried, Signora. I have been an accountant for many years. I fear these people are here to do more than they say. But I am powerless. They have signed authorisations from Mr. Skinner.”

“Then you must ask your questions to Mr. Skinner,” snapped Isobel, without meaning to and immediately regretted it. She touched Davide’s shoulder and looked at him apologetically. He seemed to understand that she did not want his questions, and he sloped away to the cubbyhole of an office that was his only kingdom. She introduced herself to the closest of the investigative team, a brighteyed young trainee that wore his First in computer science like a medal. He reached into his case and gave her a package.

“This is for your husband.” He gave a furtive look in Davide’s direction, but his door was closed. She gave him a sealed envelope in return.

“My husband needs something else. This note will explain.”

The young man read the note and seemed to immediately understand.

“If it’s anywhere on a hard disk, I’ll find it,” he said, “and I’ll leave it on a memory stick for you to collect…if I don’t see you first,” he added with a wink.

“I need it today. You’ve got an hour,” she said sternly, feeling every male glance as a rumour-fuelled slight on her morality.

Isobel went to the cold and empty Visconti suite and called Peter again. The last of her composure rested on him answering and she sighed in audible relief as he picked up the phone. She refrained from relaying the day’s drama to him, saying only that things were going to plan and that she had the information he wanted.

“And Brooke?” he asked in curt response.

“I’m still trying to track him down.”

“You and a few others I should think,” he said with a barking laugh. But Isobel did not linger on his victory; she did not want to talk about Jay or about great plans and devious schemes. She wanted to escape from the whole world of deceit and deception, to get back to the world she knew. So she asked him about the horses, the farm, what he ate for breakfast, whether he’d remembered to put out the bins, anything to lose herself in the mundane world she had been so desperate to escape, and which now seemed so inviting. And he told her about mundane things, and asked her about mundane things, and she was happy again, for a while.Fifty

She was late at the cafeteria that Jay had nominated, just around the corner from his apartment. They had enjoyed a nightcap there once before, in happier times. It looked onto a narrow and curving street, quiet and shady despite the bustle in the surrounding roads. The few customers present were idling away the late afternoon, most sipping a drink, one playing on the fruit machine in the corner. Isobel searched the room but saw no sign of Jay — another game perhaps. If so she didn’t need it, her stomach was churning and her hands were trembling. She went to the counter and ordered a coffee with a brandy, pouring the spirit into the coffee before ordering another, which she threw down her throat as the assistant looked at her, wideeyed and open mouthed. “Prostrovia,” said Isobel, in invented Russian, as she banged down the glass, returning the woman’s stare.

She made her way onto the back terrace that boasted a panoramic view over the valley; the last of the afternoon’s sunlight dancing on the green fields below, it could have been a scene from her imagination, months before, as she dreamt of a cinematic love affair in the hills of Tuscany. How empty that dream felt now. She sipped from her coffee and steeled herself for the ordeal ahead, feeling the onset of a headache with the creeping nausea.

Jay eventually made a hurried arrival onto the terrace, apologising as he walked towards her. He bent to kiss her but she offered only her cheek.

“You are angry with me,” he said, uttering possibly the greatest understatement ever to have entered her ears. He cupped her hands before she could withdraw them, and held them tightly, pulling them to him and kissing them slowly and fervently.

“Please, Jay,” she said, looking around for justification, but they were alone on the terrace and she had nothing else to say.

Isobel’s heart had raced when he walked in, but now it seemed to be running slower, the brandy taking hold, she hoped — the other explanation, that he could calm her after all he had done, was too awful to even contemplate. Yet she had expected to be repulsed by him, and wasn’t at all; she had no idea what she felt. But she had come to hear him out and she would do so, feeling that, at least, she owed him.

“Why have you been avoiding me?” he said. “Hiding up in Lucca when you have an apartment in Capadelli?”

“Two apartments,” she reminded him, though both were awaiting the new furnishings she now wished she never ordered.

“And you have not been returning my calls, till this afternoon. Have I done something wrong?” She looked down and did not reply, fearing his gaze. “Because I hope not. Andy has told me that Peter is interested in a deal with him, so this is something for us to celebrate.” His eyes never left her. She pulled her hands from him and hid them on her lap. The woman arrived with a coffee for Jay. “Would you like something?” he asked Isobel. She shook her head, but the waitress was not so easily deterred.

“Another brandy perhaps, madam?’ she asked in Italian. Isobel’s face reddened as Jay got the gist of the question, and seized on it.

“Yes, two large brandies, please.” The woman gave Isobel what she took to be a disapproving look, before retiring. “A brandy will warm our hearts,” said Jay, “and today I want them to be warm, because we’re together.” He smiled a small and hopeful smile at her.

“You are talking like a lovesick teenager,” she said, without any of the warmth he begged of her. She thought she saw hurt in his eyes, but she continued in the same cold fashion. “You wanted to see me?”

Jay had heard enough; he had his pride after all. “Isobel, if you have something to say, please say it. If I’ve done something wrong, I apologise. Ok?”

She had prepared for confrontation, but did not seek it, not yet anyway.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I am falling to pieces this last week. Whispers at Capadelli that I am your whore.” She spat the word out in self-disgust. “And I am sure Peter has noticed something, even if he hasn’t heard anything. And then there are these rumours about you… there was a meeting in Capadelli—”

“Stop it.” He seized her behind the elbows and pulled her arms from under the table, grasping her hands in his again. “Listen to me, you are no one’s anything, and whatever anyone is saying about us, let them go to hell. I wanted to see you to give you something, and to tell you something. And anything you’ve seen or heard since we last made love doesn’t change what I want to do or say.”

She felt herself go limp, now wishing to stand up and leave, without hearing or saying anything. But she was powerless to lift herself, in the same way she had been powerless to resist his darkest desires.

He eased his hold of her hands and gently laid them on the table with a final caress. He produced a gift-wrapped, oblong package from his pocket. “I’m going to give you something today and you are going to accept it, or it will stay here on this table when we leave.” She stayed silent, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with his terms. “And after I’ve given it to you, I’m going to tell you something. And no matter what you think of me when I’m finished, what I give you stays with you, or it stays here.” She felt herself nodding without wanting to, a strange listlessness seeming to have come over her, a stoical acceptance that whatever was happening was meant to happen.

Jay passed the package over and she removed the wrapping with hands shaking and tears in her eyes. She felt like she was unwrapping a final memory, one last placebo amongst all the lies and the deception. She sat staring at the oblong jewellery box, not wishing to open it. “It’s beautiful,” was all she could say. And it was. An eighteen carat solid gold necklace.

“I’m sorry Jay, I can’t—”

“Just put it on, please. I want to see it on you, if only once.”

She put it to her neck but she was unable to manage, such was the trembling in her fingers. He leapt up and helped her, securing the clasp behind her neck, before sitting back in front of her. She ran her fingers along the precious metal, feeling it cool against her skin. The waitress arrived with the brandies and put them down in front of her, her hands taut around the glasses with wonder and envy.

“I’m sorry, it’s what delayed me. I had it specially made, and they needed to adjust the clasp.”

“You wanted to tell me something.” Her hands fell slowly from the necklace and she let him take them again in his, because it was easier than resisting.

He looked into her watery eyes and squeezed her hands in a reassuring way; his voice was low and confessional.

“You said you wanted me for yourself, remember? That you couldn’t bear the thought of me touching anyone else like I touch you?”

She hung her head. So this is what it is all about, she thought, he wants to tell me he’s leaving Rusty or, more likely, that she’s left him. “It wasn’t about Rusty…” she managed to say, choking back sad indignation.

“And I’m not talking about Rusty. I’m talking about someone else.” Isobel’s stomach churned faster, her head aching from the brandy and her own confusion.

“You remember the girl you asked about, from the Cobham evening?” He seemed to brace himself and inhaled a long breath. “Well, her name’s Lucy, and she’s been my mistress for the past two years.” She looked up at him, seeing only sincerity in his eyes. She wanted to believe him but wasn’t sure she could.

“I’ve been looking to end the relationship since before we met. We don’t see each other that often, sometimes less than once a month. I’m all over the place and she’s an air stewardess. I was very fond of her, I am very fond of her, but I don’t love her, and I never have.”

Isobel was struggling with the shock of his unexpected revelation, trying to make sense of it, trying to see through it.

“But she loves you?”

“She has a boyfriend, and has had since before she met me, who dotes on her. But she’s an ambitious girl — in a good way — and, yes, maybe she loves me, or thinks she does, but I can’t help that.”

“So you have just used her for sex — like you’ve used me?” She pulled away her hands again, sure that she knew him now. She saw immediately that her words had shocked him, hurt him, that after all he had vulnerability within him. In spite of herself she felt sorry for him, and in that sorrow was again drawn to him. She wanted to touch him, to make the pain go away, but she held still, sensing that the fight was going out of him.

“If that’s what you think,” he said, now seeming crushed, “then maybe there’s nothing more to say.” He leant back in his seat as he said it, abject resignation on his face.

But now that Isobel’s emotion was stirred, she could not take the exit he was offering. “But why have you not ended it? Why haven’t you just said ‘I don’t love you, it’s over, goodbye?’”

“Like you came here to say to me?”

His words burnt into her. It was as if he could see through her like glass. She had not done it, she castigated herself, because she was using him, using him to draw out the secrets that she would give Peter to damn him to his doom. And as the words burnt deeper, she was seized by guilt.

“When did you last see…Lucy?” she asked, wanting him to save himself.