When the Siren Calls (7 page)

She scrambled out of bed and pulled on a dressing gown. As she rubbed the sleep from her eyes she stared at the wood and glass barrier now separating her from her husband; ten years ago it would have been annoying, inconvenient, perhaps even saddening. Now she rejoiced in the separation it gave her. “The car is coming at eleven and your case is ready in your dressing room. I’m taking Betsy out for a stroll.”

She could hear more running water and his muffled reply was unclear; no doubt it was the result of a mouthful of toothpaste or a mind full of business, perhaps both.

Her lack of response drew Peter from behind the screen. He was still in his sweatshirt and shorts, his morning workout in the gym as sacrosanct as his low cholesterol diet.

“Sorry, I thought I told you I was coming back tonight. I’m taking the Eurostar.”

“You didn’t,” she said with resignation, “but the case will keep for next time.”

“And Rachel is coming over at ten, with some papers,” he added. Isobel had yet to meet Peter’s new assistant but she already knew he thought highly of her.

“Are the couriers on strike or is she just coming to nose?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer set out for her own bathroom, stooping to scoop up Peter’s discarded underwear as she went.

She rode her horse hard along the bridleway that circled the farm, far harder than she knew she ought, as if physical exertion, if not a modicum of danger, could drive the feelings of restlessness from her body. But the rub of the saddle against her thighs only seemed to aggravate the aching within her. She pulled to a halt and jumped down from the panting mare, thinking perhaps that walking might offer respite. As she wandered along the path, she dwelt, as she often did these days, on her life and her marriage. Her mind drifted to the burgeoning career in the art world that she abandoned despite her passion for painting and sculpture. Was she to blame for sacrificing herself and her own ambitions for Peter’s needs, or was he to blame for letting her? No doubt it was the right career decision, at least financially. In the last ten years Peter had accumulated more money than they would ever spend and, as he often graciously conceded, far more than he ever could have done without her to relieve him of every responsibility other than his own success. But what was success? What did it give her? What good were the money and the possessions, without life’s true experiences, whatever they were? Perhaps they were what her privileged circle of friends believed: the things that money bought, the comfort of a first class cabin, the occasional private jet when the fancy took them, VIP status at the sought after social events of the English calendar.

But what good were such experiences if experienced alone, or without the possibility of sharing the pleasure with someone with the lust for life to live them, not simply attend them?

And such experiences must surely be enjoyed when one still has the vitality of youth, when the body still yearns excitement? Were not the old and the infirm, no matter how rich, content to see out their days close to hearth and home, with no more excitement than fresh air to breathe and a good book to read, and perhaps a tipple before bedtime? Isobel felt the ticking of her own clock keenly and did not like what she heard. How much longer would she be able to ride as she had this morning, with the wind gushing through her hair? How many more summers would her body retain the firmness of youth? Her mind went again to the invitation on her dresser and she hated it for its impossible possibilities. She looked at her watch; Peter would be expecting her back by now, no doubt searching for his passport or his train tickets or his shoelaces. She was needed elsewhere. She sprung onto Betsy and kicked her heels into her flanks, tearing off as if she wanted to cleave the air in two.

She arrived back breathless but with no sign of panic. Peter was in his study but not at his desk; through the window she saw him sitting at the low glass table with a brunette fifteen years his junior alongside him, leaning towards him with her head to one side, her immaculately groomed hair almost touching his cheek. Peter was looking at the girl with a bright intensity in his eyes, and she was looking back, Isobel fancied, with eyes wide in admiration.

Isobel easily recognised the glint in Peter’s eye, but she was sure it was not a direct result of the shapely girl in the tight business suit sitting so close. His look was no longer ignited by her own naked body, or by any other tangible delight. It simply signaled the excitement that rose within Peter at work, when in his element. She saw it when he punched his fist in the air at the news of some big client success, or when he was seized by some great idea, some solution. And now the young brunette saw it, and perhaps thought it to be much more than it was.

Isobel framed herself in the study door, an imposing figure in her riding pants, knee high boots, and hard hat. She stood legs apart, with her hands on hips, still clutching her riding crop, the very picture of the lady of the manor. The young woman stood up and introduced herself, her eyes glowing with opportunism, her lipstick a bright, heavy red. She was perhaps three inches shorter than Isobel, and the older woman looked down without bending her head, wishing to assert her authority. Rachel did not shrink from Isobel’s gaze, but held it with, it seemed to the older woman, a distinct lacking of due deference.

“We’re just going through a presentation,” she said, in explanation for her languid proximity to Peter. “For the meeting in Paris.”

“I will leave you to it then,” said Isobel with some aloofness. She looked across to Peter. “I’m taking a shower.”

Isobel was in the kitchen when Rachel approached her again. Not to be outdone by the assistant, Isobel had applied her own make-up more thoroughly and carefully than normal, and, as she swiveled to receive the young woman, her beauty appeared more graceful than before.

“Peter would like a coffee,” said Rachel, her voice powerful and demanding beneath a guise of submission.

Isobel looked her straight in the eye; a tray with crockery was already sitting ready. “The cups are there,” she said, nodding towards the tray, “and the coffee machine is behind you. Anyone can work it. And make me one too… please.”

“It’s a beautiful kitchen,” said Rachel as she went about her new duties. “I love the marble.”

“It’s granite,” said Isobel. And forget any idea you’ll ever inherit it, she thought.

As Rachel went on a crash course in coffee machines, Isobel weighed the girl up, noticing the trim figure so easily maintained with the advantage of youth, and resenting her for that advantage. She’d seen Rachel’s type before at Peter’s office — overdressed and over made-up for a mere delivery errand. She was pleasant and well-spoken enough and, if she played her hand well, in two years she would probably have her claws into some sad senior partner and, soon thereafter, her feet in his kitchen. But it wouldn’t be this one, Isobel was sure of that.

“Simon’s here!” shouted Isobel, as she saw the black Mercedes coming down the lane. She followed Rachel back to the study as the new maid delivered the coffee. Peter was already gathering up his papers.

“We’ll finish the presentation on the train,” said Peter. Rachel flashed a defiant look at Isobel, and as she took in the red valise by the table, it dawned on her that Rachel was going with him to Paris. She watched them leave, elbow to elbow, before separating and disappearing behind the rear blinds of the sleek black limousine. She stood and watched as the car pulled away, imagining them in eager conversation, their bodies leant in to each other across the thick armrest, and as the image played in her mind, she was unsure how to feel.

At seven that evening the phone rang, it was Peter. “The client wants to go to dinner, so I’m going to stay over.” Peter never asked permission on such matters, and she never expected it of him.

“But you haven’t got any things with you.”

“That’s ok. Rachel has popped out to get me a few bits and pieces.”

“Ok, well call me when you set off for home tomorrow.”

She hung up and dropped the phone onto the bed; stray feathers shot upwards from the duvet. One landed on the invitation and she brushed it aside with all her doubts, reaching for a pen with fire in her veins.Nine

Isobel’s footsteps echoed in the empty house as she walked over to the full-length mirror and appraised herself once more. The floor was covered in sad heaps of clothes; each garment carefully tried on and then flung aside in frustration as she attempted to find the perfect ensemble. She looked herself up and down, letting her eyes descend with growing satisfaction; finally, she had got things right.

She turned to the side and scrutinized her silhouette, running her hands over the smooth, slight curves that were highlighted to perfection in the otherwise demure Marc Jacobs dress.

Isobel fingered the invitation card as she checked the time, chewing her lower lip; another half an hour had to pass before she could leave. And, as the minutes edged across the face of her watch, nervous self-doubt began to impinge on her forced calm, and obliged her to wrestle with her motives. She felt sure that her flutter of fancy for Jay was over and that she was only accepting his invitation because it was at her doorstep, for she had after all, she reminded herself again, declined the previous two. Isobel walked again to the mirror and added a slim leather belt to her waist, tightening it to the point of pain as she stared blankly at her reflection and rehearsed the evening in her head. She would send clear signals of professionalism and disinterest, sticking closely to Peter and only engaging in the most trivial small talk. She looked at her waist, tiny and waspish in its leather fetters, and imagined his eyes resting there in desire as she stood chastely beside her husband like a caged bird. She shook the image from her head and grabbed the car keys. Maybe he would not be there, and perhaps it was better if he wasn’t.

Isobel replaced her torments with a lesser evil as she drove to Cobham station to pick up Peter. She allowed her mind to return to her last evening out with Maria, to her resistance of another, albeit much less dangerous temptation, and drew strength from her decision. She was incapable of infidelity, she was sure of it. Still it was with relief that she saw Peter walking down the platform, his pace brisk and irascible.

“On time for once, darling, a first for everything,” she said, stretching to kiss him in deliberate ignorance of his bad-temperedness.

He grunted in reply and swung himself into the passenger seat.

“A good day at the office, dear?” she said, knowing that Peter hated the Mayfair office and all its petty politics — he was at his happiest out in the action with his clients — but had for the last six months been obliged to spend more time there. The problem in Tokyo that first surfaced during their Marrakech break had festered and grown, and hung like a huge black cloud, casting a long and deepening shadow that was now threatening Peter’s career, and absorbing him entirely. But to Isobel’s frustration, he chose to share nothing of the seriousness of it with her. At least the grasping Rachel would be pleased that his troubles now kept him close to her desk, she thought.

“I have a call with Tokyo at ten, so we need to be home by then,” he said, terse and unapologetic.

“That should be fine,” said Isobel, determined not to begin the evening with an argument. “Two hours will be plenty.”

“Two hours?” He looked at her with incredulity in his expression.

“This is not just a fly by and pick up a leaflet affair darling; there’s food and wine, and even an Italian folk singer.”

“A folk singer?”

“Ok, I lied about the singer,” she said laughing, “but definitely music.”

Muted strains of Italian folk music drifted into the still evening air as they approached Gateway Homes. Isobel ignored Peter’s eyerolling sigh as the door opened to reveal the offices transformed for the evening. Smartly dressed couples weaved in and out of the tables, pausing to examine the canapés or thumb through the glossy leaflets that graced every surface. The walls were bedecked with large plasma screens, which showed rolling slideshows of idyllic Tuscan scenes smattered with smiling, white-teethed Italians and their expensively dressed, and clearly discerning, guests. Isobel scanned the crowd as they entered, craning her neck to spot Jay. A man stood hidden amongst a crowd of rapt listeners, his charisma clear from the delighted coordination of their responses. Isobel raised herself fully on her toes, sure it must be him, but her vantage point revealed a beaming Irishman holding court, no doubt the Mr. Devlin on the invitation. But she could see no sign of Jay, and she could not hide her disappointment from herself, nor pretend it was relief.

“Isobel, Peter, I’m so pleased you could make it.”

Isobel wheeled around, her heart leaping, but it was just David Knight, the regional manager for Gateway through whom they’d bought and sold several properties over the last ten years. He welcomed them like his closest friends, gripping Peter’s hand as if he owed him his life and kissing Isobel on both cheeks, then talking away obsequiously as he led them into the melee. “What can I offer you to drink? We have a fine selection of Tuscan wines.” Peter accepted a red with relief and Isobel opted for water, now feeling in no mood for Italy’s pleasures. She looked around again as the sommelier engaged Peter in conversation and soon found herself watching an attractive blonde who sat alone at the back of the room, fiddling with her phone and looking decidedly bored. Above her a vast screen cycled a series of skiing images, their whiteness contrasting starkly with the sunflowers and rolling green hills that garnished the rest of the walls.