by Tom Barry
“When’s your anniversary?”
“A week on Saturday,” said Andy, his suspicion giving way to supplication. “At least that’s when we’re celebrating it. We’re spending the weekend in London, taking in a show, you know, that sort of thing.”
“Saturday night at The Candle,” said Jay, rubbing his chin theatrically, as aware as Andy that such a request was considered impossible. “Before the show or after the show?”
“I’d take any,” said Andy with a hapless smile.
“After would be better though,” said Jay, still rubbing his chin. “You don’t want to be presented with the bill when they serve the first course. I’ll see what I can sort out.”
“Thanks,” said Andy, lulled by Jay’s selflessness and by the wine.
Jay raised his palm, as if to wield off the gratitude, and refilled Andy’s glass. After a respectable interval, he raised the topic that had brought him to the restaurant that night, now buried enough beneath friendship and alcohol to be almost innocuous.
“By the way, did you ever have a chance to look at the Tuscany pack?”
Andy nodded. In their late night cruising and bonding over the past two months, he had continued to make subtle enquiries into the progress of Jay’s venture. His friend had been pleasant but business-like — it was an exceptional opportunity but there was simply no room for Andy. But things had changed unexpectedly, and perhaps wonderfully, two weeks ago when Jay’s main backer withdrew, unable to come up with the money and Jay, in deference to his friend, magnanimously offered Andy the chance to step into the man’s shoes, before someone else did.
“Yes, I did,” said Andy, “So, the plan is, we renovate these properties, sell them at a fat profit, then the people who’ve bought them hand them straight back over to us so we can rent them out at another fat profit?”
“Right, they get to own a dream holiday property plus a guaranteed rental income. Everyone wins.”
Andy leant back, as if a better view of Jay was an aid to judgement. “So the key to the whole scheme is really the rental income. That’s the carrot to buy.”
“And the carrot to give the property back to us to rent. It’s a proven model in places like Dubai. It’s just that no-one’s done it in Tuscany.”
“And the timeshare sales are the cream on the cake?”
“Right again. Though it beats me why anyone would part with good money to put a yoke around their neck, but that’s the timeshare business, and who are we to argue with the customer?”
“ But if I were to be interested, how could I be sure that the whole thing won’t crash around me a few months later?”
Jay looked at him with overt and deliberate confusion.
“Andy, there’s that risk with any business venture. You put your money in and take your chance, right? That’s what you did with your music idea, you threw away a safe salary and invested in the future—”
Andy smiled at the compliment but cut him off nonetheless.
“Did you think I wouldn’t have done my research, Jay? That failed timeshare venture in Malaga does not reflect well on you.” He studied Jay as he continued. “The bank was left owed fifty million and plenty of other people are looking to get even. Do you want to tell me your side of it, the bits I couldn’t read in the papers? And is the Tuscany thing totally legal? Is anyone going to get hurt?”
Jay put down his glass, and steepled his fingers under his chin. He expected this, though perhaps in less blunt a manner, and looked his friend confidently in the eye with all the seriousness of a man ready to bare his soul. “That could have been such a good story, and would have been a good story,” he said, his eyes glazing with the memory, “but the ugly truth is that I got screwed by those banking bastards.”
“How so?” said Andy, raising his eyebrows. “Didn’t the banks put up all the money? The way I read it, the banks got fucked over, the punters got fucked over, the staff got fucked over, and you walked off with your pockets jingling.”
Jay looked pained at his words and pushed his fingertips together until they were white.
“That’s what the banks and their lackeys in the press might have you believe. But the thing is they were calling the shots from start to finish. They had full control.”
“But I read you were the managing director, the guy in charge?” said Andy.
“The guy in charge?” cried Jay with a harsh laugh. “The fucking fall guy, more like. I offered them a great opportunity and they bought into it because the numbers stacked up, and that’s all they were interested in, the numbers.” He looked bitterly down at the table.
“But you were still the managing director, right up until the whole thing folded. If you were heading for a derailment, why didn’t you jump train when the going was good?” Andy wasn’t ready to drop it, his every iota wanting to be part of the Tuscan venture, but he had to be sure.
“A simple reason,” said Jay, self-righteous indignation etched in his voice and lined in his face. “Someone had to try and look after the little guys. We had over five hundred salt of the earth people who had taken shares in the property. Some of them even invested their life savings. Someone had to try and protect those innocent poor sods, and the fucking banks weren’t interested. All they wanted was their money out.” Jay paused as if seeking to renew himself. His voice went lower still. “They went and sold the hotel from under my feet.”
“So you didn’t fuck up at all then?” said Andy. “It was all the banks’ doing, have I got that right?”
“Listen Andy,” said Jay, direct and assured, “he who pays the piper calls the tune, right? And you will be calling the tune in Tuscany, if you want to that is. Sure, I made some mistakes in Malaga, but I’ve learnt from them. In Tuscany we’ll be working as partners, making the decisions together. We won’t have any fucking banker with his hand up our arses, pulling all the strings.”
“Would that be pulling them with the hand that’s up our arse, or with the other one?” asked Andy with a smirk.
The two men lapsed briefly into laughter, the tension broken by unspoken agreement. Andy confirmed the peace with a broad smile and an unsubtle suggestion. “I wouldn’t mind a drink somewhere else.”
Jay nodded. Their evening excursions now invariably ended in one place — the capable and professional arms of Eva’s finest.
He stopped by the maître d station as they left, signalling Andy to continue to the cloakroom. Jay was waiting when Andy returned and with a wide grin he slipped a card to his friend.
“Your anniversary dinner is all sorted. Any time you want to eat at The Candle, call the VIP number on the back of the card. Mention my name, just until they get to know you.”
Andy beamed, buoyed that Jay had delivered on his first commitment.
“Come on, let’s go and get that drink,” said Jay, putting his arm round Andy’s shoulder. They left The Candle as two brothers in arms, having for a second time silently agreed a deal that would shape their destiny.Eight
Isobel awoke in a sweat; the smoke still on her skin from the Moroccan alleyways that once more filled her nightmares. She rarely dreamt of the souk since Marrakech, but each re-visitation seemed more terrifying than the last. The alarm clock ruptured the morning silence and she leant out and hit the snooze button, her fingers dragging on the embossed invitation card, still lying where she left it the night before. She picked it up again and studied it, dwelling on its ambiguity. Jay was inviting her to a marketing function. It was the third such invitation she had received since Marrakech — but this time the event was on her doorstep, in Cobham High Street no less. Whether he was attending was uncertain; the invitation was written in his hand, or so it appeared, but he was not the host. She flicked it from the table as self-loathing welled within her. Even if he would be there, why should she attend? Her brief flirtation in Marrakech was nothing more than that, and the mundane reality of daily life had long since displaced any foolish romantic notions stirred in a far off exotic location. No. She decline
d the two previous invitations, and she would decline the third.
She turned towards Peter’s side of the bed, already empty. As her mind cleared, she could hear the sound of running water as he prepared once more to take on the world, and subjugate it to his will. She sank back into the bed and stayed lying down, collecting her thoughts and contemplating another day of nothing but emptiness. She nestled back into the rich cotton sheets, determined to fall back asleep so that, just maybe, she might be spared the chore of tending to Peter’s domestic needs. It was her fault, the result of years of training him that he need not divert one microsecond of thought away from his obsession with the world of work and the insatiable needs of his clients.
“Are you awake, darling?” His words came sailing from the bathroom like a call to duty.
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 th
em 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.