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When the Siren Calls

Page 8

by Tom Barry


  Despite the attempt at an armistice in the roadside café, the rest of the journey continued as before. Each car that came too close, or bend that turned too sharply, pushed Isobel closer and closer to a new breaking point. Peter’s eyes darkened and narrowed as the rain grew heavier, the rugged beauty of the Garfagnan obscured by raindrops that coated the windows, falling into one another in playful flirtation, growing and shrinking as they traversed the glass. When they arrived at their destination, the historic town of Bagni di Lucca, scant sign of life was visible; each swipe of the wipers revealing empty streets and dull, colourless rows of houses that bled watery dust into the gutters.

  “The god forsaken place is deserted,” announced Peter, indicating what giving it his best shot was going to involve. “Where are the bustling streets and the outside markets? Isn’t that what you told me was a feature of every Italian city, large or small?”

  “It’s raining, Peter.”

  “I can see that. I suppose the locals have decided it’s too bad to put out the dog, so they’ve decided to do what we should have done, and stay at home.”

  “We are here now,” said Isobel, “and the rain seems to be easing.” And as she said it they heard a dog barking.

  They were due to meet Sophia, the estate agent that found Maria her villa, in the car park of the Marco Hotel in forty-five minutes, and they had intended to explore the town on foot to pass the time. But despite Isobel’s optimistic forecast, the rain continued to pour and they were confined to the car, like two prisoners in isolation, Isobel watching the forlorn path of the raindrops as Peter glowed in the light of his phone screen.

  Sophia was twenty minutes late when she finally arrived, and both Peter and Isobel jumped out of the car in relief at her coming, not even thinking to complain about her tardiness. Sophia was an uninspiring looking woman in her mid-twenties, with hawkish eyes and scraped back hair. She greeted the two warmly enough, but otherwise displayed all the enthusiasm of a funeral director for a cancer cure. The pace of her speech and the curt rapidity of her movements suggested that she viewed them as the worst type of timewasters, her eyes flitting between Peter’s surly face and Isobel’s anxious gaze suggestive of someone who wished she were somewhere else.

  “How well do you know the area?” she asked, in a transparent attempt to establish whether the couple before her did have some genuine interest in a holiday home.

  “We know several British people with homes here,” said Isobel, feeling a white lie or two was justified. “And I’ve read quite a bit about the area, novels set here, and so on. And we’ve been told now is a good time to buy.” In deference to Peter, Isobel spoke in English, while itching to show off her language skills.

  Anytime would be a good time to buy, thought Peter, based on stories of the wholesale flight of Italy’s youth from the hills to the civilisation in the cities below; but only so long as you were never expecting to sell what you bought.

  Sophia gave a grudging nod of acknowledgement. “Yes, we have many British here. The weather reminds them of home.” It was a half-hearted attempt at humour, and was greeted with the enthusiasm with which it was delivered.

  She gave them a brief itinerary as they climbed into her Fiat Panda; they were to visit some of the scenic villages and hamlets in the spartan hills above Bagni di Lucca before descending back into the town itself to see two or three properties that “might be of interest.” Her mood was polite but sour as they drove into the hills, and was made worse by the continuing drizzle, the only respite from which was the occasional bank of mist and fog encountered on the pot-holed and narrow winding roads.

  “I don’t think these roads have been repaired since the roman legions first trod them,” said Peter, offering his own attempt at dry humour to contrast with the wet conditions. “And not much else has been repaired either.” Isobel ignored the comment and strove to lighten the atmosphere, as she had been desperately attempting to do all weekend, making conversation as Peter sat silently staring at the rain.

  “So, Sophia, do you live around Bagni di Lucca?”

  “God, no,” exclaimed Sophia, without further explanation, as none was needed given the sheeting rain and the spine juddering shocks from the road. But Isobel pressed on regardless, eventually switching to speaking Italian, given Peter’s vacant look of resignation. Sophia took this familiarity to launch into a litany of complaints about everything from her sick mother to the decline of the local olive oil industry, all of which Isobel took to be an encouraging sign. “This country is finished,” Sophia announced by way of conclusion, which Isobel thought was a curious observation from a woman whose livelihood depended on encouraging investment.

  Peter’s sullen silence continued largely unabated, but he became more vocal as they reached the villages, finding no charm in the consistently dark, damp, and dilapidated properties that Sophia showed them and, unlike Isobel, feeling more than happy to say so. He initially contented himself with grumbling to Isobel but snapped when Sophia led them into the fifth mildew-ridden apartment and suggested that, “this one might need a bit of doing up.”

  “Doing up? More like pulling down!” he responded in exasperation as Isobel hid her face in her hands in embarrassment, cursing herself for thinking this could ever have been a good idea.

  Sophia responded with a derisive snort and led them back into the rain, turning to Isobel and saying, “I have more properties to show back down in the centre of the town, but I think perhaps they are not what you are looking for.”

  “Are they like these ones then?” Peter asked. “Falling down and inhabited by stray dogs, with neighbours who look like they belong in the village that time forgot?”

  Isobel turned to Sophia in apology but she had already retaken her seat at the wheel, remaining silent for the entire journey back as Isobel and Peter argued with angry whispers in the back seat, he adamant that this fool’s errand was her fault and she hating him for his blindness and arrogance.

  The rain depleted to a drizzle when they arrived back in the town but this did not stop Sophia from limiting their exploration to just two properties, each, she assured them, boasting views over the River Lima.

  Isobel nudged Peter from his phone as they approached the first apartment.

  “The whole of Tuscany appears to be in a state of disrepair,” he noted with sagging shoulders, glancing up at the tall blank building before returning to his messages. “I’m beginning to think that the only thing the Italians ever finish is their food.” Isobel stormed inside after Sophia and, determined to like what she saw, scrutinised everything at careful length. Peter, after a perfunctory glance around the lounge and diner area, did not advance more than two steps beyond the apartment entrance and stood in the doorway like a petulant child.

  “It is very relaxing to live beside a river,” said Sophia, as the swollen waters crashed below them in the unseasonal rain.

  “It would be quieter to live next to the motorway,” snarled Peter.

  “Shall we see the next one, Sophia?” asked Isobel with a quiet sigh, her tone flat and angry as she glared at her husband who stared back without repentance.

  Sophia, seemingly equally anxious to bring the pain to an early end, signalled that they follow her, and led them back down to the overgrown garden area. As the three surveyed the view over the river, a dog howled miserably in the rain and a flock of bedraggled pigeons rose from the rooftops like sad little balloons. The last apartment, only a five-minute walk away, was more promising, larger and brighter, even in spite of the heavy French curtains that masked the balcony.

  A deathly glare from Isobel ensured that they both ventured forth to view the property like serious buyers, encouraged, perhaps, that if time and money were no object, it may have potential. Sophia, briefly encouraged, gestured to the two to move towards the balcony, a miserable jutting stone that, if one was willing to toy with fate, provided a view of the river beneath. Peter exhaled loudly at the prospect and headed for the door, Isobel motion
ing apologetically in his wake like a mother at the supermarket. As they walked back towards the hotel where Sophia’s car was parked alongside the hire car, it was difficult for either side to know how to bring proceedings to a close. Sophia, for her part, seemed to have already concluded that the Roberts were the last people likely to buy a place in Tuscany, and that the sooner they reached the car park and said arrivederci, the better. But one final hurdle now presented itself, as Isobel’s attention was drawn to a balcony in the building alongside the hotel. Even from where they stood it seemed that it would enjoy direct sunlight, and offered a panoramic view down the Lima valley and over the river. “Maybe something like that apartment would be interesting?” she said, putting to one side the umbrella to point towards the balcony. “Somewhere with an outside terrace or balcony to enjoy the views from…”

  Sophia’s eyes pierced her like arrows, and her mouth curled in cynical mirth. “Such properties rarely come on the market; families hand them down through the generations.” Isobel nodded in silence at the dismissive reply and they walked in black silence to the car park. “I hope today has been some value,” said Sophia offering an extended hand before continuing, “it was a pity about the weather.” She gave a limp shake of Isobel’s hand, closed her umbrella, and lowered herself into the car. “I think maybe you have a problem with the tyre,” she said with a barely concealed smile. And, without waiting for a reply or a request for assistance, she let out the clutch and pulled away, leaving Peter and Isobel to stare at the flat wheel, their tired and angry faces reflected in the endless purple puddles that licked their feet like flames.Twelve

  Jay switched on his phone as the plane descended, ignoring Lucy’s scowl of disapproval. He found a text and email from Greg Johnson to say that he had been called in to a late meeting with TMI. He cursed the company for yet further dithering, but could do nothing but wait.

  Eamon greeted Jay as he invariably did, with a smile and, “Hi, boss.” Eamon rarely referred to Jay by name, preferring comedy to protocol. “Everything go ok on the flight? No problem with Andy?”

  “I handled it,” said Jay, not sure that he had.

  “It seems there’s no rest for the wicked, even up there in the skies close to the man himself. And no safe haven for the innocent either,” said Eamon, referring to Andy, and dropping into his thickest Dublin accent. “You are surely like the Devil himself; you are there forever behind every man’s shoulder and his Holiness the Pope himself could not resist your temptations.”

  “You had better get me his number then, because we need every sale we can get. At least if things are half as bad as you are telling me.”

  Eamon relieved Jay of his carry-on trolley case, like the obedient servant he was, before Jay continued. “There’s a change of plan. I need you to run me to the Tulip, something’s come up and I have meetings arranged there this evening.”

  “But what about the team in Capadelli? They are all expecting you. And Gina has arranged a bit of a welcome party, for the messiah’s return.”

  “And look what happened to him,” said Jay. “Let’s leave the partying till the work is done.”

  As they approached the revolving doors of the Tulip hotel, Jay’s phone rang and Greg’s name appeared on the screen. “You go ahead and get us some drinks, I just need to get this,” said Jay, his heart pounding. Greg was Jay’s deal controller on the TMI bid. From Greg’s tone, instinct born from experience told him it was not the news he wanted.

  “The steering committee has made the decision,” said Greg without drama, “and they good as told me the deal is ours.”

  “But,” said Jay, half knowing what was coming.

  “It has to be signed off in New York, by Rick Epstein himself. Until then, no white smoke. So we just need to stay calm and wait. No need to worry though, Epstein is just going to rubber stamp it.”

  Jay was not a man to leave his fate to chance. He’d been on the wrong end of mercurial decision-making before. He paced around the car park thinking, his phone pressed to his ear. Finally he spoke. “I can’t take that risk; we need to get to Epstein.”

  “I wish,” said Greg. “Ask me to get in to see Elvis; that might be easier. And we don’t want to piss off the local procurement guys.”

  “Fuck the procurement guys, the decision is now out of their hands,” said Jay, unable to contain his frustration.

  “Cool it,” said Greg, “we need to keep calm bodies and clear heads. The deal is ours.”

  Jay didn’t want to end the conversation on a disagreement. “Sorry, Greg, you’re right. How about you take the guys for a few beers, they’re on me. Leave me to worry about Epstein.”

  He slipped the phone back into his pocket and made his way to where Eamon was sitting with the drinks. As he took his seat, a familiar figure walked through the revolving doors. Deep in animated conversation with a fellow flight attendant, Lucy strode across the lobby amidst the rest of the Anglo Airways flight crew. She passed him with only a cursory glance in his direction, the ring around his finger commanding discretion.

  “Everything ok, boss?” asked Eamon, furrowing his own brow in empathy. The look of unease on Jay’s face was a combination of his frustration with TMI and his still simmering anger with Lucy for putting him where he was. He watched her derriere disappear into the lift, cursing himself for his own weakness.

  Eamon slapped his case full of papers down on the table with vigour, fully prepared to brief Jay on progress at Castello di Capadelli during his three-month absence. “Mind if I get a refill?” said Eamon, not waiting for an answer as Jay rifled through the papers.

  “Start with the good news,” said Jay as he slid the pile back over the table in exchange for a drink, holding back just one sheet of paper.

  “That won’t take long to go through, boss,” replied Eamon with a further creasing of his brow. “Membership sales have been going gangbusters since you left, no connection, of course,” he added with a self-satisfied chuckle. “I’ve now sold more memberships than we have room for.”

  Jay cut his mirth short as his eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

  “Hold on, Eamon. We only have three hundred memberships to sell, no more and no less, even the Italians know that much.”

  “Technically, yes,” Eamon replied, drawing out the vowels into a wheedling drawl, “but the punters want to stay in the apartments, not the Villa, so it’s no problem going over the limit.”

  Jay sunk his head into his hands. “But it’s not just a question of space, Eamon!” he exclaimed. “It’s a question of legality. We have a Trust, lawyers involved and so on…” Jay’s words trailed away. He knew he could not expect a chancer like Eamon to get his mind around the complexity which he had deliberately created so that only he could connect all the moving parts.

  “Sorry, boss, but I thought maintaining cash flow was the priority, even if it means breaking a rule or two? We do whatever it takes to get the job done, isn’t that what you told me?”

  Jay looked around and hushed him with his hand.

  “Things have changed. We still need to get the job done, but we also need to remember who pays the bills, and what they want.” His voice was low and pointed, his eyes silently asking for discretion.

  “You mean Andy?” asked Eamon leaning forwards. “When did we start worrying about how he wants things done?”

  “Andy is a church-goer; he has his principles. Up until now he has been a passive investor, so we haven’t needed to worry about how he wants things done,” Jay replied, “but now he wants to get involved in day— ”

  “But we are selling timeshares here, boss, not lessons in Bible reading,” interrupted Eamon in an uncharacteristic display of authority. “If my hands are tied behind my back, then the selling is going to suffer. Now how does that help Andy?”

  Jay feared that having his hands tied behind his back was what Andy might soon be worrying about; he rubbed his brow in thought while Eamon continued with his black reality. “We can’t undo what
’s been done, boss, and a sheep and a lamb come to mind. So do I keep selling memberships or not?”

  Jay nodded, his forehead crumpling into wrinkles as he weighed up the future in his mind. “Keep selling. I’ll make sure we are covered.” By which Jay meant he would make sure at the board meeting that it was not only his fingerprints on the gun Eamon was firing in all directions. “Anything else I need to know?” he inquired, making a show of looking at his watch.

  “Just that trouble with the owners is definitely coming, there’s rebellion in the air.”

  Jay took a long, calm draught of his gin as he took his time to think.

  “Well, that’s nothing new. Leave me to work out how we fix that. I’ve already got a few ideas. For the time being, keep feeding them a diet of good news. Negativity doesn’t help us, and if those poor sods only realised it, it doesn’t help them either.”

  “With respect, boss, it’s not you who’s been ducking and diving these last months, dodging the flak. We can’t string ‘em along much longer. The Barkers are on the warpath, they’re trying to organise the owners into some sort of action group.”

  Jay let out a derisive laugh. “You are kidding me, aren’t you? Geoff Barker would be out of his depth in a car park puddle, and his wife’s organisational skills don’t stretch beyond running the tombola at her church fete. Anything else?”

  “I spoke to Davide yesterday and he said he needs another cash injection.”

  Jay blew out through his lips, an image of Andy’s face with smoke coming out the ears in his mind’s eye. “How much of an injection?”

  “Two hundred grand...and this month.”

  Jay kept the look of a man being told the time of day. “No problem, Eamon, that’s already sorted.” He could see the look of incredulity on Eamon’s face.

  “But I thought—”

  This time Jay cut him short. “I’ve told you before, Einstein, your job is selling, not thinking. Now how about another refill, and give me five minutes to look at Davide’s figures.” Eamon got up from the chair, his face far from sharing the confidence of his master.

 

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