by Tom Barry
“I must apologise, Isobel, we are forgetting our manners. How is the wine, Peter? I know Marco will value your expert opinion.”
Peter held the wine to the light before burying his nose in the glass, and to Isobel’s relief, nodded his appreciation. The wine continued to flow with Peter drinking most of it; inevitably his phone bleeped and he became distracted, paying no heed to Isobel’s growing absorption in the man opposite her, which, as the wine took hold, was clearly visible on her face in the candlelight. Had Peter glanced up from the screen he would have seen happiness melt into confusion and then disappointment, Jay’s careful sentences and professional manner crushing her secret hopes. He turned to Peter with just as much, if not more, interest and struck up a conversation about his work and quickly latched on to his mention of an opportunity in Dallas.
“In Texas, the lone star state? You may need to go carefully there. You’ve seen the ‘Don’t Mess With Texas’ car stickers, I guess? Well I reckon they should say ‘Don’t Mess With Texans.’ I found that out the hard way. I went and married one.” His eyes flicked from Isobel to Peter and then back again, resting on her face.
“And you are still married to Texas then?” Isobel asked, cutting into the wild boar and careful to keep her tone casual as she pushed back her hope.
“I can’t afford not to be. Rusty is a trained lawyer and a US citizen. So you can probably imagine the damage she could do if she ever needed to,” said Jay, smiling as if speaking in jest but his eyes serious.
Isobel ran her hand up and down the table leg, scraping it with her nails as she did so. “Well, you know, it can be difficult for us wives with you men globe-trotting. Being left on our own so much. And when you are around, your mind is elsewhere half the time. And it is also difficult for the kids too I should imagine?”
“The boys seem to manage ok. I inherited them from Rusty’s first marriage. And to be fair, they still see a lot of their natural father. Holidays in the States and all that.”
“So you were married in Texas then?”
“No, Rusty didn’t want a re-run of the first time around, and she didn’t want to be surrounded by rednecks. Her family have roots in the highlands, so we tied the knot in Scotland. Pipers and kilts and all those shenanigans. Damn near bankrupted me.”
Isobel smiled apologetically as Peter lifted his eyes back up from his phone at the word ‘bankrupt’ and she moved the conversation into less personal territory, concerned not by Peter’s lack of discretion, but her own.
“I expect Eamon has updated you on our discussions today, and in particular the situation with the Visconti suite?”
“Yes, he gave me a quick debrief earlier on how things were going. And one of the things he did mention was that you might want to talk about the Visconti suite in particular. I hope I’ve got that right. I will be happy to see if I can help in any way.”
“Eamon believes that the suite is still reserved for one of the directors, but he wasn’t certain on the exact status.”
Jay leant towards her and lowered his voice. “I think Eamon might be being a touch diplomatic. Andy Skinner has indeed reserved the Visconti suite, but that was some time ago now. It may be that his thinking has changed; he certainly hasn’t mentioned anything about keeping it, to me at least, for some time. He may even have forgotten he put down the reservation. I would need to check.”
Isobel nodded, her eyes in her lap, as she tried to stop herself inhaling his breath that reached her in mint and champagne waves. She raised her face but not her eyes as she spoke again. “If we were to make an investment here, I think it would most likely be in the Visconti suite, assuming we could come to a fair agreement.”
“It may well be that we are discussing a problem that doesn’t exist,” he said, staring straight at her until she met his gaze again. “What I might suggest, if you are happy to wait a few days, is that I discuss it with Andy. I will be speaking to him on Monday anyway, or I can call him tomorrow if necessary.”
“No need to bother him at the weekend, next week is fine,” Peter said, “let’s not harass the poor man.”
“Actually, there may be something we could do to hurry this along that won’t risk a restraining order,” said Jay. “Something that could definitely help Andy come to the right decision on the Visconti suite.” He did not even glance at Isobel but locked his eyes on Peter. “Andy is looking to his next project. He’s already eyeing an investment opportunity in Capetown. I do know he has prepared a short prospectus with a view to selling his interest here at Capadelli. Maybe, if you wouldn’t mind, Peter, it’s something you might run your eye over on the flight to Dallas? With your background, and as someone who has seen what has been developed here, I think Andy would find your input very helpful.”
Peter shrugged, but Isobel sensed the compliment had hit home. He glanced at her before replying, her eyes wide in encouragement. “Sure, I’d be happy to have a look at whatever he’s put together.”
“That’s very kind of you, thank you.” Jay’s eyes returned to Isobel and his voice became measured and formal. “I really appreciate you making the time to join me this evening, and trust you have enjoyed what the team has put together here in Il Paradiso. This area is blessed with many excellent restaurants, which I very much hope you will be discovering in the future. And we are determined that Il Paradiso will be amongst the best of them.”
“It’s been our pleasure,” said Peter. “Thank you for your hospitality. It’s been a lovely evening.” They shook hands and said their goodbyes, taking deep breaths as they entered into the fragrant night air. Jay seemed to have forgotten Isobel was even there as he turned towards the car park.
The lure of soft music carried across the courtyard as they passed the enoteca. But Jay was gone and there seemed no point to prolong the evening. Nevertheless, she could not keep mention of Jay from her lips. “That was very generous of him, wasn’t it? With the wine and everything.”
Peter scoffed at her naivety. “Don’t confuse generosity with inducement.”
“What do you mean?” she said, feeling compelled to defend their host, and risk her husband’s wrath.
“What I mean is I felt no sincerity in anything tonight. Everything he said and did tonight was cold calculation.”
“Like when you entertain your clients?”
“That’s different. I have a long-term relationship with my clients. Brooke is only interested in a transaction.”
Isobel wanted to scream at Peter’s double standards, but held her tongue. He would be off to Dallas in two days, and all of a sudden she felt those two days could not pass quickly enough. But Peter was not finished with his character assassination.
“And I don’t buy for a minute all that tosh about following your passion; no-one walks away from a winning lottery ticket.”
“I’m sure you’re right, dear,” said Isobel craving nothing more than silence and pulling her pashmina around her shoulders, now too exasperated to care what Peter thought.
They returned to their suite to find two bottles of wine in a wooden presentation box, with a card signed by Jay thanking them for their company. “How very thoughtful,” said Isobel.
“He’s a smooth operator, I’ll give him that,” said Peter with a distinct lack of bonhomie.
It had been a tiring day, and Peter tossed aside the card and announced he was turning in. By the time Isobel finished her bedtime routine he was already asleep, his breathing deep and heavy. She picked up the card as if it were precious to her before slipping into the bed — so wide that she could have been alone — and reached for her book on the side table, tucking the card in between the pages. It was a thriller she had been engrossed in but tonight she was unable to concentrate, the conflicts in her head screaming their arguments over the pages until they turned black and the words swarmed like flies. She looked at the card again, her finger running back and forth along Jay’s signature. She put the book aside and tossed and turned as the sound of the pulse within her
head reverberated off the pillow, until she found herself staring at the ceiling. She tried deepening her breathing as she fidgeted and fumbled, and then began drawing circles around her belly button with her finger as if zoning in on a target. Peter contorted in his sleep as her hand moved itself lower and rested in the warm area between her legs, its fingers beginning to twirl themselves into the soft triangle of hair. They touched wetness and began to shake.
Isobel moved them slowly, but her body was quick to tense, and she soon found herself biting down on her lower lip to hold back any sound that might betray her rising emotions. As the intensity neared its height she turned her head to the side and sought to press her face into the soft whiteness of the pillow. The sensations ran hotter and faster through her body; when the climax was at its most intense, she forced the pillow hard against her mouth, absorbing the sounds of a woman releasing all of the tensions within her body.Twenty-one
The pink evening sun of the next day gave a rosy hue to the inner courtyard as Isobel aimlessly wandered across its smooth grey stones, their dullness cast into featherlike shades of dove and pigeon in the muted glow of the afternoon’s end. The scraping of chalk broke the silence as the waiter from the enoteca wrote up the evening specials on a blackboard. She stopped to read the list, unsure if Peter had decided on where they would dine that evening.
“How is the white?” she asked in Italian as the man smiled and cocked his head, seeming to welcome the interest of such an elegant guest.
“It is excellent I believe, like your accent. But then I did choose it.”
Isobel laughed; he could not be more than twenty and his youthful vivacity was welcome respite from the grey solitude of her day.
“Please, let me offer you a taste,” he said. “It would be my pleasure.”
Isobel assented graciously, in no hurry to get back to Peter who was deep in preparation for his departure the next day. She sat down at a circular, dark wood table and accepted the long stemmed glass, filled with considerably more than a mere mouthful. She took a sip and pressed the glass to her face, relishing the coolness against her skin. The waiter held her eye in expectation.
“It’s every bit as good as you promised,” she said, looking away to avoid further discussion — the coolness of the room and the stillness in the air eliciting a reflective mood within her that did not invite conversation.
She stared into the mirror on the opposite wall but did not see her own face, only the coming and going of people in the courtyard behind.
For the most part they were older couples, walking out for dinner or straggling home after a long day in the heat and sun. They drifted past in varying states of dress; some formal and tailored, others loose and billowing, but all with the same drooping faces that looked straight ahead. They reminded her of fish in a tank, with their bright colours and burnt-red skin, and for a while she amused herself with the idea that if she turned around and walked towards the courtyard, an invisible pane of glass would obstruct her path, and she would press herself against it like a child and watch them walk past, their mouths opening and closing without a sound.
As she swirled the last of the wine around the glass, her attention was caught by a familiar figure passing in the background, a male figure, and her heart jumped a beat or two. It was Peter, the motion in her chest inspired not by feeling but almost automatically — as instinctive as flight to a bird. For a split second she was tempted to let him drift past like all the others, carried on the tide of pebbles out through the courtyard archway and away from her forever. But as she glanced down at the empty glass, at her smooth, tanned hands, the bright yellow wedding band, at the dark surface of the table and the deep red tiles beneath it, she was pulled back to reality, back to the mundane side of the mirror. She turned to face the world and called out, “Peter, over here.” He did not want to hear her and headed resolutely in the direction of reception, his laptop frantically blinking a red light beneath his arm. She turned away from the mirror, all she saw through it saddening her and embittering her heart.
“Deep in thought, or drowning your sorrows?” asked a low, amused voice from the shadow of the entranceway.
She turned towards him, already knowing who it was, his arrival seeming inevitable. “Can I tempt you to another glass, but a warm red perhaps?” She extended her hand in greeting and Jay pulled her towards him, kissing her on the cheek.
“Only if I can pay this time; I still owe you for a blouse,” she said, reverting back to the safety of their first meeting as his kiss burnt on her cheek. He laughed at her offer and accepted, already sliding into a seat close beside her.
She sipped the red. “Perfect,” she said, trying to keep the happiness from her face.
“I didn’t get the chance to say it at dinner last night, but it’s great that you have made it here, it really is.” His face was sincere and she forgave him everything without question. “After our brush in the estate agents, I was so much hoping that we would see each other again.”
She met his eyes in confusion, unsure of everything all over again.
“And few women would have been brave enough to venture where you did in the souk. Which left me intrigued.” She sipped her wine and smiled, wanting to maintain some air of mystery but also at a complete loss for what to say. He took her silence in his stride and continued.
“So there we go, I’m fascinated,” he said. “Unveil yourself and solve the mysteries for me. The things you didn’t tell me that day around the pool. I want all your secrets.”
“Well, as for the souk, there’s not much to tell. I just stayed out a bit too late and walked a little too far.”
“Don’t be so modest, Isobel, you were incredibly brave that afternoon.”
She laughed and began to deny it but he interrupted her and clasped her hands in his in mock-supplication. “Please, don’t ruin the memory for me! I have my dreams too, you know. You must tell me more about yourself.”
He dropped her hands as she assented. She was enthralled by his playfulness and, relaxed now, began to share more about herself, touching on her own feelings, uncovering them for herself and for him.
It was perhaps an hour later when he coaxed her from her introspection. “And so far,” he said, “you like what you’ve seen here?”
“Yes, very much, I love it.”
“And Peter?”
“He’s not much of a romantic I’m afraid.”
Isobel felt herself blush from her forwardness and returned to looking at her glass in embarrassment. He continued talking, not, she thought, oblivious to her discomfort but attempting to heal it.
“I noticed you looking at my ring. Maybe I shouldn’t say it, but Rusty and I are barely married anymore; we’ve grown apart so much, I’m all but waiting for her to serve me the papers.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
He looked her directly in the eyes and said, “Don’t be, sometimes it’s best to move on.”
She sometimes wished she could do the same, but despised herself for thinking so.
“I guess every marriage has its problems,” he said in reply to her silence, “but it’s easy to get carried along on emotion alone, don’t you think?”
Isobel imagined Peter getting carried along on his emotions and almost laughed aloud.
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
He looked puzzled as she held back her smile. “This is the most relaxed I’ve been in a long time,” she admitted by way of apology, banishing all thoughts of her husband from her head. “This place is so beautiful, so authentic.”
“That’s exactly why I love it here!” he exclaimed, looking around at the whitewashed walls and the lamps tarnished by age and use. “It’s living, isn’t it? It’s the real world in all its splendour.” He stood up, still looking around in pleasure. “I have to go, I’m afraid, I have a meeting with Eamon that started ten minutes ago.” He dipped his head in playful apology. “And by the way, I’m paying for the wine, just try and stop me!”
She watched as he strode off across the courtyard. The sky had turned dark and the leafy trellises were strewn with twinkling white lights. Two patches of white leapt and bounced in the dark as a black cat with snowy paws batted at a butterfly which flapped its frail yellow wings in the last throes of its short and graceful life.Twenty-two
Isobel was subdued in the back of Eamon’s car watching the Tuscan landscape bounce up and down as they navigated the winding side roads. Peter too kept his own counsel, preferring to let Eamon monologue as they trundled through the countryside.
“We are fortunate to have so many horse riding options around, that at first it was difficult to know where to start.” He sounded upbeat and cheerful, unfazed by the silence of his audience. “And what I have found is somewhere that miraculously is a short walk from the resort. When I discovered it I knew it was the right location but its facilities are a trifle primitive.” He glanced round for a reaction before returning his gaze to the road. “In the end we struck a compromise. The directors agreed to support the location I found, as long as we would be able to bring the place up to the Castello di Capadelli standard. So what I am going to show you now is the site in its raw state, but I am sure you will see the potential.”
Isobel was propelled from her stupor as they turned sharply onto a dirt track and hurtled down a steep hill.
“Could be a bit difficult getting in and out in snow and ice,” remarked Peter as the car became almost perpendicular, his flat tone revealing the extent of the pleasure he took from the excursion.
Isobel looked straight ahead, allowing a few words through her pursed lips. “You rarely get snow in this part of Tuscany, Peter.”
Eamon pulled into a muddy field and hastened them from the car, a slight red tinge to his cheeks as he greeted Gina who was talking to a large sun-crinkled man with a generous stomach that stretched his woollen jumper to breaking point. She stood in the muddy field lacking her usual ease, and Isobel was puzzled that she had not thought to change out of her high heels. Gina turned to Eamon and the two exchanged brief and hushed words. Isobel could feel their eyes on her as she took in the stables, their walls crumbling into dust beneath haphazard and cracked roof tiles; their proprietor smiled broadly to reveal black gaps between yellowing teeth and greeted Isobel with a thunderous “Buongiorno!” and a kiss on the cheek.