When the Siren Calls

by Tom Barry

  “Steady, Tarzan, this body’s got to last a lifetime, even if the lipstick doesn’t.” She pushed playfully at his face and he delivered her gently to the floor as if afraid she would break against the Covent Garden cobblestones.

  “We need to move,” he said as he gallantly sank the remainder of his pint, “we’re late already.”

  “Uh, what’s wrong with here?” She looked puzzled, the attractive café at which he had been sat already proving beyond her expectations of his taste.

  “I thought we’d eat Italian.” He betrayed an excited eagerness in his tone, tempered by a fear of rebuke.

  “Italian? Not Indian, not Chinese?”

  “I thought we’d celebrate, something different. But if you want Indian or—”

  “Italian’s fine. But what are we celebrating?”

  “A couple of things. You’ll see.” He tugged her by the hand and led her down the street and along a side alley to Luigi’s Restaurant; a quiet and leafy place with white tablecloths, rustic frescoes adorning its walls, and legs of cured hams hanging from the ceiling. By Rob’s standards, they were eating in the stratosphere. Lucy studied the menu with apprehension as the waiter ran through the specials of the day, offering no indication of their price. She was used to Jay being in control in restaurants, asking questions, authoritative and decisive. Rob seemed limp and emasculated in comparison. She spared him any discomfort and pointed to the menu.

  “Asparagus to start, please. And the sea bass for main.”

  “And for you, sir?”

  “I’ll have a pint of lager to start.” Lucy buried her nose in the menu, fearing the worst. “And the fish.” He faltered for a second before adding, “With chips.”

  “And the wine, sir?” The waiter’s expression was almost a leer, his lips curling up at the sides either in derision or amusement.

  “Actually, Rob, if you’re ok with your beer I will just have a water.” She looked up at the waiter. “Sparkling, please,” she said and thrust the menu towards him as she had often seen Jay do in a clear signal of dismissal.

  “So what you been shopping for?” Rob asked.

  “Nothing that would interest you,” she said, although quite aware that crotchless panties fell well within the scope of his interests. “Some shoes and a few things for the thing in Tuscany.”

  “What thing?”

  “The thing with Tessa. One of the girls at work is having a hen night in Florence.” Manipulating the truth was so simple, so easy, but she tried hard not to enjoy it.

  “A hen night in Florance?”

  “No, Flo-RENCE.”

  He laughed off her teasing. “You gonna show me what you got then?”

  “Of course I’m going to show you,” she said, her words soothing. “But not now. Besides, I can’t bear the suspense any longer. What’s the celebration for? You been asked to plaster the big wall or something?”

  Before Rob could answer, the food arrived.

  “French fries for the gentleman,” said the waiter, as if to emphasise that this was an establishment that did not stoop to serve chips. Rob picked up the half lemon that sat at the side of his plate, and he examined it as if valuing a delicate antique. He picked awkwardly at the gauze with his heavy fingers, as Lucy watched. She was reminded how a year before she’d made the same mistake when dining with Jay, and how he caressed away her embarrassment, saying he did it all the time.

  “I think you are supposed to leave it on,” she said, as Rob looked blankly back, “to hold the pips.” It was not intended to sound patronizing, but it did.

  “You want to know something,” said Rob with sudden irritation, “since you’ve got your job up in the skies you’ve become proper high and mighty.” He gave a self-satisfied grin, surprised with his own unintended wit. “You reckon you are too good for me now?”

  “No one could be too good for you, babe.”

  “Now you are just taking the pips,” said Rob. They both laughed and he leant across and gave her cheek a playful stroke with his rough hand.

  “You were just about to tell me what we’re celebrating,” she reminded him.

  “Better than tell you, I’ll show you!” He grinned like a child as he pushed his left sleeve up to his bulging bicep. “Wait for it.”

  Lucy put her hand to her mouth in dread as Rob forced his sleeve over the taut mound of flesh.

  The words “oh my god” fell from her mouth like a stone as the sleeve began to reveal red, raw, inky skin.

  “What do you think?”

  “What do I think? About having my name forever engraved on your skin?” Lucy didn’t know what to think but she could see the needy look in his eyes. She reached across the white tablecloth and put her hands on his. Finally, words came to her. “Rob, I’m touched, I really am.” She chewed at her lower lip and squeezed his hands. “But I think that’s the sort of thing we should talk about before we do it. You know, about our feelings and stuff.”

  “But that’s just it. It is about how I feel. And putting your name on my arm shows how I feel about you.” He looked at her intently with hurt in his eyes.

  Lucy pulled his hands towards her and leant forward to kiss each one. “It’s a very sweet thing to do, and I really, really like you, but we are just going out, seeing each other.” She hesitated. “You don’t— we don’t — own each other.”

  His lip quivered as he recovered his composure. “Of course we don’t. I know that. I’m just proud of you, that’s all.” His voice was gruff and stilted and he rammed his hands into his pockets as they fell into awkward silence. Lucy lowered her gaze in shame and self-loathing, her eyes coming to rest on his pocket, which revealed the outline of what seemed to be a small square box, pushed into sharp relief by his still, gentle hands.Twenty-five

  After the highs and lows of the weekend, the last meeting Jay would have chosen to start the new week was one with Franco Mancini, the ageing lawyer who had been a thorn bush in his backside since they first met two years ago. And as he pulled into the Castello di Capadelli car park and emerged from the air-conditioned interior of his car into the fierce mid-morning heat, he was oppressed by his own foresight as he imagined how the day would proceed. Previous meetings between Mancini and himself followed a familiar and unfaltering pattern and he feared that today would be no different unless he did something drastic. He strolled to the entrance, ideas and plots spinning in his mind as he felt the sun soak into his skin, imbuing him with fire. And by the time he reached the tall glass doors of reception he had steeled himself to rid his mind of Mancini forever.

  “Good morning, Signor Jay. Another lovely morning, is it not?” called Gina, throwing the doors wide so that the archway framed her slender body like a portrait in a gallery.

  “Good morning, Gina,” he replied as she rushed to walk alongside him. “Right now it certainly is, and your presence brightens it up for me even more. What can I do for you?”

  “I would like to go through this week’s booking schedule for the Taste of Tuscany programme,” she said, handing over a modest-sized list for his appraisal.

  “Let’s go over it together later with a coffee,” he suggested, brushing the paper away and quickening his pace for fear of angering Mancini.

  Gina continued walking alongside him, matching his strides with ease as her athletic body kept pace with his. “Signor Mancini has already arrived. I welcomed him earlier. He has his granddaughter with him this morning.”

  “His granddaughter?

  “Yes, Signore, but she is almost a woman,” replied Gina, looking him straight in the eyes as she did so. But he hardly heard her, so intent was he on staring into every window they walked past.

  “Is Eamon around?” he asked in answer to her inquisitive glance.

  “Yes, Signore, he arrived a while ago,” she replied, “although maybe a little, how do you say it in English, the worse for the wear after last night.” She was referring to Eamon’s team celebration in the bar in Capadelli village.

 
“And how was last night, Gina? I hope you left before things got too ugly.”

  “Yes, Signore. I left early. I picked up a pizza on the way home and spent the evening watching an old film in English. It was called Brief Encounter, very romantic but also sad.”

  “A good film,” said Jay, with some vague recollection that he had heard of it. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “It was, I think, complicated in parts to follow, listening in English. I thought perhaps I would have enjoyed it better if I had not been alone.”

  “Yes, perhaps,” agreed Jay as they drew level with Mancini’s apartment. “I’m sure Eamon would oblige; he loves a good pizza with his pint.” And with that he knocked on the door, Gina’s crestfallen face reflecting back at him in the highly polished glass.

  Franco Mancini welcomed him in like he was the returning prodigal son. “Benvenuto, Signor Brooke, benvenuto. Please come in! May I introduce my granddaughter, Carla?”

  He moved his portly form aside to reveal a petite girl dressed in black with a face like a film star’s and eyes like daggers.

  “It is my pleasure, Signorina,” said Jay with sincerity, turning to Mancini to add, “she is a beautiful young lady, Signor, you must be very proud of her.”

  “Please, Signor Brooke,” said the lawyer smiling, “today I am Franco; I prefer it if we are informal. I think we know each other well enough, no?”

  “As you wish, Franco. My friends call me Jay.”

  “Then let me do the same if I may. For I think it is possible for us to think of ourselves as friends.” He turned to his granddaughter. “Bella, I am sure Jay would be interested to learn something about what you are up to.”

  Unusually for Jay where a pretty girl was concerned, he had no particular interest in hearing what kept Signor Mancini’s granddaughter occupied, and was bemused why the retired gentleman might think otherwise.

  “Please do, Carla. I am always keen to learn how beautiful young ladies in Italy spend their time.”

  “You are very kind, Signor Jay,” she said, her voice suggesting a blush but her face betraying nothing. “I am now completing my first year at the university in Firenze. The course I am studying is marketing. My grandfather has told me that you are an expert on the subject of marketing.”

  Jay stayed silent, bewildered at her presence, as she elaborated on every detail, from her modules to her desire to know him and his strategies better. “Anyway, Signor,” she concluded at last, “I hope I have not bored you. But when my grandfather told me such a guru as yourself was here in Capadelli, it was my great desire to meet with you. Now let me say arrivederci, as I know my grandfather and you have business to discuss.” And with that she exited into the kitchen, her gait graceful and her perfume filling the close air.

  Jay shifted uncomfortably in the hard, straight-backed chair and waited to hear what Mancini so urgently needed to tell him. Past experience suggested it would be a problem, a large problem, that Franco alone could resolve, and that he would want some extortionate recompense as a result. As the old man leafed through the stack of papers on the wooden table, Jay cast his mind back to their first meeting. His adversary had appeared with open arms, cordially requesting the immediate construction of a porch outside his apartment, in return for his silence on Castello di Capadelli’s lack of planning permissions; the thought that erecting a porch on a protected building also required permission seemed to escape the learned gentleman. Six months later and he was back again with a smile wider than his arms requesting a new kitchen for his silence about Villa Magda’s missing fire escapes.

  But that had been almost a year ago now and his long silence did not bode well. Yet the old man continued to thumb through the paper, extending it minute by minute as if drawing strength from the silence.

  “I am sure, Franco that you have not asked me here just to have your eloquent granddaughter flatter me on my marketing credentials. What can I do for you this morning?” said Jay, unable to bear the silence any longer.

  “I have asked for this meeting,” began the older man with slow deliberation, “because I wish to help you on a serious matter. A matter on which I believe you are facing a most serious threat to your business.”

  Jay could think of myriads of such matters but was not going to reveal his hand just yet, opting instead for a humour-clad defence.

  “You imply that this threat is more serious than the possibility of the guests in the Villa being turned to ashes for want of a fire escape?”

  “That is all in the past, Jay. Now we are friends, things are different,” he replied, brushing off the accusations like flies. “No, the reason I wish to talk with you is to alert you that several of your creditors are planning to seek an order against you that will shut down your company.”

  “Against Quayside?”

  “Yes, that is the company you have registered here in Italy, I believe. The creditors believe that your business may be insolvent, which is very serious in Italy,” he said, sticking out his chin and daring Jay to contradict him.

  “My company is perfectly solvent, and these creditors, if they exist, have no way of knowing otherwise without access to our accounts,” responded Jay with a shrug, maintaining his cool as he had done thousands of times before.

  Mancini threw his arms up in the air. “Say what you will, Mr. Jay! But the issue is that the suppliers have not been paid, and they are owed a substantial sum. And if you do not settle it they will put you in the courts.”

  But Jay was not ready to roll over easily on the question of disgruntled creditors. To have such burdens was the normal situation of his business affairs and he cared little for it. Perhaps Mancini saw this in his eyes, for he ploughed on with his speech without waiting for an answer.

  “So, Jay, even if your business is solvent, which it may or may not be, you cannot afford to have your creditors petition to close down your company. And that is what I am here to help you with!” he concluded, resting his hands in satisfaction on his large stomach.

  It was one of the times in his life that Jay wished he was a smoker. So that he could hold his adversary in expectation as he nonchalantly lit up a cigarette, like Humphrey Bogart in some film noir or other. By way of substitute, he transferred his phone from one pocket to another, glancing at the screen as he did so. Mancini, well versed in courtroom theatrics, scowled at the posturing arrogance of his opponent.

  “So, while we are in this hypothetical world, where I assume you can pull your usual strings and silence the usual voices, what would you seek in return for your kindness?” Jay inquired, his voice laced with sarcasm.

  “Only a small thing, and not a very expensive one,” he replied. “You have met my granddaughter Carla. As you have seen, she is a very beautiful girl, very bright and very intelligent. And she speaks excellent English.”

  Jay could see where the conversation was leading. “All that is true, Signor Mancini, but I must tell you that I am already married.”

  “You have much humour, Jay,” he assented, his face deadpan, “which is why I understand you are so good at what you do. And I am sure Carla could learn great things from working alongside you. You do not speak Italian and have, I suspect, no plans to learn it. I believe an excellent role would be as your personal assistant.”

  Jay opened his mouth to refute this wholeheartedly, unable to imagine anything worse than a Mancini under his tutelage. But Mancini continued before he could formulate an excuse.

  “Carla would be a great asset to you, Jay. She does not require a permanent position. Six months might be sufficient, so that she has the experience on her resume. And also, when she returns to university, she must submit a marketing case study as part of her course work. What better than a glowing account of what you have achieved here, and how you have achieved it. You might even be famous.”

  Jay waved these temptations aside with a sweep of his hand and leant forward across the table to fix his eyes on Franco’s. “So, if I understand you, you would like me to hire Carla f
or six months?”

  “Yes, Jay, starting next week. I will leave the salary decision to you, but something on the same level as your other sales people would seem fair. But that is, of course, not for me to dictate.” He started to stand up, signalling their audience at an end. But his rival was far from done and his fixed gaze brought Mancini back into the seat of his chair with a thump.

  “Unfortunately,” Jay said, “it is not my decision. Much as I would like to help, the company that Carla would be working for is not my own but that of Mr. Andrew Skinner. And whilst I am happy to ask him to employ her, I can tell you now that he will refuse. Only yesterday he was insisting on staff cuts to the operation here. I am sorry about that.” He rose from his chair as he concluded, pressing his hands into the arm rests until they creaked from the force. Mancini was visibly taken aback and all but leapt from his chair, moving his bulk with surprising speed in front of the door.

  “Mr. Brooke, maybe I have not made myself fully clear. What I am asking is for my granddaughter, not myself. But it is very, very important to me. Much more important than any of the things we have discussed in the past. If you know what is good for your business, then I urge you to reconsider.” He grasped Jay by the forearm and stared him straight in the eyes, his lips quivering and nostrils flaring with ill-concealed rage. “I will give you twenty-four hours to reflect. Tomorrow I expect you to come back to me with the right decision. If you do not, then it is you who will be responsible for the consequences.” He gave one final withering stare and moved away from the door, bidding Jay a loud and disingenuous ‘arrivederci.’

  As the recently anointed marketing maestro stepped out into the Tuscan breeze, Jay felt renewed and free, the freedom of a man whose execution has been rearranged for a later date.

  As he wandered back to reception, a welcome figure turned the corner of the old stone villa, the gold of the brick glowing against her skin like honey.

  “The guest list, Signor Jay,” Gina reminded him. “I thought perhaps we could review it here.”