by Tom Barry
Isobel took a seat outside the enoteca, and, despite the heat, ordered an English breakfast tea. She took out her book and sat back, watching the world go by and hoping that Jay would come with it. Even in her loneliness she could not ever remember such happiness, such expectation. Her husband was on the other side of the planet and her lover was somewhere close by. She was so content that she resolved not to distract Jay from his duties; she would spend the day independently, in his midst but not in his way. She could enjoy herself perfectly well without his presence. And yet her eyes came up from her book at the sound of each approaching voice, and her head turned at every crackle of footsteps on the gravel behind.
As she drained the last of the tea, Gina reappeared, dancing towards her and looking very pleased with herself.
“It will be busy around the pool today, Isobel. Already I see many people putting out the towels.”
“The Germans?” said Isobel, smiling.
Gina laughed, “Yes, the Germans of course, but also the English, because today is very hot and they wish to be very red. So I have reserved you a place, everything is set out for you; you have a nice quiet spot with your own parasol. You may come and go as you wish from it.”
Isobel smiled and thanked her, watching her running off across the courtyard with perplexed affection. Gina’s mood seemed to echo her own and Isobel mused with delight that she might be in love too. A stray black cat that fed off the kitchen scraps settled at her feet, and she luxuriated in the feel of its coat as it rubbed against her ankles, and she leant down to stroke it, running her fingers through the fur, a now familiar restless ache stirring within her.
She shook herself out of her thoughts and tucked away her novel in preparation for her poolside paradise, but as she looked about for a waiter her eye again caught the elderly couple sitting two tables away that, she noticed, were throwing regular glances in her direction, as if summoning up the courage to approach her. She saw a sadness about them that embarrassed her, as if her own happiness must somehow aggravate whatever plight had befallen the sorrowful pair.
“It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it,” she called over, giving them her most encouraging smile, and dropping some coins on a saucer as she rose to leave. But the lady lifted her cup and made her way across, now smiling, with her partner gathering up their bits and pieces to join her.
They introduced themselves as Rosie and Geoff Barker, a retired couple from Derby.
“We were wondering if you were British,” said Rosie, a tiny woman with a pink lined face and glum brown eyes, “because we heard you ordering in Italian, but noticed your novel is in English.”
The couple seemed anxious to establish Isobel’s credentials, whether she was a visitor, an owner, or connected to the developers. Her delicate answers seemed to reassure them, and they moved onto the business at hand.
“We want to arrange a meeting amongst all the owners,” said Geoff, who had the kind face of a tippler, with a bloated nose and cracked veins, “to discuss the situation.”
“What situation?” said Isobel, perturbed by their earnest looks and conspiratorial manner and feeling the pull of the pool with increasing intensity.
“Well, we can’t be sure of anything,” said Rosie, “you never can be in this place, and people only tell you what they want you to hear. But what we do know is we are owed some money, and we think there might be other people in our situation.”
“Oh,” said Isobel, already feeling some disloyalty to Jay for even listening to such tittle-tattle. “I’m sure it must be a misunderstanding.”
“But we are so worried,” said Rosie, “we have put all our savings into buying our dream holiday home, and we’ve taken a mortgage on our cottage in England.”
This was all too much for Isobel, for whom the concept of a budget was an alien one. She decided she had indulged the old couple enough.
“I’m afraid I must dash,” she said, scribbling a note on a piece of paper. “My email address is here; perhaps you can send me details of the meeting when you have arranged it?”
As Isobel lounged by the pool, applying a further layer of sunscreen, something about the ambience was puzzling her. She had noticed it before though thought nothing of it, but now as she looked around at the groups of people, they all seemed to be huddled in the same guarded way, as if sharing dark secrets and fearing being overheard. She dwelt again on the hapless Barkers. A naïve but harmless old couple who had bought a home in Italy, and now found they could not afford it. They were not the first, and would not be the last, she thought with a sigh. Nevertheless, she decided she would talk about it to Jay; maybe he could help in some way. But still she saw no sign of him. She debated going inside; the anxious faces round the pool made her nervous. She had felt them watching her ever since she’d arrived and she sensed that it was not her appearance that attracted them, but rather her position; a mysterious lone woman who seemed to command the deference of every employee who passed her way.
But the midday sun was merciless and she could not resist the subtle sheen of the water. She dived in and swam the length of the pool underwater, exhilarated by how it cleansed the heat from her body. She broke the surface like a salmon, throwing her shining body from the water and pulling her wet hair into a ponytail. But as she did so she was struck by horror, where was her wedding ring? She dropped down in panic, searching the area around her feet, but seeing only water and tiles. She surfaced, a thousand thoughts flashing through her mind. How could she possibly explain it to Peter? He would surely think she had removed it in the act of betrayal. She filled her lungs and dived, working back along the bottom, her hands desperately sweeping left and right. Just as she felt her insides would burst, a finger brushed metal, and she surfaced with the ring in the palm of her hand.
She filled her lungs, the relief overwhelming. But as she stood looking at the gold band she hesitated. What if she did not put the ring back on? What if she never put it on again? She closed her eyes and nibbled her lip. What if she never went back to Cobham, to her life of emptiness? Who would really miss her? Peter could devote his energies with more vigour to his work, and her fickle and superficial friends could entertain themselves with gossip about the lady of the manor who fled to Tuscany for the pleasures of the flesh. And she would be sad for Peter, but she would be living her own life, for herself, for the first time.
When she pulled herself from her self-indulgence and opened her eyes, her ring still poised at the nail of her wedding finger, she looked up to the terracing above the pool. Her eyes met Jay’s, and she knew he was watching her, studying her. He waved, as if to hide his thoughts, and she slipped the ring along her finger, the sunscreen aiding its easy progress, hoping he would not notice. When she looked up again he was gone, and she felt a shiver of fear run through her, afraid of what he might know.
After her morning in the sun, Isobel chose the coolness of the enoteca for lunch, rather than the shade outside in the courtyard. She sat at the same table where Jay first signalled his interest in exploring romance. She felt a warm contentment as she replayed the scene in her mind, remembering every look and every phrase with which he enchanted her and, as she now realised, seduced her. The sight of Eamon peering in, his scraggy neck extended like a wary heron, interrupted her thoughts, and she gave an encouraging wave, frustrated that Jay had not appeared instead of the genial Irishman, but glad of his company nevertheless.
They exchanged pleasantries but Eamon refused her hospitality with a polite “not while I’m working,” as if alcohol were the only option for refreshment. He asked her about her morning.
“I met a couple, they seemed to be in some distress,” said Isobel, without specifying who the couple were. Eamon could have pondered a long list of suspects, but had spied the conversation from the lofty vantage point of Jay’s office.
“Oh, you must mean Hansel and Gretel,” said Eamon, grinning at Isobel’s bewilderment. “Geoff and Rosie Barker?”
“Yes,” said Isobel, relie
ved that the affliction from which the two unfortunates suffered was not widespread. “I think at one point Rosie was almost in tears.”
“Wine can sometimes do that to women,” said Eamon, but his chauvinistic humour was not appreciated, so he quickly continued. “I expect they were still agonizing over the rental scheme?” Isobel nodded. “I did my best for them,” said the garrulous Dubliner, his eyes mournful and voice heavy. “They have a very hard to let apartment. A broom cupboard of a place with no view up in the eaves. I advised them against the purchase, but they were insistent.” He lowered his voice, “Strictly between the two of us, I think it was the only one within their price range. I took it on as a rental proposition more in sympathy than anticipation.”
“But they said they were owed money?”
Eamon was forthright, and given to indignation by her doubt. “That is not the case, and unfortunately, they have only themselves to blame. I did manage to rent the apartment to some, shall we say, less discerning visitors. But Rosie, bless her, was unhappy that they were not people of the church like themselves. I’m afraid Rosie and Geoff seem to believe they are nailed to the cross which they carry on their shoulders, but lovely people all the same. They insisted I move the rental couple out, even though the wife was invalided, as I recall. To be truthful, I half expected Rosie to demand I call in a priest to perform an exorcism. I tried to explain that it was not going to work if Rosie insisted on dictating who I could and could not allow to use the apartment. I even referred her to the rental agreement, but she was adamant that God came before profit. Something about the good lord throwing the moneychangers out of the temple. So, sad as I am to say it, she effectively cancelled our agreement. I know I should have charged her for the rental furniture package, and I would have lost my job if Andy Skinner had found out, but I just didn’t have the heart.”
Isobel was reassured by the account, though she thought with an almost fond smile it was rather likely he had embellished it somewhat. She thought to tell Eamon about the meeting the Barkers were planning, and might have done had he not risen to take his leave, anxious, it seemed, to get back to his good works and the cause of humanity. Isobel raised the glass to her lips as he left, in a silent toast to her new life.
She did not want to return to the pool in the scorching sun, or suffer the inquisitive glances of those around it, so decided to stroll through the shade of the olive grove, and from there onto the vineyard which so captivated her on her first visit. As she approached she could hear the ringing of bells from the church outside the entrance to Castello di Capadelli, and a horse and buggy was drawn up beside the vineyard. A couple were posing for posterity at the arched trellis of flowers that led into the vineyard, and she stopped to watch the photo shoot, stroking the horse as she did so. It was an idyllic setting, with so many of the elements she had often pictured in her own dreams of romance, and she imagined herself as the woman in the white dress, radiant in her happiness.
She passed by the young couple with a furtive wave and entered the vineyard, seeking out the comfort of the sun-warmed bench to be alone with her thoughts. A gardener, stooped from age and toil, in corduroy breeches too heavy for the heat was tending the vines, his back bent to his labours. He rose from his work as he heard Isobel approach, and smiled kindly at her, his face as reddish brown as the earth beneath his boots. Isobel sat and watched him, his back still supple despite his years, the sinews on his arms suggesting the strength of his prime. She marvelled at the care with which this simple man of the land went about his work, a cutting tool in one hand, a vine in the other, the calloused hands so tender in their touch. Tears rose within her as she thought about her marriage, and its emptiness. The labourer looked up from his work and saw her distress, and went over to her.
“You must not be sad to see an old man toil,” he said, touching her arm and looking into her eyes with the warmth that she remembered in her own father’s gaze. He stroked the vine with the back of his hand. “My work is my pleasure and I rise to it every day thankful that I can do so. For one day the sun will rise, but I will not.” He gave an ironic laugh, and took her hand gently in his palms, and she rose from the bench. “Let us walk the vineyard and it will reveal its treasure.” He held onto her hand as they walked between the rows, she a step behind because it was too narrow to walk comfortably beside him. He stopped and held a cane, offering it to her, and she held it, stiff and naked in her hand, as his words soothed her. “Every vine is different,” he said, “but each must receive the same care if it is to flourish. The vine is like a young woman, it must be cherished, and then it will grow tall and strong, and the fruit will be plentiful. The vine will give back only what is put in, and if it is given everything it needs, it can give untold pleasure.”
The old man’s soft voice and his love for his vineyard had taken Isobel’s thoughts away from her own sadness, and she smiled up at him, squeezed his hand, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. And she saw he was pleased at her happiness. “If you ever feel hurt in your heart you must come here to the vineyard, and the vines will soak up your sadness, I promise you, and your presence too will cheer me.”
Isobel felt reinvigorated as she raced back to the Villa Magda, remembering that Peter was due to phone. She ran up the stone steps two at a time to the sumptuous suite that Gina had reserved, which was cool and inviting in the afternoon heat.
Peter called and she lied to him without shame, wishing the call to end, but desperately trying to disguise it. She sat listlessly on the bed, letting him talk but willing him to finish, until three gentle knocks on the door interrupted the dullness of his voice. Thinking it must be Gina, she readied herself to interrupt him.
“Someone’s at the door, darling,” she said, but he kept speaking regardless, telling her how murderously hot it was in Dallas, and similarly uninteresting trivia. But it was Jay at the door, wearing an apron and a maid’s cap, and she had to stop herself laughing as she pulled him inside, silently mouthing “Peter” and pointing to the phone, and putting her finger to her lips.
“Just the housekeeper,” she said, looking menacingly at Jay, “here to turn down the bed.”
She sat back on the cushions and continued listening to Peter, but Jay knelt at the foot of the bed and took off her bathroom slippers, grinning up at her as he began to suck her toes, each one in turn, and to tickle the soles of her feet until she silently writhed before him. She kicked him playfully away, gratifying Peter with yes’s and no’s.
But Jay stood up and took her ankles, and dragged her body towards him until her sarong rode up to her waist. He reached for the wine cooler and took some ice cubes. She shook her head frantically, laughing mutely with anticipation, as he began slowly sliding them up her thighs. She tried to bat him away with a pillow, but Peter kept demanding her attention and ruining her aim. Jay deftly slipped the ice inside her panties and pressed the coldness into her with his chin, holding her gaze as she grabbed the vase beside her and lifted it as if to strike him, but it only encouraged him. He pulled her panties to her ankles and took an ice cube between his teeth, trying to work it inside her with his tongue as she attempted to thrash her legs. But he held her ankles in his strong hands and she had to submit to the invasion, mouthing, “Just you wait” as he laughed silently and started to lick her. Soon she stopped struggling and just lay there while Peter was talking until eventually she could stand it no longer and told him Maria was trying to get through and that she would call him back later. She felt quivers run through her as the phone fell from her hand and she buried her head in the pillow, fearing she would call his name as her excitement washed over her, and not wanting him to know how completely she was his.
It was past midnight when the taxi dropped them at the back entrance to Castello di Capadelli. It was a moonless night and the blackness was entrancing with its infinite possibilities. They did not need to concern themselves with night security; Andy had stopped it to save money, but they kept up their subterfuge in necessity and excite
ment. They were both pleasantly lightheaded from their dinner together, the romance and the wine hung around them in the night air. Jay fumbled for the master key to open the forbidding padlock that held the two heavy wrought iron gates together. He sent her ahead, saying that he would follow her, but as she crept obediently forth a thought struck her, and she seized his hand, pulling him after her away from the main buildings. He tripped along after her and she capered along swinging his hand in hers and gently humming over the cicadas. She led him towards the vineyard and she stopped in the darkness before it, at the trellised archway where earlier the bridal couple had stood. And she pulled him under the archway like it was mistletoe and kissed him passionately, and he held her waist securely, so she kicked her heels up behind her, delighting in the feeling of him holding her, as her arms locked behind his neck.
As the clock ticked on and only stillness and darkness surrounded them he took her by the hand to lead her back. She followed him starry-eyed up the stone steps to the upper pool, which glowed with ethereal blueness in the black. He kissed her slowly by the light of the pool, looking into her eyes with such intensity that for a second she thought he was going to say that he loved her.
“This is the perfect time for a midnight swim,” he said, his voice low and enticing.
“It’s long gone midnight,” she said, teasing him, before kissing him again.
“Come on, let’s do it,” he said, already undoing the buttons of her blouse.
“But what if someone comes?” she whispered.
“No one has any reason to come up here this time of night, and they’d risk breaking an ankle on that decking if they did.”
“Let me go and get a costume,” she asked, although she didn’t mean to, as she was caught in the grip of modesty and fear.
“It will spoil the moment,” he said, slipping off her blouse, “and what’s the point of swimming at midnight if we’re not naked? Come on, let’s live young and free for once!” And he took the decision away from her by pulling off his underwear. Isobel tore at her own clothes to catch up with him until he took her by the hand, putting his finger to his lips and slipping into the water as smoothly as an otter. She stole after him, sliding into the water as her nakedness shone blue in the darkness. They swam soundlessly back and forth and she loved the water against her skin, the feeling of exhilaration at her own body; she felt light, almost fluid, utterly without care. He swam ahead and stood in the shallows, calling her to him with his eyes, and she swam up to him, cutting gracefully through the water, and kissed his chest. He kissed her nipples in return and she wondered for a second if he would take her in the water, but he pressed his lips to hers and led her up the steps, drying her tenderly as he savoured her body. She wrapped herself in the towel and Jay led her back to their clothes, forlornly strewn by the water’s edge. He scooped up his trousers and looked out over the hills where the faintest of sunrises seemed to threaten, even though it was not yet two.