Free When the Siren Calls by Tom Barry Page B

room.
    They were making their apologies to David Knight when Jay, ever alert, smoothly disengaged from the group he was otherwise enthralled by.
    “David,” he said, “I hope you have been looking after our guests.” He turned directly to Peter and extended his hand. “Jay Brooke. I’m afraid I need to apologise for being something of a poor host, and also for monopolising your charming wife. It’s rare that I meet people on these evenings that know more about Tuscany than my own team.”
    “Take no notice, Peter, Mr. Brooke is just being polite,” said Isobel, looking at Jay as she spoke.
    “Isobel tells me you are a golfer,” Jay continued. “Maybe we can play a round when you visit us in Tuscany?”
    Isobel gripped Peter’s arm as she felt him jolt in surprise, and shot him a threatening look that warned him to hold back any questions.
    “Do you mind if we take a couple of brochures?” enquired Isobel, smiling widely over her husband’s surly silence.
    “Of course,” said Jay, beckoning over the hovering blonde who sauntered up with a pile of information folders entwined in her slender brown arms. Isobel watched her as she rifled through the cardboard packs. She stood so close to Jay that their bodies were touching, her arm resting slightly on his as she supported the stack of paper. Isobel looked on indignantly; the girl was no wallflower, that was for sure, and she had to be at least ten years his junior. Isobel transferred her furtive gaze to Jay for clarity; she was familiar with the trophy wife syndrome, as there were enough of those around Cobham. But Jay had not struck her as the type who needed to compensate for deficiencies elsewhere by having a status symbol on his arm. Yet as she looked again, their bodies did not seem so close anymore. Jay had shifted his feet and a slither of light now split apart their silhouettes as they stood in the entranceway. Isobel thought she saw anger and disappointment in the girl’s green eyes but quickly pulled herself out of her imaginings. What difference did it make who the girl was and what her relationship was with Jay?
    Jay offered his hand again, first to Peter and then to Isobel, taking hold of her tapered fingers as she thanked him again.
    “It has been my pleasure,” responded Jay, and after what seemed an eternity to Isobel, he released her hand.
    Isobel could have skipped along the pavement as they stepped out into the late spring evening and made their way to Peter’s racing green Aston Martin parked directly across the road.
    “You don’t mind if I put the top down, do you darling?” she asked rhetorically as the roof glided away to reveal the beginnings of a starry sky. “It’s such a lovely evening.”
    “That was a right royal waste of time,” said Peter, fighting against her happiness as they pulled away.
    “Nothing like an open mind, is there?” said Isobel, keeping her eyes firmly and deliberately on the road.
    “Surely you aren’t even considering what these guys are selling? You hardly spent any time in Provence last year as it is. How would you find time for Tuscany?”
    “Time, time, time. Is that all you can ever think about?” said Isobel, her anger fed by the validity of his comments. “Well, maybe it’s time you started thinking about how you spend your time.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Peter, irritable from either too much wine or too little.
    “We bought Provence for both of us,” she said bitterly. “You cancelled out of the trip in May; you cancelled out of the trip in September. Well, you can’t expect me to rattle around a rambling ruin in the middle of nowhere on my own. Tuscany is different. It’s a resort, with other people, people who are not slaves to the great god of time. I would be perfectly happy there on my own, pampering myself in the spa.”
    “That guy Brooke must have addled your brain,” said Peter with contempt.
    “And what does that mean?”
    “What does it mean?