Chapter Two
Isobel stared at her reflection in the gilded mirror of reception looking intently at her own face. She fancied it altered from the face of the bathroom that morning, somehow younger and brighter. Her eyes descended her figure and halted in alarm at the still damp linen blouse against her breasts, which revealed her nipples like roses in the mist. Fear and embarrassment flooded over her at the thought of her involuntary immodesty, although if the stranger noticed then he certainly concealed it well. She remembered the way his bright blue eyes held her own with an almost hypnotic gaze and was certain they did not stray to her body.
The concierge eyed her curiously as she turned from the mirror. “Welcome back madam. Your afternoon in the bazaar was pleasant I trust?”
Isobel forced a laugh. “Your sellers in the market are very persuasive.”
The concierge simply returned a knowing smile. “Is there something I can help you with madam?” She looked around the foyer and towards the bustling lobby bar with the golden statues at its entrance assuming poses of serenity that contrasted harshly with the harried staff that passed between them.
“Is my husband around, do you know?”
“Yes madam. I believe he is in his suite. He rang down a short while ago.”
“Looking for me?”
“If I remember correctly it was to do with a courier delivery he was expecting. Some papers.” Isobel feigned a look of surprise and nodded, turning her attention to a taxi that swept up outside. She watched in nervous expectation as a strong male figure, broad shouldered and straight-backed, emerged from the darkness of the interior. She craned her neck as the figure turned from her view and reached his hand into the taxi, helping an elderly lady from the vehicle and leading her into the hotel. Isobel blushed as he met her glance, his sandy hair and watery grey eyes worlds away from what she wished for.
She made her way back to the hotel room, choosing the staircase over the elevator, stepping on her anxiety and frustration with each firm footstep as she prepared to face Peter. The image of what this evening might have been - a night of dining under the stars; with music, dancing and horse riding across desert dunes - sat stubbornly before her eyes and Peter’s words, his careless and thoughtless dismissal of her plans in favour of the hotel restaurant and its internet connection, still rang in her ears.
He was on the phone when she entered the room, papers and files arranged on the coffee table like place settings. “We need to be in the lobby at six-thirty,” she said, hovering by the bed to invite his apology, but he did not rise to greet her, just smiled and gave a thumbs up as he nodded assent.
“Six-thirty,” she repeated, already pulling her blouse over her head as she made towards the bathroom, the beginnings of tears making spots like raindrops in its translucent fabric. She turned on the shower and tried to compose herself as the jet-stream cascaded down her body, allowing her emotions to evaporate as the heat of the water turned the shower door a milky white. She drew a tree on the glass, her finger etching paths through the moisture like a figure skater, as the trunk became branches with fingerprint leaves. As her fingers slid along the glass she followed the passage of time; through fifteen years of marriage, from Peter’s growing infatuation with his work –a drug that fed his ego with a heady cocktail of success- to the missed anniversaries and interrupted holidays. As each year passed things grew worse and now she left the bathroom and Peter was asleep.
Isobel was running again through the winding alleys of Marrakech. Everywhere there were shopkeepers with many heads and many, many more hands. The square buildings grew rounder and rounder until they were crystal balls, filled with the sea and the sky, and great hands hovered above them covered in golden rings. Suddenly the rings started to fall, hitting against the glassy globes with a hollow knocking sound. The swirls of smoke became the damask pattern of the curtains in the half-light, it was 2am and the clicking was the whirring ceiling fan; the dullest of confirmations that she was back in the world of the living. Peter, she sensed, was also awake, his thoughts still no doubt consumed by the late night messages from Tokyo. They were as far apart in the king-size bed as it was possible to be, his straight, firm back repelling hers like a force field. She imagined that, if she edged closer, an invisible barrier would brush against her skin, so ingrained were the day’s events.
“I’m sorry about this afternoon,” she said, conciliation and warmth in her tone as once more she fought against what threatened to be nature’s course. He stayed quiet a few seconds before reaching out and pulling her to him, an increasingly unfamiliar gesture that made her jolt in surprise.
“It was my fault. And the evening too. I behaved unforgivably, sulking like that. I know how much you wanted it to be a success, to be a romantic evening. It was just…” his explanation trailed away. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised with a reassuring hug, his thoughts drifting off with his words.
“Why don’t we make it up now?” She slipped her hand inside his pyjamas. “It can still be a romantic evening.” It had been many months, perhaps six, since she last prompted lovemaking, since she last responded fully to his initiations. At times when the mood of martyrdom most gripped her, she would try to convince herself that she was content to lie beneath him and wait, until finally rolling away to let sleep envelop her.
She squeezed and massaged him, but he was slow to respond to her coaxing. As she stroked and caressed she pushed the guilt of her straying imagination aside, picturing herself the confused heroine in an epic romance. She felt again the adrenaline of the souk, and an unfamiliar lust coursing through her veins, her frustration rising at the lack of progress her efforts were instilling. When at last she knew he was ready, she rose to straddle him, gently helping him inside her with a mix of almost platonic affection and stifled fear.
But his surprise at her initiation was almost comical, a jarring note of humour in her serious romantic drama. Yet she pursued her cravings nonetheless, strangely aroused by her experience with the man from the market and spurred on by fear, needing to reassure herself about her marriage. But his familiarity was crushing, she sensed no possibility in Peter’s embrace – only his inevitable climax and her seemingly eternal disappointment.