When the Siren Cries by TJ Barry - HTML preview

Chapter Three

Strange feelings of guilt surged and ebbed within Isobel as she sat with Peter at the breakfast table; she pushed her food round the plate with her fork, eyeing it listlessly and eating nothing. She had lost almost a stone in the past six months, the weight falling from her like autumn leaves as Peter’s absorption in his latest client reached its peak. He, of course, failed to notice. Failed to feel the hip bones against his as they lay together, remained oblivious to the wedding ring that now slid loosely up her finger and back to the knuckle with a dull thud.

She studied him as he prodded his mushroom omelette, his attention temporarily distracted from the business section of the newspaper. His face and body were as lean and athletic as the day they met, but the vitality within him was so changed from the man she married. And without knowing why, she found herself resenting that he was the same, yet different.

“Peter, about yesterday…” But her words were drowned by the quiet bleep of his phone, the ‘please stay quiet bleep’ as she once called it; it was late afternoon in Tokyo, and his eyes and mind went to the message on the screen instead of the anxiety on her face. She reached across and put her palm over the phone; he looked at her with impatience, perhaps even anger, in his eyes.

“I had quite a fright in the medina. At one point one of the sellers grabbed my arm, you know, really grabbed it, and a crowd gathered.”

“Those guys don’t take no for an answer. If you had just waited half an hour we could have gone together,” he said, failing to sense any impending drama as he removed her hand from the screen. “Can I just deal with this, and then I’m all yours.” But he was not and she feared never would be.

She rose and stood for a moment in exasperation. “I’m going to the room to pack, then I’m off to the pool.”

He gestured to the phone pressed to his ear and batted off her words with a flick of his hand.

All guilt dissolved as she made the short walk to the elevator, her vision narrowed by rage she focused only on the shining doors ahead. A man leapt up from a chair to her left but she did not see him. He threw down his newspaper and ran up behind her, pressing his hand playfully to her back.

“Going my way,” he said, as she almost jumped out of her skin, whirling round as the last of her tired nerves snapped.

“Oh my god, don’t do that,” she said, trying to disguise the contortion of emotions on her face.

He laughed a boyish laugh. “Sorry, I just can’t seem to help myself jumping out of nowhere to rescue damsels in distress.”

“I’m not in distress,” she said smiling, “and the lift only goes one way.”

The lift came and went as they exchanged pleasantries, Isobel offering her thanks once more for his heroics and he convivially dismissing them, his humour as pleasant and energetic as the day before. He seemed content to chat idly as the doors opened and closed, but Isobel found her eye straying to the breakfast room entrance. He seemed to sense her discomfort and stepped into the elevator at the next opportunity, silently beckoning her to follow him with his smile.

She looked at her watch.

“We’re leaving in a couple of hours,” she said, to which he muttered a nonchalant “uh um,” obliging her to continue. “I thought I’d spend the last hour around the pool… just while Peter makes his calls.”

“Sounds good, I was thinking about doing the same.”

Isobel had to stop herself from running as she stepped out to the corridor and made for her room. Once there she threw her clothes haphazardly into the suitcase, rehearsing her reasoning as she went. “Why should I avoid someone who did such a chivalrous thing, if Peter’s going to ignore me?”

She paused to consider her clothing options, dallying only seconds over the idea of travel clothes before opting for a swimming costume. Modesty and disquiet compelled her to choose the one-piece over a bikini but it was a striking black number, with a lace effect around the neck and midriff that allowed a veiled glimpse of both cleavage and waistline. She stood before the mirror touching up her lipstick; the woman looking back at her was strikingly attractive. Although her skin no longer shone with the dewy freshness of youth it was firm and polished, taut across her fine bone structure. Taller than average she was a sculpture of a woman, viewing herself in the mirror like looking at art behind glass. She subconsciously nodded her approval and moved to the door, grabbing a bathrobe as she went.

Jay was already there, his suit jacket draped over the lounger at his side, when she reached the pool. He looked effortlessly smart, his attractions in no way dulled by his unexposed flesh. Isobel broke her stride, now feeling foolish in her swimsuit and hating herself for her lack of subtlety. She pulled the bathrobe belt even tighter and made the walk across to him. She wanted to take the lounger next to his but her nerve failed her. 
“Shall we talk at the table,” she suggested, as she hung her bag decisively on the nearest chair.

He was charming but professional as they chatted, and with every sentence struck another crack in her fragile, still almost unconscious, hopes and imaginings.

“Your husband not joining us then? ” he asked.

“He’s busy making calls to save the world,” she said, reproaching herself for her bitterness.

“Ah yes, you said. What does he do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“He flies from boardroom to boardroom making fat cats look good.” She tried to make her tone blasé, even amused, as she discreetly loosened the bathrobe. “You know, strategy. Buy this, sell that.”

“So he travels a lot I guess?”

“All the time. One luxury hotel to the next, like this place.”

“That must be great for you?” He smiled and raked his fingers through his hair before continuing. “The opportunity to travel with him I mean.”

“I used to think so. But after ten years it can get nauseating. Talking trivia with pampered spouses in the same bland function rooms all over the world.”

“While the boys swig their brandy and swing their dicks?” His crudity should have shocked her and she blushed when it didn’t.

“It sounds like you know the game he’s in,” she said, the bathrobe slipping from her shoulders as she put down her drink. His eyes lingered for a moment on her torso as curved black materialized from the soft, shapeless white.

“A little bit, maybe. But what brought you both to Marrakech, if he’s so busy?”

She could not resist the invitation for disclosure. “My dreams I suppose. You know, the romance of the place. But I did have to drag Peter here kicking and screaming.”

“And you’ve found it?” His eyes burnt into her, seeming to see everything, to know everything.

“It hasn’t been the right time, there’s a lot going on.”

She felt all of a sudden afraid of being quizzed further and drew herself up to become the questioner.

“And you, what brings you here?”

“Business. I’m checking out an investment possibility. A tourist development.”

“And that’s what you do all the time?”

“Some of the time. Right now I’m spending most of my time in Italy, in Tuscany; it’s a new concept – a luxury hotel and spa, an idyllic retreat in the hills - somewhere for a romantic getaway, or just to get some ‘me-time,’ while being pampered like a princess. If you visit you’d love it I’m sure, and if you didn’t, then I’d know we were getting it wrong.”

She smiled at the compliment. “Maybe I will,” she said, taking a sip of iced tea through the straw, moulding her lips round it into a soft pink ‘o’.

He laughed, and pulled a card from his wallet. “Here’s my details, and there’s a link on the back to a website, it will show you what we’re up to much better than I can describe.”

She tucked it away in the pocket of her robe as he stood up to say his goodbyes. As she rose to receive them, the bathrobe fell fully to the floor…

Praise for When the Siren Calls
A pacy, racy, romance novel -Tom Fletcher, author, The Leaping
A potent mix of sex and romance – Elizabeth Jasper, author, The
Golden Cuckoo
I thoroughly enjoyed the way the strands come together - Matthew
Branton, author, The Love Parade

To order When the Siren Calls and for other books by
Tom Barry please visit
www.tombarrywrites.com