veins.Nine
Isobel’s footsteps echoed in the empty house as she walked over to the full-length mirror and appraised herself once more. The floor was covered in sad heaps of clothes; each garment carefully tried on and then flung aside in frustration as she attempted to find the perfect ensemble. She looked herself up and down, letting her eyes descend with growing satisfaction; finally, she had got things right.
She turned to the side and scrutinized her silhouette, running her hands over the smooth, slight curves that were highlighted to perfection in the otherwise demure Marc Jacobs dress.
Isobel fingered the invitation card as she checked the time, chewing her lower lip; another half an hour had to pass before she could leave. And, as the minutes edged across the face of her watch, nervous self-doubt began to impinge on her forced calm, and obliged her to wrestle with her motives. She felt sure that her flutter of fancy for Jay was over and that she was only accepting his invitation because it was at her doorstep, for she had after all, she reminded herself again, declined the previous two. Isobel walked again to the mirror and added a slim leather belt to her waist, tightening it to the point of pain as she stared blankly at her reflection and rehearsed the evening in her head. She would send clear signals of professionalism and disinterest, sticking closely to Peter and only engaging in the most trivial small talk. She looked at her waist, tiny and waspish in its leather fetters, and imagined his eyes resting there in desire as she stood chastely beside her husband like a caged bird. She shook the image from her head and grabbed the car keys. Maybe he would not be there, and perhaps it was better if he wasn’t.
Isobel replaced her torments with a lesser evil as she drove to Cobham station to pick up Peter. She allowed her mind to return to her last evening out with Maria, to her resistance of another, albeit much less dangerous temptation, and drew strength from her decision. She was incapable of infidelity, she was sure of it. Still it was with relief that she saw Peter walking down the platform, his pace brisk and irascible.
“On time for once, darling, a first for everything,” she said, stretching to kiss him in deliberate ignorance of his bad-temperedness.
He grunted in reply and swung himself into the passenger seat.
“A good day at the office, dear?” she said, knowing that Peter hated the Mayfair office and all its petty politics — he was at his happiest out in the action with his clients — but had for the last six months been obliged to spend more time there. The problem in Tokyo that first surfaced during their Marrakech break had festered and grown, and hung like a huge black cloud, casting a long and deepening shadow that was now threatening Peter’s career, and absorbing him entirely. But to Isobel’s frustration, he chose to share nothing of the seriousness of it with her. At least the grasping Rachel would be pleased that his troubles now kept him close to her desk, she thought.
“I have a call with Tokyo at ten, so we need to be home by then,” he said, terse and unapologetic.
“That should be fine,” said Isobel, determined not to begin the evening with an argument. “Two hours will be plenty.”
“Two hours?” He looked at her with incredulity in his expression.
“This is not just a fly by and pick up a leaflet affair darling; there’s food and wine, and even an Italian folk singer.”
“A folk singer?”
“Ok, I lied about the singer,” she said laughing, “but definitely music.”
Muted strains of Italian folk music drifted into the still evening air as they approached Gateway Homes. Isobel ignored Peter’s eyerolling sigh as the door opened to reveal the offices transformed for the evening. Smartly dressed couples weaved in and out of the tables, pausing to examine the canapés or thumb through the glossy leaflets that graced every surface. The walls were
Isobel’s footsteps echoed in the empty house as she walked over to the full-length mirror and appraised herself once more. The floor was covered in sad heaps of clothes; each garment carefully tried on and then flung aside in frustration as she attempted to find the perfect ensemble. She looked herself up and down, letting her eyes descend with growing satisfaction; finally, she had got things right.
She turned to the side and scrutinized her silhouette, running her hands over the smooth, slight curves that were highlighted to perfection in the otherwise demure Marc Jacobs dress.
Isobel fingered the invitation card as she checked the time, chewing her lower lip; another half an hour had to pass before she could leave. And, as the minutes edged across the face of her watch, nervous self-doubt began to impinge on her forced calm, and obliged her to wrestle with her motives. She felt sure that her flutter of fancy for Jay was over and that she was only accepting his invitation because it was at her doorstep, for she had after all, she reminded herself again, declined the previous two. Isobel walked again to the mirror and added a slim leather belt to her waist, tightening it to the point of pain as she stared blankly at her reflection and rehearsed the evening in her head. She would send clear signals of professionalism and disinterest, sticking closely to Peter and only engaging in the most trivial small talk. She looked at her waist, tiny and waspish in its leather fetters, and imagined his eyes resting there in desire as she stood chastely beside her husband like a caged bird. She shook the image from her head and grabbed the car keys. Maybe he would not be there, and perhaps it was better if he wasn’t.
Isobel replaced her torments with a lesser evil as she drove to Cobham station to pick up Peter. She allowed her mind to return to her last evening out with Maria, to her resistance of another, albeit much less dangerous temptation, and drew strength from her decision. She was incapable of infidelity, she was sure of it. Still it was with relief that she saw Peter walking down the platform, his pace brisk and irascible.
“On time for once, darling, a first for everything,” she said, stretching to kiss him in deliberate ignorance of his bad-temperedness.
He grunted in reply and swung himself into the passenger seat.
“A good day at the office, dear?” she said, knowing that Peter hated the Mayfair office and all its petty politics — he was at his happiest out in the action with his clients — but had for the last six months been obliged to spend more time there. The problem in Tokyo that first surfaced during their Marrakech break had festered and grown, and hung like a huge black cloud, casting a long and deepening shadow that was now threatening Peter’s career, and absorbing him entirely. But to Isobel’s frustration, he chose to share nothing of the seriousness of it with her. At least the grasping Rachel would be pleased that his troubles now kept him close to her desk, she thought.
“I have a call with Tokyo at ten, so we need to be home by then,” he said, terse and unapologetic.
“That should be fine,” said Isobel, determined not to begin the evening with an argument. “Two hours will be plenty.”
“Two hours?” He looked at her with incredulity in his expression.
“This is not just a fly by and pick up a leaflet affair darling; there’s food and wine, and even an Italian folk singer.”
“A folk singer?”
“Ok, I lied about the singer,” she said laughing, “but definitely music.”
Muted strains of Italian folk music drifted into the still evening air as they approached Gateway Homes. Isobel ignored Peter’s eyerolling sigh as the door opened to reveal the offices transformed for the evening. Smartly dressed couples weaved in and out of the tables, pausing to examine the canapés or thumb through the glossy leaflets that graced every surface. The walls were
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