bedecked with large plasma screens, which showed rolling slideshows of idyllic Tuscan scenes smattered with smiling, white-teethed Italians and their expensively dressed, and clearly discerning, guests. Isobel scanned the crowd as they entered, craning her neck to spot Jay. A man stood hidden amongst a crowd of rapt listeners, his charisma clear from the delighted coordination of their responses. Isobel raised herself fully on her toes, sure it must be him, but her vantage point revealed a beaming Irishman holding court, no doubt the Mr. Devlin on the invitation. But she could see no sign of Jay, and she could not hide her disappointment from herself, nor pretend it was relief.
“Isobel, Peter, I’m so pleased you could make it.”
Isobel wheeled around, her heart leaping, but it was just David Knight, the regional manager for Gateway through whom they’d bought and sold several properties over the last ten years. He welcomed them like his closest friends, gripping Peter’s hand as if he owed him his life and kissing Isobel on both cheeks, then talking away obsequiously as he led them into the melee. “What can I offer you to drink? We have a fine selection of Tuscan wines.” Peter accepted a red with relief and Isobel opted for water, now feeling in no mood for Italy’s pleasures. She looked around again as the sommelier engaged Peter in conversation and soon found herself watching an attractive blonde who sat alone at the back of the room, fiddling with her phone and looking decidedly bored. Above her a vast screen cycled a series of skiing images, their whiteness contrasting starkly with the sunflowers and rolling green hills that garnished the rest of the walls.
“I put that in as a conversation piece,” said a low and inviting voice behind her.
Isobel turned to see Jay, smiling broadly. He took her hand, “I was so pleased when you accepted the invitation, but then my heart sank as it seemed you were a no-show.”
Isobel beamed back at him, unable to suppress her joy that he was there after all. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here,” she said, “but it’s my pleasure nevertheless.”
“And you are fully dressed for the occasion, no troublesome robe to worry about this time,” he said, grinning, “and most elegantly dressed too if I may say so.”
“Why thank you,” she said, her pulse slowing as her pleasure grew. “And what are you going to rescue me from this time?”
“Why, my silver-tongued Mr. Devlin, of course. You must allow me to show you around.” Isobel nodded and turned to walk beside him. “Have you been keeping well since Marrakech?” he asked, seeming to span the months since they first met and reduce them to nothing with his words.
“Yes, if living one’s everyday life can be called keeping well,” said Isobel, trying to be jovial but feeling immediately embarrassed by her own pomposity.
“You were fascinated by the skiing scenes, I think?” he said, not seeming to notice her mistakes.
“Well, I just don’t think of Tuscany and skiing as going together,” Isobel admitted, “and isn’t Capadelli in the middle of Tuscany, near San Miniato?”
“I’m impressed. It sounds like you know your geography of Tuscany very well.”
“Enough to know there’s no ski resort hidden in the vineyards,” she replied.
He laughed. “A bit of poetic licence by my overly keen marketing people. I did wonder about the wisdom of it myself. But Capadelli is less than ninety minutes from Abetone, and I think their idea was that in the winter people can get there and back in a day and enjoy three or four hours skiing.”
Isobel nodded, unsure of his reasoning but too lost in his easiness to care.
“So what do you like to do when you’re not skiing, or shopping for magic carpets?” he asked, addressing her with the same studied interest that so characterised his speech in Marrakech.
“As far as holidays go, you mean? That depends on where we go. But we both like active
“Isobel, Peter, I’m so pleased you could make it.”
Isobel wheeled around, her heart leaping, but it was just David Knight, the regional manager for Gateway through whom they’d bought and sold several properties over the last ten years. He welcomed them like his closest friends, gripping Peter’s hand as if he owed him his life and kissing Isobel on both cheeks, then talking away obsequiously as he led them into the melee. “What can I offer you to drink? We have a fine selection of Tuscan wines.” Peter accepted a red with relief and Isobel opted for water, now feeling in no mood for Italy’s pleasures. She looked around again as the sommelier engaged Peter in conversation and soon found herself watching an attractive blonde who sat alone at the back of the room, fiddling with her phone and looking decidedly bored. Above her a vast screen cycled a series of skiing images, their whiteness contrasting starkly with the sunflowers and rolling green hills that garnished the rest of the walls.
“I put that in as a conversation piece,” said a low and inviting voice behind her.
Isobel turned to see Jay, smiling broadly. He took her hand, “I was so pleased when you accepted the invitation, but then my heart sank as it seemed you were a no-show.”
Isobel beamed back at him, unable to suppress her joy that he was there after all. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here,” she said, “but it’s my pleasure nevertheless.”
“And you are fully dressed for the occasion, no troublesome robe to worry about this time,” he said, grinning, “and most elegantly dressed too if I may say so.”
“Why thank you,” she said, her pulse slowing as her pleasure grew. “And what are you going to rescue me from this time?”
“Why, my silver-tongued Mr. Devlin, of course. You must allow me to show you around.” Isobel nodded and turned to walk beside him. “Have you been keeping well since Marrakech?” he asked, seeming to span the months since they first met and reduce them to nothing with his words.
“Yes, if living one’s everyday life can be called keeping well,” said Isobel, trying to be jovial but feeling immediately embarrassed by her own pomposity.
“You were fascinated by the skiing scenes, I think?” he said, not seeming to notice her mistakes.
“Well, I just don’t think of Tuscany and skiing as going together,” Isobel admitted, “and isn’t Capadelli in the middle of Tuscany, near San Miniato?”
“I’m impressed. It sounds like you know your geography of Tuscany very well.”
“Enough to know there’s no ski resort hidden in the vineyards,” she replied.
He laughed. “A bit of poetic licence by my overly keen marketing people. I did wonder about the wisdom of it myself. But Capadelli is less than ninety minutes from Abetone, and I think their idea was that in the winter people can get there and back in a day and enjoy three or four hours skiing.”
Isobel nodded, unsure of his reasoning but too lost in his easiness to care.
“So what do you like to do when you’re not skiing, or shopping for magic carpets?” he asked, addressing her with the same studied interest that so characterised his speech in Marrakech.
“As far as holidays go, you mean? That depends on where we go. But we both like active
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