She has no energy to walk far, so she steps into the deep, soft sand, enjoying its comforting warmth on her feet. She heads towards the edge of the sea. The sun is setting over the horizon and there are very few people left on the beach. There are a few Spanish families packing away their gazebos and sun beds, but most people seem to have already settled themselves on the terraces of the beach bars. She stops, as close to the sea as she can get without actually getting wet, drops her bag at her feet and stands gazing out across the shimmering water. It looks almost black at this time of day, but Isabel finds something quite comforting about the gentle ebb and flow of the little waves, the hypnotic sound as it laps over the sand. She sits down, crosses her legs and watches shells tumbling in and out of the water. She is surprised to find that she actually feels quite at peace. The decision has been taken out of her hands. She knows that she can no longer stay in Spain, living so close to Marcos and his pregnant fiancée. ‘Nor will I have a job!’ she laughs sadly, picking up a stone and hurling it into the sea.
She hears a group of men on the promenade, shouting and cajoling each other as they tumble into the nearest beach bar. She imagines them all, glowing from a day on the beach, smelling of aftershave. They’ll prop up the bar for a while, soaking up the atmosphere. Then check if there is anything or anyone worth staying around for. A loud cheer goes up. She imagines they are challenging each other to down shots. For a moment, she considers joining them. Why not? she thinks, I’m a single woman and still young and attractive enough!
She sighs loudly as she realises that she’s not in the mood for company and she would only regret it in the morning. Instead, she reaches into her beach bag and takes out the bottle of gin. She nestles it into the sand next to her, whilst she fishes out the glass tumbler and a can of cold tonic. ‘Sod ‘em all!’ she says under her breath and mixes her drink. She raises her glass to the dark, tarry sea and takes a long, satisfying drink.
Feeling herself relax, she lays out her towel, building up a bank of sand serving as her pillow, and takes out the selection of nibbles she had thrown randomly into the bag. Isabel refills her glass and holds it between her knees as she tears off a creamy chunk of brie with her fingers. As the gin starts to take effect, she finds herself grinning widely. On the verge of the giggles, she rips off chunks of crusty bread and dips them into a cool pot of hummus. Emboldened by the alcohol, she stands slightly unsteadily in the sand, pulls her dress over her head and wades into the sea.
Chapter 42
Since arriving in Málaga, five days ago, Paul has been trawling the bars of Torremolinos looking for Isabel. He knows that she is there, somewhere. It had cost him his dignity hammering on Joan’s front door last Sunday morning, crying, convincing her that he had spoken to Isabel and that she was prepared to forgive him. Poor Joan will, of course, have found out since, from Isabel’s parents, that this isn’t necessarily the total truth, but he hopes that she will keep quiet, in order to protect her own reputation, if nothing else. She wouldn’t tell him the exact address, but he hopes that the name of the town is enough. As far as the people of Cartheston are concerned, he has merely disappeared off the scene. Heartbroken. There is, of course, some truth in this. He is heartbroken and cannot regret the stupid affair enough.
As yet, he hasn’t met anyone who knows Isabel, but he struck the jackpot yesterday when a waiter in a local beach bar told him that there is a girl staying nearby who matches her description perfectly. He was even more convinced that it was her, when the waiter went on to say that she had come in with a friend, a larger girl, a few times the week before. It has to be her! he thinks, as he makes his way along the promenade with a group of lads from his hostel. They have been drinking all day, but he knows, without a doubt, that he would still recognise Isabel anywhere.
They stumble into the blue and white beach bar and Paul looks around frantically, hoping to see Isabel there. Sipping a cocktail with a new friend maybe? he thinks. There are a few girls, giggling in the shade of the terrace but his heart sinks as he realises that none of them are his girl, his Isabel. He yearns to hold her in his arms, to get down on his knees in front of everyone if necessary, to ask her to forgive him and to spend the rest of her life with him. He hasn’t bought a ring yet, ‘but there will be one,’ he smiles to himself as one of the lads hands him a shot of tequila and there is a loud drunken roar as they all slam their glasses down on the bar in unison.
‘We stayin’ a while?’ asks Paul, ‘I’m just gonna find the bog. Mine’s a pint,’ he says, slapping one of the lads on the shoulder.
When he returns, there are four tables pushed together on the terrace, loaded with pints of San Miguel. He joins them, takes a drink and sloshes it clumsily against the bloke’s pint glass next to him. ‘Cheers mate,’ he says loudly, spilling lager down his white knee-length shorts. There is an outburst of ‘Cheers’ along the tables as they take long, noisy slurps, swinging back on their chairs and eyeing up the group of girls in the corner.
Paul turns away from the group and gazes out to sea. There is nobody on the beach now, apart from a couple of young boys playing football on the grassy oasis amongst the palm trees.
He is suddenly distracted by a figure out of the corner of his eye. It is too dark to see properly and they are quite a distance away. He is transfixed as the dark outline of a female figure stands and pulls her dress over her head. He watches her wade slowly into the water, sending glistening, moonlit ripples out towards the horizon. She stands waist-deep and trickles water over her shoulders before plunging under the surface, sweeping her long dark hair off her face when she surfaces a short distance away. ‘Isabel...’ he whispers to himself.
Paul leaves the bar and heads out towards the lonely figure. He watches her float for a while and then gracefully walk back to her towel, wringing out her hair and lifting her face to the stars above, her gorgeous body swaying lightly in the sand.
‘Iz...?’ he asks quietly, not wanting to startle her.
Isabel picks up her dress, instinctively, and holds it to her chest as she spins around to face him.
‘Paul...!? But, what are you doing here? How did you...?’
‘Shhhhh,’ he interrupts, taking a few steps closer to her so that they can see each other more clearly by the faint light of the moon.
Paul is totally shocked as, instead of pushing him away as he had imagined, Isabel throws herself gratefully into his arms and begins to sob.
‘Izzy, what are you doing here alone at this time of night?’ he asks her gently, as her sobs subside.
She lifts her head from his chest, still clinging to his shirt, enjoying his musky familiar smell and looks up into his eyes. ‘Me?!’ she laughs, through her tears, ‘I could ask you the same question!’
Paul realises that she does not expect an answer when she buries her head back into his chest and begins to shiver in the cool evening air.
‘Where are you staying?’ he asks, lifting her chin affectionately, ‘come on, let’s go and get you warm. You’re freezing.’
Chapter 43
Marcos is angry; he has never felt such anger. His hand shakes as he looks again at the photo on his mobile phone, zooming in again and again, willing it to be someone else. The beautiful features do not change. There is no denying that it is Leanne. She is staring lovingly into the eyes of a blonde-haired man. He can’t see his face but they are holding hands across the table, clearly very much in love, and they clearly know each other well. Rachel had told him, in her text, that they had taken the photo as a joke. She and Isabel had laughed at the sickeningly-soppy couple and had pretended to take a selfie, cutting all but Rachel’s right shoulder out of the shot. Very well framed. ‘Framed!’ he sneers under his breath, leaning against the bathroom wall, thinking how ironic that is. Leanne has been well and truly framed, he thinks.
He puts his phone down on the sink and stares at his face in the mirror. How could he have trusted her? And how can he believe that the baby she is carrying is his? He
wants her out. Out of his house, right this second. He continues to stare at his own reflection, unable to move. The sheer hatred that runs through his veins makes him feel sick. He daren’t leave the bathroom for fear of how he will react when he confronts Leanne with the evidence. She will lie, of course. She’s obviously very good at that.
He thinks about Isabel and how he had left her crumpled on the pavement. The pain in her eyes. She had told him about Leanne but he had rejected the idea outright. He thinks back to the incident in the pool and his blood runs cold. He suddenly realises that he can believe Leanne capable of wanting to hurt Isabel. Even kill her? He feels so ashamed. How could I have been so blind!
All of a sudden, he is pulled out of his thoughts by a light knock on the door. ‘Are you ok, Cariño? Shall I make us some coffee?’
He grips the sink with both hands, taking a deep, calming breath before answering.
‘Ok. Out in a minute,’ he manages to say, as casually as he can.
When he emerges a few minutes later, Leanne is pouring boiling water into the coffee pot, smiling happily, still oblivious to the change in mood.
‘Let’s sit in the living room,’ he says, quietly, taking two cups from the cupboard.
Leanne follows him, concerned. ‘Is everything ok Marcos? Have I done something wrong?’ she asks, setting the coffee pot down on a rubber place mat and settling herself in a comfortable arm chair opposite him. ‘Sweetheart...? Is it work?’
‘No, no it’s not work’ he says, sitting forward in the chair. Agitated, he rubs the palms of his hands together slowly. ‘Leanne’ he starts, trying to control the anger in his voice, ‘when did you go to the doctor?’
‘To the doctors’?’ she smiles quizzically, jumping to her feet and pressing the plunger slowly down onto the coffee, ‘I haven’t been yet sweetheart,’ she continuous, filling two small cups and handing one to Marcos.
‘But you are pregnant?’ He studies her face carefully as she settles herself back into the armchair.
‘Well, I did a test,’ she smiles, ‘in fact I did two. And they were both positive. Why, what’s wrong? You’re worrying me.’
He places his cup on the table and pulls out his mobile phone. ‘I’ll tell you what’s worrying me Leanne,’ he says in a steely voice, ‘this!’ He thrusts the picture into Leanne’s face, ‘this image worries me, very much.’
He watches the colour drain from her face as she recognises herself. ‘I... I don’t understand,’ she mumbles.
‘Oh I think I do. Rachel remembered where she and Isabel had seen you before, when they met you at our engagement party. She never said anything of course, she’s far too good a person for that.’ Marcos watches her as her eyes widen and she shifts in the chair, desperately trying to think of an explanation. ‘After your little revelation today though, Rachel remembered the photo that she had taken as a joke. A joke!’ Marcos shouts, thrusting his phone back into his pocket, ‘which is, incidentally, what our relationship has been to you, isn’t it? Hasn’t it!’
Leanne recoils back against the cushions. She has never seen Marcos lose his temper like this. She realises that she has pushed him too far. Her voice comes out as a scared whisper as he leans over her, gripping the arms of the chair, demanding an answer.
‘I... no, not a joke. Never a joke,’ she says, her eyes welling up.
‘How long?’ he asks. His voice deep, unfaltering.
‘Eighteen months maybe,’ she shivers, staring down at her hands.
Marcos grits his teeth and presses hard down on the arms of the chair, pushing himself away from her. ‘You disgust me!’ he shouts, rubbing his face roughly with both hands.
Leanne sinks deeper into the armchair, pulling her legs up towards her chest as he strides towards her. ‘You let me propose to you! You said Yes... why???’
Leanne doesn’t answer. She remains motionless, curled in the chair like a child, as she realises that she has no defence. She has used him. Used them both. Marcos and David.
‘Is there a baby?’ he asks, his face only inches from her own. She simply shrugs in response, not able to look him in the eyes, confirming her deceit.
She cowers helplessly, screwing up her eyes expecting to feel a stinging slap across her face at any minute. She knows that she deserves it. She hears his ragged breathing close to her face and then his heavy footsteps receding. She opens her eyes and watches as the door slams behind him. ‘Just get out,’ he bellows.
Chapter 44
Isabel allows herself to be cradled in Paul’s arms on the sunbed on the roof terrace. He had settled her there and returned with a tray of food and drinks for them both. Stroking his chest through his thin linen shirt, her sadness is gradually replaced by a deep longing for him. She lifts her head from his shoulder and smiles slowly down at his familiar features. His white teeth shining between his parted lips, his thick wavy hair swept neatly back from his face. A faint shadow of stubble accentuates his strong, masculine jaw and he is more tanned than she has ever seen him.
She sits up slowly, admiring him. She can feel his tension.
‘Isabel, will you let me explain...?’ he asks softly, his dark eyes pleading with her.
‘No,’ she answers simply, smiling and shaking her head slowly, ‘after all, you’re on holiday,’ she giggles. He can see that she is drunk.
He watches her, one arm behind his head, as she mixes them a large gin and tonic each and picks up a slice of pizza from the table. ‘Join me!’ she says in her teasing voice, usually reserved for those special nights of passion. The last time he had seen her like this had been only a couple of hours before he had betrayed her for the last time. His face becomes serious and full of regret, as he remembers how he had let Jules secretly into Joan’s empty house and made love to her across the kitchen table. He watches Isabel saunter sexily over to the hot tub and fold back the lid. He tries to suppress the guilty memories of his shameful affair.
Isabel had been so sweet and naive that it was easier than he thought to betray her. A late night or two at work, an early-morning training run. He even actively encouraged Isabel to go clubbing with her friends in Plymouth, so that he could meet Jules. It was the excitement, he thinks, trying to justify all the occasions in those few weeks that he had cheated on Isabel. Sometimes they weren’t even discreet. It was almost as if he wanted her to find out, to discover them together. In the car parked a few metres from the front door of their cottage; in the bed he shared with Isabel just hours before she returned from work; in the shower; in the tall grass of the Ploughman’s just metres from where Isabel was drinking with her friends. I’m not proud of myself, he thinks.
He gets to his feet and helps himself to a handful of peanuts and a large gulp of G&T in an attempt to bring his mind back to the present moment, to swallow the guilt. Isabel looks beautiful as she lowers herself into the steaming bubbles, drink in hand, beckoning him to join her. He hesitates for a few seconds as he slips out of his shorts and pulls his shirt over his head. If Isabel can forget about the past for a few hours then so can I, he thinks, smiling as he picks up his drink and steps into the deliciously warm water in the cool evening air.
When Isabel wakes up the next morning it is still early. She had forgotten to close the blinds the night before and the sun is streaming in across the bedroom even though it is still only low in sky, behind the mountains. It must be about seven o’clock, she guesses, and turns over lazily. She is instantly wracked with guilt and regret as she sees Paul lying beside her. He is asleep with one bronzed muscular leg entangled in the white sheet. Oh shit! she thinks, cringing as the memories of last night come flooding back one-by-one.
She is comforted, momentarily, by the fact that she was drunk and upset, but then cringes, feeling the physical blow of embarrassment as she remembers how she had practically thrown herself at him. No, he can definitely not be blamed for seducing me, she thinks.
She lies perfectly still, willing him not to wake up, as she replays the scenes in her mind
. The gin, the hot tub... did I even turn it off?! The noise, the neighbours! She can feel herself blushing as she remembers all the scenes of pure lust that she had imagined she would share with Marcos, once he had left Leanne. She had shared them with the wrong man! Marcos had left her and Paul had been there to rescue her. She feels totally ashamed of herself. She had no intention of getting back with Paul and yet she probably led him to believe the complete opposite last night. She feels ill as she quietly slides from the bed, grabbing a towel from the floor. She tiptoes to the bathroom and locks herself in. She sits on the edge of the bath, trying to work out what she should do. And how to stop the bloody room from spinning.
After a few minutes she stands up, unsteadily, and catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Not a pretty sight! She takes out a packet of make-up removal wipes and cleans the mascara from under her eyes and stares at her reflection. I have to leave she thinks. Sadly, her dream is over.
She runs herself a deep, warm bubble bath and, after testing the water with her toe, she steps in and submerges herself into the clouds of scented foam. It feels so good that she smiles and rests her head back on the inflatable cushion.
The blissful silence is disturbed as she hears a knock on the door, ‘Izzy love, are you in there?’
Isabel pushes herself upright in the bath, spilling water onto the floor. ‘Yes,’ she answers, more sharply than she had intended, ‘just having a bath.’ She has no idea what is the appropriate thing to say next, so she remains sitting rigidly upright, waiting for a response.
Waves of Betrayal (The Isabel Marsh Trilogy Book 1) Page 21
