What The Eye Cannot See

By Winfred Peppinck

'Infidelity' is such a sweet word, for an act of bastardy! Over 90% of women, married and single, regard infidelity as the greatest act of betrayal. But Rory Trembath is not concerned; he knows that if he can seduce the mind first, then the body is sure to follow.

The middle-aged Trembath, and Arabella Findlay, meet by chance, soon learning that they share an affinity, to stay in their marriages, but have discrete, racy sex, something long faded from their own lives.

Their affair, begun weeks ago in London, blossoms at the Hotel Balzac in Paris, before an act of 'happenstance', the asp in paradise, strikes, on the way back to London ... and changes everything.

Alliances are tested when denials fail, and the gamut of emotions are stoked by the fear, loss of esteem, financial gutting, that all come with middle age divorce. Should the 'bit on the side', become the ‘bit cast aside’, when 'salvage' creates its own agenda? Yet even reconciliation harbours its own secrets...

Review
'If ever you needed a reason NOT to have an affair, this book gives you that reason. It’s fun, fast paced and the characters far too familiar—We loved it. www.book-reviewer.com'

Publisher Comments
There are different stages in everyone's life. When a man hits his mid-life crisis and decides on a little infidelity to brighten his life he cannot possibly imagine the consequences. This is an Aesop's Fable for grown-ups. With great characters and all too real circumstances. Fate may conspire to bring people together, but what happens when it grows bored with the game?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mirador Publishing
• Release date: Feb 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781908200679

Winfred Peppinck

Winfred Peppinck is a Dutch-born Australian, one of the first of the baby boomers, a former diplomat and Government Advisor. He and his wife Wendy, and their two rescue dogs, currently live in the Kingdom of Bahrain. He is the author of The Diplomatic Dog of Barbados, the WWII novel Not My Country, various travel e-books, a children’s book, The Dogs who were Left Behind, and two romantic/erotic novels, High Infidelity, and Sex and Lexie Sherringham.

Book preview

WHAT THE EYE CANNOT SEE

BY

WINFRED PEPPINCK

MIRADOR PUBLISHING

First Published by Mirador Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 by Winfred Peppinck

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers or author. Excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

First edition: 2012

Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflect the reality of any locations involved.

A copy of this work is available though the British Library.

IBSN : 978-1-908200-67-9

CHAPTER ONE

CAROUSEL

He spotted her again at the luggage carousel, and he struck like a heron in a pond full of fish.

Allow me, he said simply, reaching over her before she could object, and doing his best to lift the very heavy case from the conveyer belt, without any indication that the bloody thing really was heavy! Men are such vain creatures he thought to himself, as he slewed slightly, skipping a couple of steps sideways, giving her a ‘There we are’ grin as though he had just landed a great white shark.

You’ve been stealing the iron and the contents of the hotel mini bar have you?

He was rewarded with a laugh. I should wish she said smoothly, but alas, they are just crusty financial documents, then as an after-thought mind you, your idea is much more exotic

Well we have got the blighter landed – now what? this time he laughed.

She looked around for a trolley over by the wall. Could I ask you to play guard, while I go and fetch a trolley?

Better idea! I’ll get the trolley. Take my word for it, no-one is going to run away with that bag, let me tell you, and again he moved before she could respond, leaving his own light-weight case beside her bright, shiny, ribbed aluminium case.

He had spotted her the moment she stepped aboard the aircraft, tall and slim with a stylish scarf curled around her long neck, Isadora Duncan-style. The scarf covered part of a well cut Chanel-style suit, black of course, with white trim, her darkish brown hair elegantly cut in a rakish bob, a perplexed look on her brow as she searched for her seat. Business class, naturally enough, not in his meager Economy class section. A great pity as the two seats beside him were empty, to be filled, he was sure, by a fat businessman with arms spilling into his space at meal time. Something, he would not have minded of her, and the chance to start a conversation.

She put a smaller bag into the overhead locker, giving him a quick profile of a decent bust as she stretched, and then she sat down four rows ahead of him so he could just see the top of her hair. He was disappointed of course, especially when the flight crew pulled the curtain across the aisle after take-off, separating him from her completely.

After landing, he half followed her through the terminal, not as a stalker but merely as an ‘interested party’. They were, after all going to the same luggage carousel. She had a good, no a sexy derriere, which swayed just a little when she walked, her legs a little thin, but then nevertheless proportional, her long neck tilted to one side while she spoke on her mobile phone.

‘I am being a voyeur,’ he thought to himself, walking a little more briskly to be nearer to her, confident that she was oblivious to his presence so that he even heard her laugh. When she took the escalator, he was merely two steps behind. At the carousel she looked anxiously for the bag, as one who had made a late connection might do, then back at her watch as though she had an appointment. He took up a position where he could unobtrusively look at her, and when she swept her view across him, he was merely an anonymous face in the crowd.

His bag came first, another disappointment, but then just as he went to walk away from her forever, hers arrived too, as if by serendipity. Her struggle with it, gave him the opportunity. And as Rory Trembarth knew, when an opportunity like this knocked, you grasped it with both hands.

There we are, he said lightly, then taking up the heavy suitcase and exhaling softly as he hoisted it on the trolley, now all you will have is a complaining taxi driver to put it in the boot.

That would flush her out.

Oh my husband will have to grunt and strain I am sure, and he won’t be half as restrained as you! She laughed easily with her eyes.

I am so grateful, however can I thank you.

It was a statement not a question and Trembarth was practiced enough to let it go through without any comment. He had seen the wedding ring on her hand when she struggled with her suitcase, and was hardly surprised. Middle-aged women, with her looks and figure, were inevitably married, maybe once, maybe twice. If it was once, there was a chance, but if the husband was new, then maybe it would be a bit more difficult, but no, not impossible. Everyone eventually grew tired, even if only a little, and a new and attentive man might be just the thing. Well at least for a pleasant lunch, from where the prospects for a longer liaison, were infinitely greater. But don’t rush it, he said to himself, reel in the line very, very slowly.

Well let me give you my card, he said, reaching for his soft leather wallet, giving her his broadest smile, You never know when you might need a good private detective.

He had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen and her pretty mouth form into a wordless sphere, her soft pink lipstick glossy and moist. She looked down at the card almost anxiously.

You bugger, she said throwing back her head, while her eyes danced. The card holding hand came over to cover her mouth while she laughed, her other hand touching his sleeve. It says here Ministry of Trade, and she looked at it more closely, still laughing, Mr Rory Trembarth.

He grinned his cheeky grin, the one he knew that women liked, lips slightly parted, just a glimpse of two rows of straight white teeth.

Well, I knew that I couldn’t impress you with my strength, and he nodded at the suitcase, nor my position in the Ministry, and he pointed a finger at the card as though it was a six-shooter, so I lied!

She laughed again, but this time it was more controlled, measured. So you thought that I would be attracted to the mystique of a Phillip Marlow did you? She arched an eyebrow.

Now you are flattering me, Madame. I thought you would see me more as a Hercule Poirot, sans moustache.

She looked him slowly up and down, then almost round him, No, not portly enough!

He gave a slight nod, conscious that he could not sustain the banter for too much longer.

I am glad to have been able to assist a beautiful woman with her suitcase, and he lowered his gaze almost demurely, his smile slight and kindly. Just make sure that your husband lifts it into the boot, not you.

There, he had done it. Introduced a bit of flattery, and acknowledged the existence of her husband, a genuinely ‘nice guy’ not a roué. A Samaritan, the sort of chap who said Have a nice day, and means it.

He turned, dropped one shoulder and grabbed the handle of his suitcase, a clear gesture of, I’ll be on my way then.

She looked down slightly, as though to meet his gaze when he stood straight again. He knew she would. Women like her didn’t leave a conversation just like that.

Well, Mr Rory Trembarth, this woman is very grateful for your touch of kindness, I struggled with the thing in Newcastle, and almost missed the flight. I am in your debt for caring.

He thought that she would extend her hand to thank him, but instead she looked down to her black valise and drew out a classical black Chanel wallet, from which she opened a panel, drew out an embossed calling card, holding it between her thumb and a long forefinger, the nail a deep pink and beautifully shaped. She handed it to him, but not before he noted the traditional Longines gold watch on her slim wrist.

Losely Financial Services it said in gold copperplate Gothic print, and below that, Arabella Findlay, Financial Advisor. There was a Canary Wharf address.

Thank you, Ms Findlay, he said, fully engaging her with his eyes into hers, taking in their mauve-ness and the slenderness of her nose with its slight upturn on the end. She had a strong face, with angular, accentuated cheekbones which puffed into little pillows when she laughed. Her chin was slightly squarish, which served to elongate her face, a bit like Jerry Hall. Her front top teeth all perfectly aligned, turned slightly inward, yet in that face, they looked tailored in a beautifully flawed manner.

If ever you need the services of the Ministry of Trade again, then you have a man on the inside. He smiled again.

Well, she said with a little smile, if you are in need of any financial services, do give me a call and I will make sure you are put into the right hands. She thrust out her hand, her grip cool and firm, her fingers long and elegant, pink nails at their tips.

Already Trembarth’s head swam with her words, easy to interpret as polite repartee and innocent, but in the circumstances, a touch suggestive. Trembarth, long practiced in the nuances of moment and language, was happy to interpret it as the latter.

I might just do that, Ms Findlay, he said with a little smirk, what with the pound and the Euro being so weak, and let the rest of his sentence fall away.

Well, I am sure we can help you, she said just as smugly. Nice to meet you, Mr Rory Trembarth and thank you again.

The pleasure was all mine, Ms Findlay. He brought two fingers to the side of his head, almost saluting as a cub scout might, All mine.

She smiled and pushed the trolley to the door. He followed moments later to the taxi rank just in time to see a stout, balding fellow in a three piece suit putting her suitcase into the boot of a Ford Mondeo. He was pleased to see the chap straining and puffing. She was already sitting in the front seat with the sun visor down, obviously looking at herself in the mirror. The boot slammed shut and the car accelerated into the traffic.

He rang her the next day and invited her to lunch.

Hello, Arabella Findlay, my name is Samson from the suitcase company. I was wondering if we might have lunch sometime this week. Thursday?

No flattery, no smooth talking, just a straight out proposal. If she said ‘no’ she said ‘no’ and all that it had cost him was his time, with the expense borne by the Ministry of Trade.

She gave a little laugh-let in recall, and then, after only the slightest of hesitations, she said, Lunch on Thursday would be fine.

Trembath had spent a good hour on his computer, looking up locations.

Do you do Italian? When she answered yes, he said Okay. The Amerigo Vespuchi – do you know it? On Cabot Square, 12.30?

He had been there before, open and usually quite crowded at lunchtime, nothing sleazy or out of the way. While most women would baulk at a dinner invitation, no matter how innocent or crowded the venue, in his experience, few objected to a lunch. Lunch came with time restraints, without ‘pick-up’ or awkwardly ‘afterwards’ moments at her door. Just a meeting, a bite, and a farewell. Well, untill the next time, for it didn’t take long to determine if there would be a next time. She was married, yet she had accepted an invitation from a complete stranger and that already spoke volumes. Like him, she was a risk taker, he liked that in people. It heightened everything.

I’m sorry, Mr Rory Trembarth, but because we focus mainly on the European markets, my lunch hour is from one o’clock till two. The DAX and all of that, and early trading, she said, as if he fully understood the vagaries of the financial world.

Is one to two do-able for you?

Indubitably – but hey, don’t bring that suitcase! She laughed and rang off.

‘Easy as pie,’ he said to himself, I could even take the tube. Another liaison was starting.

CHAPTER TWO

FIRST DATE

He was there before her and stood up when she came through the door. She was, as he expected, beautifully dressed in a very catchy apple-green knee-length skirt, a white blouse, a trim, dark blue sculpted jacket and a soft pastel neckerchief tied cowboy style around her long neck. Seeing him, she gave a jaunty wave then came towards him, her high heels clacking on the wooden floor. He saw a couple of businessmen look at her.

He had chosen a table near the window and while there were a few people sitting outside near the Heron Dock, he had chosen indoors. She was well tanned, but most women preferred a place out of the sun and the wind. A waiter was immediately at the table to pull back the brown and white wooden chair, but not before she stretched out her hand and gripped his, Mr Rory Trembarth, and she gave a curt little nod before elegantly sitting down, thanking the waiter.

Drink? said Trembarth, while the waiter stood by.

I’m working, Mr Rory Trembarth she said with a little smile, so just a white wine will do. The House wine will be fine, as long as it is dry. There was an almost playful tone in her voice, particularly the manner in which she ran his name together. Very promising indeed.

As the waiter nodded, Rory held up his hand, I like the Orvietto Classico , I am sure Madame would, too. Do you have it?

Of course Signore he replied with a little nod of his head, and he handed over two terracotta coloured menus.

Just something I don’t have to wrestle with, she said lightly, a chicken Caesar would be fine for me.

Two, said Trembarth holding up two fingers in a Churchillian manner, and some antipasti for starters, please. The waiter nodded and was gone.

Trembarth looked over at her seeing the bemused look on her face, as she gave him the tiniest of nods.

She looked at him for a few moments without saying a word, something Trembarth found a little unnerving.

What are you thinking?

There was another short silence while she fixed him with her large mauve-brown eyes.

I was thinking, what sort of man after a two minute meeting, rings a woman he knows is married and asks her to lunch, Mr Rory Trembarth? Although she sounded serious, the little laugh lines around her eyes indicated otherwise.

Arabella Findlay, you are unjust, he said, with mock horror in his voice, we had been together for nearly two hours, if you add the time on board the aircraft, the taxi-ing, the waiting at the carousel. He was pleased to see her smiling.

No, my stars that day told me to ‘be bold in my endeavours’, and when I saw you struggling with the suitcase, I knew that was what they were referring to. Then I got quite a shock when I tried to lift the bloody thing!

Now she laughed, My husband wasn’t impressed let me tell you, and I thought he was going to ring my boss on his car-phone, making me carry all those papers.

She paused as the wine came and the waiter paused for the tasting ritual. Trembarth merely felt the cork, looked at the colour, sniffed the bouquet and nodded. They were quiet while the waiter poured the wine into both glasses, gave a practiced smile, and left.

Trembarth picked up his glass, held it at eye level, dipping it slightly, As Phillip Marlow, or even Poirot, might say. Here’s to the case of the beautiful woman.

She reciprocated with the same motions, Or as Sinatra might sing, Strangers in the flight, and burst out laughing, so that the businessmen at another table, briefly looked across at her and then Trembarth, now also laughing.

It was her eyes that spoke, he thought, like a nightclub at night. Sparkling, engaging, suggestive of mirth, with just a touch of mystery and daring.

I notice that you don’t wear a ring, but are you also married? He was pleased that for the first time, she did not use his name. It had been fun for a little while as they jousted, but it was time to move on, and she too had realized that.

Oh, I used to play a lot of cricket, as a wicketkeeper, and he held up both hands to show her an array of strangely jointed fingers, "and somehow