The Betrayal (15 page)

T
he view
from my office overlooks Merrion Square Park.
Sometimes, when the windows are open, the voices of children reach above the traffic and rise towards me.
The first weeks were terrifying, so many meetings, new faces, responsibilities.
Now, two months later, the newness has worn off and the skills I took with me from Tõnality have come to the fore.

Lustrous
is the most prestigious of Jessica’s eight magazines and is my responsibility.
It’s devoted to celebrity culture, glamour and escapism, scandal and the red carpet.
Her other magazines are equally targeted, weddings, businesses, interior design and then there’s
Core
, a muck-raking tabloid at the other end of the spectrum from
Lustrous
.
Both magazines are edited by Liam Brett.

I don’t usually dislike people on a first impression but Liam has proved the exception to the rule.
He addresses the female staff as ‘Babe’; a useful moniker that prevents him having to remember our names.
I suspect he enjoys building up the celebrities who feature in
Lustrous
so that he can crash land them later with an exposé in
Core
.

Susanna was right when she said there would be blurred demarcation lines on the magazine.
When one of the editorial team on
Lustrous
resigns after a row with Liam I offer to write her copy until she’s replaced.
This involves writing features about celebrities who have done something to damage their image and need a sympathetic revamp on their reputations – or wannabes who are seeking any reputation, damaged or otherwise.
Jessica makes excuses when the weeks pass with no sign of a new copywriter being appointed.

‘I don’t know how I ever managed without you, Nadine,’ she says.
Compliments are her ammunition against protests.
‘You’re so multi-faceted.’

We used to laugh at
Lustrous
, Jake and I.
All those celebrities posturing and pouting.
He nicknamed it
Ludicrous
.
My only fear is that I’ll do the same at a staff meeting.

I
awaken
on a Saturday morning filled with determination.
No lying on in bed.
The time has come to make a start on the attic.
My life plan has changed but there’s no reason why I can’t turn the attic into a studio.
Over the years I’ve enrolled in night-time art classes but I seldom finished a term.
Nothing to stop me now.

The attic is chaotic, filled with clutter that needs to be sorted out.
Dire warnings have come from California, London and the Dingle peninsula.
Nothing belonging to Ali, Brian and the twins is to be thrown out until they’ve had a chance to decide what should be kept.

They too are feeling the effects of change.
We can no longer afford to finance Ali as she waits to be discovered.
When I reminded her that waitressing is the apprenticeship for an acting career, she sounded as if I’d asked her to stand on the block at a hiring fair.
The twins were equally appalled by the idea of working part-time while they train for gold.

I’ll organise containers in a storage warehouse for the ‘must-not-throw-outs’ and the rest can be divided between Oxfam, the local recycling plant, the junk yard and Ebay.
I look at my paintings stacked against the eaves, some finished, others abandoned at the halfway stage.
Amateurish.
They’ll make a fine bonfire.

I want Jake to help but his van, now roadworthy, is missing from the previous night.
He arrives as I’m packing the boot with boxes for Oxfam.
His hair is shaggier than it used to be and the strain he’s carried on his face for months has disappeared.
He looks ten years younger whereas I’m only beginning, literally, to lift my head from the debris that was once our lives.
He’s spent the night with someone.
I know this to be true, not just by his crumpled shirt and sated eyes but by an aura surrounding him, something I can only sense: elation, suppressed excitement.

We’ve discussed this possibility… probability… actuality.
If the law forces us to wait four years to finalise our divorce then we have the right to decide how it should end emotionally.
Circumstances interfered with our plans but if we’re to survive this living together, yet apart, we will practice discretion.
That means never bringing anyone with whom we have a relationship back to Sea Aster.
We made this pact calmly, purposefully but I hadn’t reckoned on the shock of sensing… no, knowing… that he is moving on.
I feel nauseous as an image of his naked body above a faceless woman flashes through my mind.
I swallow and steady my breathing.

‘Looks like you’ve decided on a major clear out,’ he says.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?
I’d have given you a hand.’

‘You weren’t around.’
My legs buckle under the weight of a box.
A brash new Shard sign has been painted on the side of his van.
Splintering icy-blue slivers with a reddish-orange glow give the impression that the ice is blazing.
SHARD is stencilled in a three-dimensional font.
Each word looks as if it was hacked around the edges with a finely honed chisel.

‘I’ll help you now.’
He steps forward and tries to take the box from me.

‘No need.
I’m managing fine.’
My voice is sharper than I intend and he draws back, his expression wary.

‘What’s the matter?
You seem tense.
Are you…?’

If he tells me I’m pre-menstrual I’ll take a brick to his head.

‘Finding it difficult?’
he waves his hand towards the boxes.
‘All the memories – ’

‘They need to be faced,’ I reply.
‘Better sooner rather than later.
And I’m not tense.
Just busy de-cluttering.
It displaces negative energy, I’m told.
What’s happening in your life?’

‘Same old … same old.’
He answers too fast, too glibly.
‘How’s
Ludicrous
?’

‘
Stop
calling it that.’
I point to the sign on the van.
‘Very dramatic.’

‘It was a band decision.’
He bends and lifts another box.
‘We’re practicing this afternoon otherwise I’d take this lot to the charity shop in the van.’

‘Don’t worry.
I’ll manage.’

‘We should arrange to get together some evening and do a major clear out.’

‘Sure… let me know when you’re free.’

He stands back as I start the car.
I glance in the rear-view mirror before I turn around the curve on the driveway.
He’s already disappeared.

I
n Malahide Village
I carry the boxes into Oxfam.
I imagine our discarded bric-a-brac taking up space in other peoples’ houses, the paintings hanging from different walls, the lamps glowing in new corners, the glass displayed on stranger’s shelves.

On a whim I drive from the village towards Bartizan Downs.
The gates are closed and I no longer possess the means to enter.
The trees are beginning to green, a shivery growth that partly hides these fortified houses with their sweeping lawns and quiet air of luxury.
The gates slide apart and a woman glares suspiciously at me from her towering jeep.
Cars do not loiter outside Bartizan Down without attracting attention.
There’s so much to plunder and rob behind those coded gates with their ridiculous bartizans.
What possessed us to buy such an ostentatious house?
Why did we allow ourselves to be lured there by the purple prose of property supplements and the Judas kiss of a banker?
I know the answer.
Bartizan Downs was a statement.
Its brash opulence proving to the world that Jake and Nadine Saunders, against all the odds, had made it.

The silver rush of the Broadmeadow River spills into the estuary as I drive back to Sea Aster.
Saturday is a day for families and cars are parked under the trees.
The swans are out of the water, intent on snatching bread from the fingers of excited children.
They’re thuggish when they emerge onto dry land and grudgingly waddle from my path.

Music hits like a hand on my chest when I step from the car.
A white van with
Feral Childe Drummer
painted on it is parked outside my apartment.
Three other cars are parked on the grass.
Cables run from the window of the breakfast room into the barn and the walls seem to vibrate with amplified energy.
I peer through the open barn window, reluctant to be seen but unable to resist the temptation to see the band in action.
Amplifiers are arranged on a makeshift stage and the retro Shard posters are pinned to the walls.
Jake has installed the old sofa from Oakdale, as well as some bean bags for lounging.
He has created a man shed and a boy’s den all rolled into one.

Hart moves with a sinuous grace that makes him unrecognisable from the shambling rhythm guitarist I used to know.
Reedy plays with that same world-weary impassivity.
Feral Childe, the new drummer Reedy recruited, has tumbleweed yellow hair, jeans with strategic rips and the figure of a teenage boy.
I recognise the tune pulsing through the barn.
One of Jake’s earlier songs.
It’s different now, a slower beat with more depth, more melodic.
Daryl juts his guitar into the air and Jake, his body already leaning into the music, begins to sing, his growly voice still sexy.

I was part of that circle once.
Summer days in the garden, myself and Jenny sprawled in deckchairs, Rosanna carrying out jugs of lemonade and packets of Hobnobs.
I clench my fists then determinedly unclench them.
Throughout the afternoon I’m conscious of Shard.
Not so much the pounding beat, just the reverberations of the past.
When the rehearsal ends, Daryl climbs the stairs to my apartment.
His eyes are shadowed.
Another sleepless night, he confesses.
Teething problems, flushed baby cheeks, nappies oozing an indescribable odour.
He shows me a video of Jasmine spitting a blob of pureed carrot with ferocious determination at the camera.

I ask how Feral Childe is slotting into the band.

‘She’s cool,’ says Daryl.
‘Jake’s delighted with her.
We all are.’

‘Feral can’t be her real name.’

‘May Smith,’ he says.
‘She changed it by deed poll on her sixteenth birthday.’
He swipes his iPhone again.

‘What’s her background?’

‘She was with Collective of Calm.
Ever heard of them?’

‘No.’

‘They were based in New York and were anything but calm, from what I’ve heard.
Feral came back home when they split.’

‘When was that?’

‘Early this year.
Did I show you this video of Jasmine eating spaghetti?
It’s a hoot.’

‘You showed it to me last week.’

‘Sorry, Nadine.’
He grimaces and slips his phone back into his pocket.
‘I used to hate baby bores like me.’

He looks relieved when I tell him it’s an addiction that will pass when Jasmine enters her teens.

Soon only the white van remains outside Sea Aster.
Jake is cooking in the kitchen.
Spicy, mouth-watering smells drift upwards.
I hear Feral laughing, cutlery clinking, chairs being dragged to the table.

He knocks on my door shortly afterwards.

‘I can’t find a corkscrew.
Do you have the one with the fancy lever?’
he asks.

‘I’ll get it for you.’

‘You can come down and join us if you like,’ he says.
I don’t detect the slightest hint of enthusiasm in his voice.
‘It’s just a lamb tagine, nothing fancy.’

‘No, thanks.’
I hand him the opener.
‘I’ve things to do tonight.
Enjoy your meal.’

I hear the dishes being cleared from the table and the hum of the dishwasher.
Jake begins to play his guitar.
Feral accompanies him on the bongos.
At least they’re not in bed.
I shy away from the image of her tumbleweed hair on the pillows, her boyish figure straddling him.
Moving with the same pulsing force as she exercises over her drums.