The Betrayal (3 page)

‘Not really.
We’ve been doing it for a long time.’

‘I don’t think I could work with someone that close to me.
It would be claustrophobic.
I need my own space.’
The swell of her bottom lip suggested there was turbulence behind her smiling demeanour.

‘Except when you’re on a plunging plane and need your lover’s arms around you.’
The conversation had come full circle and Jake was pleased at his adroitness.

‘I’ll have to find one first.
Unlike you and Nadine, I haven’t been so lucky in love.
No husband, no children… not even a lover.’

‘I refuse to believe you.
Any guy would…’ He hesitated, suddenly uncertain if he wanted to continue the conversation.

‘Would what?’
she prompted softly.

‘Consider himself the luckiest guy in the world.’
He could no longer pretend he was not flirting with her.
What harm?
A mild flirtation always alleviated the boredom of a long flight.

‘When you find him, package him and send him on to me by first class mail.’
Like her perfume, her laughter had a tantalising intimacy, as if everything outside the space they shared was of no importance.

‘I’ll need an address first.’

She opened her handbag and handed her business card to him.
Kingfisher Graphics.
The logo was a kingfisher, glossy blue feathers that matched her eyes.

‘Tõnality.’
She glanced at the business card he slipped from his wallet.
‘That’s an unusual name.
What kind of business do you run?’

‘We supply musical instruments.
From mouth organs to church organs and everything in between for sale or hire.
If you ever need anything….’

‘All I can play is the tambourine.’

He glanced quickly at her and away again.
Was that a throwaway remark or one loaded with significance?
Impossible to tell by her expression.
This was the moment to say something meaningful about that holiday but would they be the right words?
And would she want to hear them after… how long?
Twenty-four, twenty-five years?

‘Nadine wanted to be an artist,’ she said.
‘What a pity it didn’t work out for her.
She was good.
I couldn’t draw a straight line yet I ended up becoming a graphic designer.’

‘Do you specialise in a specific area of graphic design?’
He took his lead from her.
Let the past rest in peace.

‘It varies from commission to commission,’ she replied.
‘My latest contract is with a film company.’

‘That sounds exciting.’

‘It can be, especially when it’s a historical film, as this one is.
I’m researching the props we need from that period, signage, calligraphy, portraits.
I could go on and on.
It’s fascinating to dip in and out of the past, don’t you think?’

He leaned his head against the headrest, content to listen to her.
Clouds lay below them, gossamer mountains rimmed with gold.

W
hen the plane
landed at JFK he waited with her while she reclaimed her luggage.
She lived in the East Village.
A fire escape on the outside of her apartment and a view of the city to die for, she said.
Should he ask to view it with her?
Suggest meeting for an evening meal?
A stroll in Central Park?
Hot dogs on Coney Island?
Usually the women he met on such flights occupied his thoughts for a day or so until they became an amalgamation of all the other flights he had taken, the similar conversations he had enjoyed, the ignited spark that was always extinguished once he landed on terra firma.
But Karin Moylan was not a stranger.
She came with a past and its potency had grown during their journey together.

‘Perhaps when you return to Dublin we could get together…?’
He allowed his words to trail into a question.

‘It would be nice to see Nadine again.’
Their gaze locked for a fraction longer than politeness demanded.
‘If that is what you have in mind?’

‘I’m sure that could be arranged,’ he replied.
‘If that’s what
you
have in mind.’

She fanned his business card before her face and smiled.
‘I’ll ring you when I come back,’ she said.
‘Perhaps we’ll have decided by then.’

T
wilight is settling
over Broadmeadow Estuary as I drive along Mallard Cove.
Coots, oyster catchers and greenshanks forage between the mottled green islets of the bird sanctuary and the swans, noticing my car, waddle ashore seeking bread.
The wind is brisk and the windsurfers, curving into its power, glide across the water.
Eleanor is already parked outside Sea Aster.
A glance at her watch rebukes me for being ten minutes late.
I don’t react.
I’ve learned to save my energy for the big battles.
This is my first time to return to Sea Aster since Rosanna suffered the massive stroke that confined her to a nursing home.
The ivy that once burnished the walls in a coppery glow throughout the autumn has been removed and Sea Aster looks almost indecently naked with its stark, grey exterior, the sharp apexes and curved bay window.

When it was obvious Rosanna would never again return to her home, Eleanor had the house renovated into two apartments, one up, one down, two separate entrances.
She sounded nervous when she rang Tõnality earlier today.
She had hoped Jake would meet her here this evening.
He’s still in New York so I offered to come in his stead.
My mother-in-law does not normally display signs of nervousness.
Rushing headlong into confrontation is more her style but the tenant who rented Sea Aster, and has now left, proved to be a match for her.
The battle to evict her when her lease expired was prolonged and bitter.
Eleanor received some threatening phone calls so she’s right to be cautious.
Sea Aster is isolated and cries for help would only be heard by swans.

‘When did the ivy go?’
I ask as we walk towards the front door.

‘I had it removed during the conversion,’ Eleanor replies.
‘It was too unruly.’

Unruliness.
A cardinal sin in her book.

When she opens the front door I’m dismayed to see how the hall’s once-elegant dimensions have been divided by a crude plasterboard wall.
My dismay turns to shock as we climb the stairs to Apartment 1.
Strips of wallpaper have been torn from the walls and graffiti sprayed on the ceiling.
Flies swarm against the windows.
A hole has been kicked in one of the doors.
The smell of overflowing ashtrays competes against the stink of cat urine.
In the living room we draw back in disgust when we discover cat turds on the carpet.
Containers carrying the congealed remains of four-cheese pizzas litter the table and floor.

‘I’m photographing everything.’
Eleanor’s rage grows as she surveys her inheritance.
‘This is what happens when promiscuity and anti-social behaviour are allowed to run riot.’

I offer to organise a swat team of fumigators, cleaners, and a vermin death squad.
The mouse droppings in the kitchen suggest that the tenant’s cats were useless at anything except dumping its load behind the living-room sofa.

‘That won’t be necessary.’
She waves my offer aside.
‘The whole interior will be gutted.’

‘There’s no need to gut the house,’ I protest.
‘This is disgusting but it’s only superficial damage.
The ceilings… those carvings.
The graffiti can be removed without damaging them.’

‘Gutted,’ Eleanor repeats.
‘It’s the only way to make a fresh start.’

She has no feelings for Sea Aster.
It wasn’t her childhood home and she never understood why her mother, a passionate bird-watcher and amateur photographer, decided to leave her comfortable bungalow in suburbia when her husband died and move here.
She’s particularly fixated on a pair of black lacy stockings tied to a bedpost in one of the bedrooms.
Six potted cannabis plants wilt on the dressing table.
Jake and I once slept in this bedroom.
Now, it’s defiled, revolting.
Eleanor continues taking photographs.
She will do a Powerpoint presentation with those images.
The members of First Affiliation will love them.
They are the standard bearers for family values, a fringe political party that believes society will fall apart if their members, led by Eleanor, don’t keep a strict and watchful eye on the moral status quo.
She plans to convert the old house into their headquarters.
Their current premises has damp issues and a lease that’s due to expire soon.

We leave the odorous atmosphere behind and walk around to the back of the house.
To Eleanor’s relief, Apartment 2 on the ground floor has been left in pristine condition.
She shakes her head when I invite her back to Bartizan Downs for something to eat.
She has a meeting to attend and a speech to write before she goes to bed tonight.
Work on converting the house will begin as soon as she receives planning permission to change its use from residential to First Affiliation’s headquarters.

I drive towards the gates of Sea Aster and pass the old stone barn where Tõnality first began.
Darkness fell while we were inside, and the windsurfers have folded up their sails.
Swans are clustered close to shore and a heron stands impassive and still in the shallows.

Rosanna wanted her ashes to float across this estuary on a slow, eddying tide.
Eleanor refused point blank to even discuss the possibility of a cremation.
An ad hoc scattering of ashes would be an undignified and messy ending to her mother’s long, active life, she insisted when I argued that it was Rosanna’s dying wish.
She had her way in the end and Rosanna is buried with her husband, a boring man who, she once told me, had defined his identity by the club crest on his blazer and made love to her in the missionary position every Saturday night.
At least on this occasion Rosanna is on top.
Stop
… I resist the urge to laugh out loud and swallow, suddenly close to tears as I apologise to Rosanna for being unable to organise the simple ceremony she desired.
Will the members of First Affiliations appreciate their new headquarters?
Or will they be too busy plotting strategies to notice the rugged beauty surrounding them?
I suspect the latter.

An arts programme plays on the car radio as I drive along Mallard Cove.
A female poet describes how her latest bout of depression inspired her new collection of poetry.
You and me both, I think.
But I’m not depressed.
Just… what?
‘Flat’ is the only word that comes to mind.
Seeing life in a pale, predictive palette sounds more descriptive.
The depressed poet would forgive the alliteration and approve.

Jake insists I’m suffering from empty nest syndrome.
Four children leaving home in the space of two years does take some adjusting yet I’m glad for all of them.
Proud that they’re following their dreams.
That’s X-Factor-speak, but it’s true.
Last year we said goodbye to Ali, our eldest, as she headed to London and a career on the stage.
A month later Brian dropped out of art college and moved to the Dingle peninsula where he lives in the shadow of a mountain and crafts beautiful shapes.
Then we said goodbye to our twins Sam and Samantha when they left for Silver Ridge University.
The fact that we produced not one, but two elite athletes is a never-ending source of amazement to us.
We were aware of their speed from the first time they stood upright and tottered forward on long, sturdy legs.
Now, the years of training have paid off and they’ve started a four-year athletic scholarship in California.

The heron dips its beak and the water flurries as an unfortunate fish is snapped from life.
Triumphantly, its supper assured, the heron lifts its broad wings and flies away.
Herons have no need for monogamy.
Jenny made a nature documentary about them once.
They mate to breed, good and dutiful parents, sharing incubation and feeding.
But when their chicks are independent, ready to take their own paths through life, the parents return to their solitary vigils.
To their solitary freedom.

The radio presenter introduces a travel writer who has just launched a book about his travels in Papua New Guinea.
Instantly, Karin Moylan comes to mind… again.
Ants on my skin, heart lurching.
Is this what sufferers of post-traumatic stress experience when the past whizzes like a bullet through their memory?

I meet her mother occasionally, and always by accident.
Joan Moylan is polite and sober yet I still visualise her stretched on a sofa or in bed, the duvet drawn tight, her gaze unfocused, the smell of stale alcohol on her breath.
Sometimes, when it’s impossible to avoid speaking, we hold brief conversations about the weather and the price of groceries and how the cost of property has gone beyond ridiculous.
We never talk about that summer in Monsheelagh, yet it’s moving in slow motion in front of our eyes.
No wonder we hurry from each other in mutual relief.

I ring Jake when I return home but he’s not picking up.
New York time means he’s probably still in meetings with Ed Jaworski.
I detest Ed, with his phallic cigars and New York abrasiveness, but he’s the reason Tõnality changed from being a moderately successful supplier of musical instruments into the European distributors for STRUM.
It’s a far cry from the early days when Jake worked from the barn in Sea Aster and Tõnality just consisted of a few guitars and drums for sale or hire.
His brief fame with Shard — the band that almost made it internationally — had given him a certain cachet within the music industry, especially among the up-and-coming young bands who hoped to go one step further and actually make it.
Within a few years he was able to move to Ormond Quay in the heart of the city.
Tõnality became the place for young musicians to hang out, to check the guitars, have a roll on the drums, a tinkle on the piano.
I joined him when the twins started school and took over the marketing side of the business.
We set up a coffee bar and held open mic nights, impromptu music sessions.
And that’s how we would have continued if we hadn’t met Ed Jaworski at a trade fair and took on the STRUM brand of saxophones, recorders, trumpets, ukuleles and mandolins.
We expanded from our cramped city premises to the Eastside Business Quarter with its brash, modern offices and spacious warehouse.
I can park here and move without fear of bumping into guitars but I still miss the sway of the Liffey outside the window, the footsteps of passing pedestrians stirring the heartbeat of the city.

T
onight I eat well
.
A steak and salad, two glasses of wine.
I enter my home office and wait for Jake to ring.
I switch on my laptop and bring up the new marketing plan for STRUM.
The demarcation line between home and work has become increasingly blurred these days and this office is as cluttered as the one in Tõnality.

It’s after eleven and there’s still no word from Jake.
I shower and slip on my pyjamas, apply night cream.
The lines around my eyes look deeper, more ingrained.
Laugh lines, as they’re euphemistically called.
I see nothing funny about them.
They’re chipping away at my youth when I still have to discover what it’s like to be young and carefree.
Why hasn’t he rung?
He knows how anxious I am about his meeting with Ed.
This recession is relentless and Ed will be disappointed with the latest STRUM figures.
They are within the agreed growth margin but Ed expects more.
The concept of squeezing blood from a stone is not something he understands.

My phone is out of charge.
No wonder Jake hasn’t been able to get through.
I ring him on the landline.
Evening time in New York and he’s heading out for a meal.
He sounds rushed, his phone on speaker.
His echoing tone fills me with alarm.

‘What’s wrong, Jake?’

‘I’ve been trying to ring you all afternoon,’ he says.
‘Where were you?’

I explain about Sea Aster and my phone being out of charge but I sense he’s not listening.

‘How did the meeting with Ed go?’
I ask.

‘I’ll tell you about it when I’m home,’ he replies.

‘Tell me now,’ I demand.
‘What’s happened?’

‘I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.’

‘Have we lost the STRUM account?’

His silence confirms my worst fears.
My mind goes into overdrive, calculating lost business, lost reputation, lost everything we’ve struggled so hard to achieve.

‘But why, Jake?
Our sales figures are bang on target.’