The Betrayal (6 page)

‘She looks so peaceful,’ my father kept saying, as if this would give me some consolation.
‘She never knew what hit her.’

Jake held me upright when her life support was switched off.
He supported me from her graveside and back home to our children.
To the life we were slowly building together.

A
t first
, Jake believed the seed Karin planted in his mind had fallen on barren soil.
But it kept growing shoots.
Fierce, demanding shoots that made him question why he had to rise at six in the morning to beat the rush hour traffic.
Why the workload he brought home at weekends kept growing.
Why so many people were breathing down his neck.
His bank manager, who, in the heady days of easy borrowing, had insisted the boom times were here to stay but now looked askance when Jake mentioned a loan extension.
The VAT officer who arrived without an appointment to inspect Tõnality’s VAT records and gave Jake a dead fish stare when he asked if everything was in order.
Tõnality’s biggest customer who had declared himself bankrupt and ended any hope of settling his account.
If it wasn’t for Shard he would go crazy.
Thanks to Karin Moylan, he now had an escape route.

He never intended losing touch with the band but after the twins were born and the lads were still talking about hangovers, garage raves and one-night stands, he could no longer pretend to have anything in common with them.
Apart from Daryl Farrell who formed Shard with him when they were fourth-year students in St Fabian’s College, Jake had not seen the others for years.

Soon after his return from New York they met in a bar on Grafton Street to discuss the possibility of a Shard reunion.
The old camaraderie was still there and they spent the night reminiscing about the past.
Reedy, the bass guitarist, looked older than the others, a lived-in face with premature crevices.
Too much touring and weed, he confided to Jake.
Hart, who used to stumble drunk on stage and play his rhythm guitar flawlessly, was now the owner of a yoga centre called Hartland to Health.
Something to do with shoulder stands and a third eye.
It all sounded very mysterious to Jake who, was astonished to see Hart drinking soda water with a slice of lemon instead of knocking back shots of tequila.
Daryl, Shard’s one-time lead guitarist, had recently become a first-time father.
He spoke about breastfeeding with the confidence of a wet nurse and swiped his finger over his iPhone to show them photographs of his baby daughter crying, smiling, kicking her legs in the air.
He made Jake feel old, his role as a parent just beginning whereas any one of Jake’s four adult children were capable of turning him into a grandfather.
Barry, the drummer, once known as Bad Boy Barry Balfe, had made a fortune laying bricks during the boom.
Unemployed since the collapse of the construction industry, he was examining his options.
The reunion gig was manna from heaven.

They would perform the songs that made them famous and introduce Jake’s newer songs, dust them off and bring them to life.
Reedy claimed they would need a boot camp to kick them into shape if they were to appear in public again and they now rehearsed three nights a week in the basement of a recording studio.
Now, two months in, they had formed into a tight, cohesive unit.
The rehearsals were chaotic, argumentative and fun.
Jake had forgotten what it was like to have fun.
Forgotten what it was like to be the singer in a band.

Tonight, before he left for band practice, Nadine made a comment about fiddling while Rome burned.
She said it tersely, pointedly.
He hoped she would be in bed when he returned.
Band practice had gone on longer than anticipated and he had wanted to spend an hour in his music room before calling it a night.
Reedy, whose musical opinion he respected, liked ‘The Long Goodbye’ but believed the arrangement needed further development.
He was walking towards his music room when he noticed a light under the door of Nadine’s home office.
He had hesitated outside.
He should go in and say goodnight, face her accusatory gaze, her acerbic comments.
But the composition was inside his head, guitars strumming, drums drumming, a keyboard adding depth to the arrangement.
He needed to pin it down before it evaporated under the harsh reality of talking about Tõnality, which was all he and Nadine ever did these days.

His phone bleeped when he was in his music room.
A text from Karin with an attached photo.
She was on a film set, sitting on the steps of a trailer while people in Regency costumes walked past her.
Busy day on the set,
she texted.
How did band practice go?

He heard a door slam, Nadine’s footsteps on the stairs.
He should have mentioned Karin as soon as he returned from New York.
It would have been so easy when she picked him up at the airport.
Guess who I met on the flight… an old friend… Karin Moylan sends her best.
But he said nothing and now it was impossible to drop her name casually into their conversation.
She was his secret and her importance was growing in proportion to the clandestine nature of their texts.

Her texts came every day, usually accompanied by whimsical photographs of New York, an opera she had attended, a flash concert in a shopping centre, skyscrapers lit at night on Fifth Avenue, an image of her jogging in Central Park, her skin glowing, her nipples straining against her sweat top.
She never mentioned Nadine, nor did he.
But what pithy, witty response could he text in return?
Cash flow problems and an irate bank manager?
The kiss of death, Jake reckoned.
His own responses were equally bland and light-hearted.

New York was his coded word for her.

Is New York awake yet?

What’s happening in New York right now?

Raining here, pining for some New York sunshine.

Wish I was in New York and could stay there forever.

He had deleted that last text, its double entendre too blatant for anyone’s eyes but his own.
She had become his buffer zone, his cloud nine, his fantasy against his daily grind of cancelled orders and lies about the cheque being in the post.
He should buy a new phone with a secret number.
The thought that he was becoming a cliché appalled him.
Nadine would never check his phone and what harm if she did?
The texts were harmless, mildly flirtatious and, like Shard, a welcome distraction from running his troubled company.

Nadine was in bed and awake when he lay down beside her.
She was still annoyed with him.
He could tell by her eyes.
The chill factor.

‘Sorry I was so late getting back from band practice,’ he said.

‘I thought you might come into the office and acknowledge my existence.’

‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

‘Of course you didn’t.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Analyse the meaning yourself.’
She turned away from him and pressed her face into the pillow.
‘It’s late and I’m tired.
Goodnight.’

S
mart Art’s
is crowded tonight but Art has kept our usual table for us.
Friday night is our wind down time, pizzas and beer on our way home from work.
We made a rule when we started this weekly ritual that we would not discuss Tõnality.
We keep to this decision, even though it’s uppermost in our minds.
We talk about the children, although we both agree we must stop calling them ‘children.’
They’re adults, eligible to vote, eligible to marry, eligible to die for their country, if called upon to do so.
But what do we call them instead?
We give up on that one and talk about Ali’s disappointment when she didn’t receive a phone call after her last audition.
I read out a text from Samantha informing us that Sam had beaten his personal best and we discuss Brian’s new pottery collection.
It’s noisier than usual in the pizzeria.
I ask Jake if we can break the taboo and discuss Tõnality.
He sighs, shrugs.

‘If you must.’

A man at the next table starts singing ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’
.
He’s too drunk to remember the words and Jake rubs his hand across the back of his neck.

‘This recession could ruin us.’
I raise my voice as Jake leans forward to hear me.
‘We should sell Tõnality while it’s still viable.
Let’s take a look again at those offers we received last year and seriously consider the best one.’
I look away as his eyes widen, their greyness exaggerated by the flickering nightlight on the table.

‘What’s brought this on?’
His astonishment is not surprising.
I’ve leaped in at the deep end without testing the shallows first but I feel reckless tonight.

‘Think of it, Jake.
We sell the company to Paul Rowan or Susanna Cox.
Both offers were good.
Then we sell the house.’

‘Sell the house?’
His eyelids flicker.
‘How many beers have you had?’

‘Just the one.’

‘I’d hate if you’d had more.
You’re talking absolute nonsense.’

‘Just hear me out.
If we sell them both we can pay off our debts and you’ll be free to do what really matters…like Shard.’

‘Is this about the reunion gig?’
He’s instantly on the defensive.
‘I know you resent the time…’

‘I don’t resent it at all.’
I cut across him.
‘I’ve always felt responsible for the band’s breakup.
I’m glad you’re seeing the lads again.’

‘What is it, then?’
he asks.
‘We’re managing to keep our heads above water and you love that house.’

‘Not any more.
It’s like a mausoleum since the kids left.’

‘But they’ll come back to live there,’ he says.
‘At least the twins will when they finish college.
And Ali and Brian will come home for holidays.’

‘The twins won’t be back here for another four years.
We’ve no idea where they’ll decide to live.
Ali and Brian have never settled in Bartizan Downs.
Where they stay for their holidays is not going to bother them.’

He knows I’m right.
When we first moved into Bartizan Downs they were thrilled with their spacious bedrooms, the fully equipped gym in the basement, the home cinema and games room.
Such giddy excitement until the novelty wore off and they returned to a sprawled position in front of the television.
They demanded a yearly subscription to the Oakdale Leisure Centre where they could link up with their friends.
When it was time to leave, they did so without regret.
Like Eleanor and Sea Aster, they’ve never considered it their family home.

‘I’ve been thinking a lot lately about our… our….’

This is the moment to say it.
Our marriage is over.
We should buy two separate houses.
A mews for Jake.
Somewhere close to the city with space at the back to open the record studio he often talks about.
I’d like something in the country, an old, converted schoolhouse, perhaps, or a cottage with a river running through my back garden.

‘Our what?
Jake is waiting for me to continue.
‘Have you found something else you want to sell?’
He smiles grimly at his own joke but his gaze is wary.

Art stops at our table and interrupts what I was going to say.
He plans to buy a guitar for his son’s thirteenth birthday and wants our advice.
Jake makes a few suggestions and tells him to call in to see us in Tõnality.

‘You were saying?’
He leans his elbows on the table when Art leaves.

‘Forget it.
It was just a thought.’

‘You don’t throw something like that at me without thinking it through,’ he says.
‘You’ve obviously seriously considered selling Tõnality and the house.’
This is not an accusation, more like a consideration, as if I’ve opened his mind to other possibilities.
‘Is there something else you want to tell me?’

I can’t do it.
Marriages usually end after hate rants and havoc, accusations, revelations, confessions, vows of vengeance, tears, blood and sweat.
What excuse do I have?
How can I destroy twenty-three years of togetherness simply because I’m stressed and overworked, not thinking rationally?

‘Nothing that can’t be discussed another time,’ I reply.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

Art returns with the bill and places it discreetly on the table.
A business card falls from Jake’s wallet when he removes his credit card.
I notice the logo as I hand it back to him.
A bird, vivid blue head, russet chest.
Kingfisher Graphics is written in blue below the logo.
I turn the card over and see her name.
The letters rise towards me then dissolve into mist.
My eyes sting.

‘Where did you get this?’
I hold the card out to him.

The pause that follows is insignificant.
In fact, it’s hardly noticeable, yet I’m acutely aware of his breathing, how it shortens before he clears his throat.

‘Probably at some trade fair.’

‘Which trade fair?’

‘How do I know?’
He shrugs, spreads his hands outwards, as if shoving the question away then his face clears.
‘No, that’s wrong.
I remember now.
We met on a flight to New York.’

‘You never told me.’

‘I meant to… then it slipped my mind.’

‘It
slipped
your mind?’

He takes the card from me and glances at the logo.
‘She’s a graphic designer.’

‘I know what she is.’

‘She gave me her card in case we ever need her services.’

‘Why should we need a graphic designer?’

‘We don’t need most of the services offered on the business cards that people give us,’ he replies.
‘Have you ever looked at your desk?
It’s littered with them.’

The heat from the pizza ovens blasts over me.
I press the beer glass to my cheeks.
My forehead is hot, suddenly sweaty.
‘Yes.
They’re on my desk, not in my wallet.’

‘I’d forgotten it was there.
Why are you getting so uptight?’

‘Did she mention me?’

‘I can’t remember.
We were only together for a short while.
It took me ages to even remember who she was.’
Nothing in his voice or expression suggests he’s lying but there’s a tremor running through this conversation.
It makes me nervous.

‘You never told me why you fell out with each other,’ he says.
‘I know what happened that summer was dreadful but I don’t understand why it destroyed your friendship.’

‘I’ve no intention of raking all that up again.’
I hate the hard snap in my voice but it’s better than a quiver.
Karin Moylan will never make me quiver again.
Why is Jake asking?
Is it idle curiosity or did she say something?
They must have talked about Monsheelagh.
How could they not?

‘But you obviously haven’t forgotten,’ he says.

‘I said I don’t want…’

‘Okay… okay.’
He rips the card in two and flings the pieces on the table.
‘Let’s get out of here.
The noise is doing my head in.’

I remember the kingfisher in Odd Bods.
Why I should suddenly think about a jumble shop in Gracehills Village where my mother loved to potter on Saturday afternoons is surprising but my mind darts like a silverfish towards the memory.
Two months had passed since my return from Monsheelagh and I was with Sara when she discovered the stuffed kingfisher in a glass case, almost hidden behind a set of occasional tables.

‘What do you think, Nadine?’
She pulled it free and held it towards me.
‘How would this look on the hall table?’

I backed away from the bird’s iridescent plumage, its savage gaze.

‘It’s too gaudy,’ I said.
‘I hate it.’

‘If you feel that strongly about it…’ She shrugged and replaced it back behind the tables.
It was sold the next time we returned to Odd Bods.

Karin Moylan’s name has been ripped in two but the kingfisher is still recognisable: its long dagger beak and pitiless eyes.

T
he high
, black gates with their sharply-pointed tips open and admit us to Bartizan Downs.
The round, ornate bartizans are jutting like medieval turrets from the gate posts but the houses with their lush rolling lawns are in darkness.
Only the smooth growl of our car suggests that lives are lived within this gated community.

We go our separate ways when we enter the house.
Jake closes the door of his music room with unnecessary firmness.
I go into my home office.
After a short search I find a photo album in a bottom drawer of my desk.
My mother was conscientious when it came to dating photographs.
The albums she filled tell the story of my childhood.
I’ve been tempted over the years to remove the photographs of Karin Moylan but that would break the link of who I am today.
And, so, she stays in her allotted slot.

One of the photographs is larger than the others.
A day in summer.
Rocks and coarse golden sand, a gouged cliff face where kittiwakes fly high above us, swirling and scattered as black flakes of ash.
Four weeks of blistering sunshine and frayed tempers.
I’m wearing a pink bikini and leaning back on my hands, my face raised to the sun.
My hair is tangled, my shoulders sunburned.
Karin, in a blue bikini, sits between me and her father.
She hugs her knees, taut shoulder blades raised like slender wings.
He’s wearing swimming trunks, his long legs sprawled before him.
Someone else must have taken the photograph because Joan Moylan is also in it.
Maybe it was Jake who snapped us.
Unlike the rest of us, Joan is fully dressed in jeans and a flowery blouse, a sunhat shading her face.

Fifteen years of age was a time for dreaming, and, oh, how I dreamed those days away.
I walked that long, curving beach in a lovesick haze, imagining a future that was never going to happen.
The tide was far out, stretched to its limits before it turned and flowed back over the hot sands, obliterating my footprints in one fluid swell.

Jenny is wrong.
The past does matter.
That’s the trouble with it.
Like elastic, it can only be stretched so far before it recoils and slaps one in the face.
Twack
.