by Laura Elliot
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.’
‘He’s pulling out of our contract in case this recession affects the brand. He says it’s nothing personal.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. He can’t break our contract because he thinks there could be a slowdown in business.’
‘We’ll fight this all the way.’ Jake sounds too hearty, too confident.
‘You know what that will entail. We can’t afford a long, drawn-out legal battle.’
‘Look, Nadine, I’m heading out for a bite to eat and I’m exhausted. STRUM is not the be all and end all of our company. We’ve other equally strong brands and we’ll acquire more. Right now, all I want to do is wind down for a few hours and get my head together. We’ll talk about everything tomorrow when I’m home. Try not to worry. With or without STRUM, we’ll get through this crisis.’
He’s closing down the conversation and there’s nothing I can do except agree that we’ll cope, as we always do, and survive. ‘Enjoy your meal, Jake. I’ll pick you up at the airport tomorrow.’
Distance helps us to pretend. We’re unable to look into the whites of each other’s eyes and see our panic reflected there. But there’s something else on his mind. I sense his hesitation before he says goodbye. I can always tell. We’re capable of simultaneous thoughts, which we often speak aloud in the same instant or exclaim, ‘That’s exactly what I was going to say.’ The twins also have the same capacity for synchronised expression, but that’s to do with a split zygote whereas Jake and I have simply developed a hybrid mentality.
CHAPTER 4
JAKE
He arrived before her and took a seat at the bar adjoining the restaurant. A pianist in an embossed, velvet jacket played softly on a grand piano. A candelabra blazed on top of the piano and orchids in a moon-shaped vase emitted a faint scent of vanilla. Karin Moylan entered shortly afterwards, aware but indifferent to the eyes that followed her as she walked towards him. Shrine was her favourite restaurant in New York, she told him as they sipped an aperitif. Her dress was black and figure-hugging, accessorised by an elaborately coiled blue necklace.
The waiter led them to a table for two in a secluded alcove at the back of the restaurant. Lights shimmered on the ceiling and picture windows overlooked a leafy view of Central Park. Over lemon sole and wood-fired tiger prawns, she told him about the cities where she had lived and worked: London, Paris, Milan, New York. She kept him amused between courses with gossipy, witty anecdotes about the celebrities she had met on various film sets. Jake suspected she had told the same stories many times but he was content to listen and be entertained by her. The relief of not talking about business was overwhelming. Reality was outside, clawing to get back in but for these few hours he would keep it at bay.
Earlier today, shell-shocked and furious, he had gone straight from STRUM’s headquarters to his hotel and tried to ring Nadine. Only she would understand the enormity of what had occurred. Her mobile phone had been switched off. Tõnality was closed for the night and the house phone remained unanswered. He had ordered a whiskey at the hotel bar when his mobile bleeped and a text arrived. He checked the ID screen, expecting to see Nadine’s name but only a number was displayed, an unfamiliar one with a New York prefix.
You were a blast from the past, Jake Saunders, he read. Good to see you again. Hope all went well at your business meeting today. Best for now, Karin.
He had forgotten her in the turmoil of the day but her text nudged him briefly from his misery.
Difficult meeting, he replied. But it was worth the trip to see you again.
He could have stopped it there and then. Instead, he added a question that sought an answer. How are you?
I’m good, she texted back. But you sound like you’re having a rough time. New York can be a bruising bitch. Anything I can do to help? K.
The decision to ask her out for a meal was the easiest one he had made all day. The alternative was to find a bar with photos of faded movie stars on the walls and spend the night drinking himself into oblivion. It was the thing to do in New York… to do anywhere… when a momentous decision was delivered with a one-punch knock-out body blow.
He was getting ready to meet her when Nadine finally contacted him. Her worried intake of breath, the pitch of her voice crashed him back to earth. He resisted the urge to hang up. To shut down the worry and the guilt and sink, instead, into amnesia, even if only for a few hours. He should have mentioned meeting Karin. They were best friends once yet Nadine never spoke about their friendship, never mentioned her name. Throughout that holiday in Monsheelagh they had seemed inseparable but, two years later, when he and Nadine exchanged sultry glances of recognition through the slash of lasers and dazzling strobes, she told him their friendship was over. She had gone backstage with Jenny to see him after the gig and made it clear that she had no intention of discussing Karin Moylan.
‘But I thought the two of you were best mates,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t want to talk about her.’ Her voice had been clipped and hard. ‘Not now, not ever.’
Over the years that followed she remained true to her word, which was hardly surprising when he thought about how their holiday ended. The memory would be indelible, especially for Karin, but throughout the mealshe never once referred to Nadine or that summer.
‘Do you ever regret leaving Shard?’ she asked when they returned to the bar for an after dinner drink. ‘You were going stratosphere in those days. What was it the media called you? Ireland’s answer to… Metallica?’
‘It was actually Guns n’ Roses,’ he admitted, modestly. He admired the perfect curves of her knees as she crossed her legs. Was she wearing tights or stockings with lace tops, he wondered. Was there a smooth, silken gap of skin between her thighs and the line of her panties? He was familiar with female underwear, the frippery and the functional, hanging on clotheslines, drying over radiators, knickers, thongs, tights and bras tumbling from the hot press when he was searching for socks in the mornings. But this was an alluring fantasy and very different from the detritus of family living.
‘Of course it was,’ she said. ‘Guns n’ Roses… my goodness. How life changes. Selling musical instruments instead of playing them must have been quite a difficult transition for you.’
Was she mocking him? He flattened his anger. These days it lay dangerously close to the surface.
Nadine had asked him once, soon after Shard br
oke up in a storm of recriminations and accusations, if the band had seen her as a Yoko Ono, responsible for causing friction between them. It was a grandiose comparison yet, in her own way, she had upset the agreement that parents or girlfriends should not interfere with Shard’s upward projection and ambitions. He had assured her she was not to blame. Ultimately, it all came down to his inept use of a condom. Such inattention to detail altered everything.
‘Circumstances change,’ he said.
‘Sacrifices. We all make them sooner or later.’ Karin lifted a tiny umbrella from her cocktail glass and twirled it between her thumb and index finger. ‘Do you ever think about reforming the band?’
‘Occasionally.’ He shrugged. ‘But then I think about walking on the moon. We all have our dreams.’
‘But why is it a dream? Bands are always making comebacks these days. Shard had a brilliant reputation.’
‘You’re talking a long time ago. Who do you think remembers us now?’
‘You’d be surprised. It’s a new era. Social media. Facebook. YouTube. You could get the message out quickly enough.’
He shook his head. ‘If only it was so easy. Tõnality takes all my time these days.’
‘You’d another life before Tõnality.’
‘I never had a chance to have another life.’ It came out unintentionally, the resentment he usually managed to hide and Karin, aware that she had touched a nerve, drew back slightly.
‘Sorry. I’m being intrusive.’
‘It’s okay. It’s just… it’s a while since I’ve talked to anyone about Shard.’
‘Are you still in touch with the band?’
‘I meet Daryl occasionally, but I haven’t seen the others for years. Reedy is the only one still professionally involved in music. Twenty-five years is a long time to keep a dream going but he’s managed it.’
‘Twenty-five years?’
‘Since we did our first gig.’
‘You should do a reunion gig.’ She twirled the cocktail umbrella one last time and placed it back in the glass, signalled to the barman for a refill. ‘Think how wonderful that would be. All those fans dying for an excuse to organise babysitters and relive their youth. You owe it to them.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s a wonderful idea but impossible. I’ve more than enough going on in my life at the moment.’
‘Be warned, Jake Saunders. To squander our creativity is to displease the gods. Nothing is impossible if we decide otherwise.’ She trailed her middle finger lightly along the back of his hand. ‘Will you tell Nadine we met tonight?’
‘I suspect not…’
‘Don’t you think she’d understand? Two old friends catching up on the past.’
‘Is that what tonight is?’ His skin tingled at her touch, the slow, deliberate stroke that was almost an itch and the urge to draw her hand downwards, not to tease but to hold him, the hard width of him, aroused and wanting, blinded him to everything that was going on around them.
‘It’s whatever you want it to be,’ she said. ‘Like that night in Barney’s Bar. Do you remember?’ She paused and waited for him to fill the silence.
‘Yes, I remember.’ The shock of that memory jolted him from his fantasy. ‘It must have been a heartbreaking time for you.’
‘I’m talking about us, Jake,’ she interrupted him, her voice quickening. ‘Just the two of us together in that little snug. Things could have been so different, if only…’ Her features tautened as if she, like him, was picturing the small harbour bar in Monsheelagh, its whitewashed walls and black wooden beams. Noisy, smoky, crowded with jostling young people who had come from the holiday homes and caravans to hear the band. He had signed his name on her honey-tanned skin and she had kissed him for good luck in the tiny, old-fashioned snug before the gig began. Later, she had stepped onto the makeshift stage and lifted a tambourine from one of the amplifiers. Nothing waifish about her then as she raised it above her head, her slight body swaying, the swing of her long, blonde hair…and afterwards when everything fell apart, the panic she must she have felt as the storm raged around her.
He stared at their empty cocktail glasses, a smear of lipstick on hers. She had been drinking that night too. She was only fifteen then. Reedy, who was the eldest of the five band members, had ordered a vodka at her insistence and smuggled it into the snug. It was probably her first time drinking. No wonder she was so frenzied when she climbed onto the stage.
‘A last one for the road?’ He nodded towards their glasses but she shook her head.
‘Don’t let your dreams die, Jake,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘It can happen so easily. We have to fight to walk our own path. Think about that reunion gig. A Shard retrospective.’ She draped her pashmina over her shoulders. The deep blue weave matched the colour of her eyes and the trimming of silver thread glinted under the overhanging chandeliers. ‘But we’ve talked enough for one night. It’s time you took me home.’
Outside the restaurant she hailed a cab. They were silent on the short ride to her apartment. It was as she had described, brownstone, high steps, a fire escape jutting over the entrance. She opened her bag and removed a key. Her pashmina slipped from one shoulder, exposing the depth of her cleavage, the smooth length of her arm.
‘I’d invite you up for a nightcap but this is not the right time,’ she said. ‘You’ve a lot on your mind and an early flight to catch in the morning.’
‘You’re very astute,’ he said. ‘Work’s tough at the moment. I’m sorry it showed.’
‘It didn’t.’ She stretched upwards and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you for a wonderful night, Jake.’
He took the cab back to his hotel and allowed the fantasies that had teased him throughout the night to fade. He was relieved rather than disappointed by her decision. He tried to understand this relief. Was it caused by fear or fidelity? Despite occasional torrid fantasies that always petered out under the pressures of work and family Jake had been a faithful husband. Was it uncertainty that scared him off? Fear of failing in the bedroom? No, remembering her alluring eyes, the seductive swell of her bottom lip, he knew such fears were unfounded. But, now, away from her dizzying presence, his brief bout of amnesia, fuelled by alcohol and anticipation, was over. He was chilled by the reality of his situation and the future of the company that he and Nadine had worked so hard to build.
CHAPTER 5
NADINE
A Shard retrospective. Our business is falling apart and Jake talks about offering fans a chance to relive their youth. At night when he’s not rehearsing he closes the door of his music room while I try and catch up on the backlog of work. We could be facing bankruptcy but his eyes glaze when I try to discuss this terrifying possibility. Ed Jaworski’s decision fell upon us like the sword of Damocles and we’re still reeling. We can take legal action, of course. Spend a fortune and face a team a STRUM lawyers across a courtroom. They will beggar us, rubbish our reputation, break us down before the first hearing has concluded.
Tonight, when he returned from band practice, he stood outside the door of my office. I heard his footsteps stop then move on. I heard the door of his music room close. We live in a house with many rooms, spacious and stylishly furnished, yet the two smallest rooms are the ones we use most frequently. Our refuge from a marriage we tolerate for everyone’s sake but our own.
We don’t fight anymore. Not the way we did in the early years, hurling insults without caring where they landed and forgiving each other in bed with the same pent-up ferocity. Now, we use evasion, a polite chilliness, reasoned discussions that respect each other’s point of view, even when it doesn’t tally with our own. I remember these youthful rows with a certain indulgent nostalgia. We were so aware of each other then, conscious of tinder boxes and the danger of a hapless remark. One particular row when I was expecting the twins stands out in my mind. It began as a casual discussion about what we would be doing if we were still free and single. I was lying on the sofa in the breakfast room in Sea Aster, heavily pregn
ant and Ali and Brian, still babies, were sleeping upstairs. My wish list included art college, living in flatland with Jenny, a gap year in Australia, Euro-railing through Europe; aspirations vague enough not to offend Jake. He was more specific. Recreational drugs and eventual rehab, all night parties, riding a Harley Davidson on Route 66, the rise and rise of Shard, and an occasional threesome. The latter was meant to be a joke, he insisted afterwards, but by then it was too late.
‘What a pity we didn’t make it a threesome at the time,’ I snapped. ‘Then, maybe, the other girl would have become pregnant instead of me.’
‘Just my luck,’ he retorted. ‘Think how wonderful my life would be if she’d been blonde, beautiful and sexy, instead of always moaning about her fucked-up marriage.’
‘Whose fucked-up marriage are we discussing?’ My anger heaved with resentment and the twins kicked frantically at my drum-stretched stomach. ‘You’re the one who feels trapped. You’re the one who can’t wait to take off on your Harley Davidson. If you’d known how to use a condom…’
‘Oh, here we go again.’ He hinged his arm exaggeratedly and studied his watch. ‘Now it’s time to bring up the subject of the defective condom ― ’
‘It wasn’t the condom that was defective….’
On and on we went, one word borrowing another until it seemed as if our bitterness was beyond healing. But it did heal and that night, before we slept, we promised each other that if we still felt trapped when the twins were eighteen and independent we’d give each other the freedom to pursue the life we would have led if we had not been so heedless.
I wonder if Jake ever remembers that hurt-filled night. I doubt it. Each row is a fresh one to him, unencumbered by the past whereas mine are weighted with history and etched on my memory cells. This is a female trait, he believes, rather like premenstrual tension or the ability to carry hot objects to the table without scalding my hands.
