The Betrayal

by Laura Elliot

  ‘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.

  * * *

  The 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.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 8

  GRACEHILLS – TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS EARLIER

  I fell in love with Karin Moylan when I was thirteen. This was a platonic love. I was not about to enter or emerge from any closet and my love for her was akin to that reserved for a precious item like a treasured doll or a delicate piece of jewellery. And even if I had loved her in that way, the physical differences between us could well have been a deterrent. She was small-boned and dainty. I was tall and angular, awkward elbows, knees as gangly as a colt, cheekbones too pronounced for my long, thin face. As for my hair, those unruly curls. I felt like a scarecrow who’d been left out for far too long in the rain.

  We met in the fitting room of a department store. A summer heatwave had arrived and Dublin sweltered beneath it. I, too, was hot and surly, stooped with self-pity as I stood in the fitting room and tried on my new school uniform. The skirt was too long, the jumper too wide and the sleeves of the blazer hung over my hands. A smaller size would have been perfect but my mother believed I’d grow out of it within months. The fact that she was right added to my misery. In those days, I had the growing momentum of a beanstalk. The colours, maroon, cream and charcoal grey, drained my complexion and I was convinced I’d look like a corpse for the next six years. I twisted the lobes of my ears and stuck my tongue out at my reflection… in out… in out… in out. My five-year-old self came effortlessly to the surface on certain occasions and this was one of them. The fitting room curtains opened slightly and Karin’s reflection appeared behind me in the long mirror.

  ‘Can I try on my uniform when you’ve finished admiring your to
ngue?’ she asked.

  I snapped my mouth closed as she pressed her fist against her lips to stifle a giggle. Her heart-shaped face in the mirror, her blue eyes bright with laughter; this was a frozen moment, never forgotten.

  ‘I’m sorry…’ Colour flushed across my cheeks, spread down my neck.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ she said. ‘I thought the fitting room was empty.’ She shook out the school uniform she’d draped over her arm. ‘God! It’s hideous, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hideous.’ I should have faced her but, somehow, talking to her reflection felt less embarrassing. ‘It’s far too big for me and I hate the colours.’

  Her lips puckered. I thought she was going to laugh again but, instead, she said, ‘I hate them too. I’ll look so disgustingly fat in this skirt.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ I turned around and spoke directly to her. ‘It’ll look lovely on you.’

  ‘Tell me what you think.’ Before I could move, she wriggled out of her t-shirt and jeans. She was wearing a bra, a flimsy white piece of lace that pushed two swelling buds upwards and outwards. Mine barely existed. It seemed unfair that someone so small should have such beautiful breasts. She buttoned the blouse and fastened the skirt. The hem of her skirt rested neatly on her knees and the cream blouse enhanced the colour of her skin.

  ‘It’s dire on both of us,’ she said, almost apologetically. ‘I suppose we’ll just have to get used to looking awful.’

  ‘No, it looks really nice on you.’ I felt no envy towards her as we stood together and observed our reflections.

  ‘Are you nervous about starting in St Agatha’s?’ she asked.

  ‘Sort of,’ I admitted. ‘I know some of the girls from primary so that will help.’

  ‘I won’t know anyone,’ she said. ‘I hope we’re in the same stream. My name’s Karin Moylan. What’s yours?’

  ‘Nadine Keogh.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll be bullied?’ she asked.

  The same fears had been running through my own mind. I’d heard of wedgies and heads being pushed down toilets but that seemed like boy torture. With girls it was different. I imagined being excluded from groups, whispered about, picked on, the victim of vicious lies.

  ‘Why should you be bullied?’ I couldn’t imagine such treatment being meted out to her.

  ‘People will pick on me because I’m small.’ She looked up at me, her eyes filled with dread. ‘I can’t sleep thinking about it. But you’ll be all right. You’re so big they’ll think you’re a fourth-year.’

  I immediately stooped my shoulders, a habit I’d developed the previous year when I became the tallest girl in my class.

  The curtains opened again and my mother said, ‘What’s keeping you, Nadine?’ She stopped when she saw Karin. ‘Oh, I didn’t realise you were with a friend. Come on out so that I can take a proper look at the pair of you.’

  We emerged from the fitting room. Karin was composed as she twirled around but I stood self-consciously in the open space, aware of my large feet and gangling arms, convinced the customers passing by were comparing my lankiness to her petite frame.

  Her parents were sitting on a sofa in the waiting area. Max Moylan had the resigned expression that men acquire in an all-female shopping environment. The sofa was a two-seater but, even then, I sensed the distance between him and his wife. Joan had her daughter’s small-boned physique but her hair, split in the centre, was long and black, a fringe almost covering her eyes. Max stood up when he saw us and whistled. Karin had inherited his fair complexion and his wide-eyed embracing gaze. I’d never known a father who wore a ponytail. It seemed incredibly cool and daring.

  ‘You look very elegant, young lady,’ he said to me. ‘I reckon you’ll be a famous model someday. Mark my words, you’ll knock them for six on the catwalk.’

  Karin tilted her head. Her gaze sharpened, as if she was viewing me with fresh eyes. She smiled and said, ‘Wouldn’t that be absolutely brilliant.’

  When our uniforms were purchased, we headed towards the exit. Our mothers exchanged a few words before they parted. The natural light emphasised the artificial blue-black sheen of Joan’s hair, the colour too stark for her pale face. Later, my mother would claim that Joan was freeze-framed in the sixties. Karin walked ahead with her father, her arm linked in his, and I knew she’d already forgotten me.

  On the first day of term I saw her in the assembly hall with Sheila Giles. Sheila, who’d been in my class in primary school, suffered from acne. Her face looked painfully inflamed against Karin’s creamy complexion. I waved across at them. Sheila waved back but Karin’s expression was puzzled, as if she was trying to remember where we’d met. From that day on they ignored me. They ate together in the school canteen and walked home arm-in-arm in the evenings.

  I hung around with the girls I knew from primary school. In our intimidating new environment we were drawn to each other by familiar ties. When Lisa Maye turned fourteen we were the only girls in St Agatha’s invited to her birthday party. Sheila arrived with her older brother Theo and some of his friends. The atmosphere changed soon afterwards. The older boys hung out in the garden where the trees were slung with fairy lights and a gazebo had been erected. They grew more boisterous as the night wore on. Lisa’s father ― who organised the teenage discos in the tennis club and was no slouch when it came to sniffing out underage drinkers ― ordered them to leave after he discovered their secret stash of vodka in his garden shed. Sheila had been drinking with them. She was incoherent by the time her mother collected her. She collapsed as she tried to walk to the car and was immediately driven to hospital. There were rumours of a stomach pump being used but Sheila, when she returned to school, kept her head down and refused to speak to anyone about that night.

  Her friendship with Karin was over. They sat at opposite ends of the canteen and Sheila walked home from school alone. She was crying in a cubicle when I entered the school toilets one morning. We were the only two pupils in the toilets and the sound stopped when I asked if she was okay.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ she snapped.

  I recognised her voice, though it sounded thick, phlegmy. She must have been crying for a long time. She blew her nose and cleared her throat. ‘Buzz off and leave me alone.’ This command ended on a hiccupping sob.

  That evening I stayed behind to speak to Miss Knowles, my art teacher. She believed my drawings had a maturity not normally found in the work of a first-year student. Her praise excited me, removed me a step further from my own self-absorption. Most of the pupils had left by the time I reached the bicycle shed. I was about to wheel my bike out when I heard a boy shouting behind the shed wall.

  A girl screamed but the sound stopped so abruptly I knew a hand had been pressed to her mouth.

  ‘Shut up, you fucking bitch.’ The boy’s voice was deep and guttural. Probably a third or fourth year student. ‘If you slag her off again about her face I’ll fucking kill you. You weren’t invited to that stupid party so stop taking it out on her.’

  I grabbed the pump from my bike and ran around to the back of the shed. Theo Giles had pushed Karin against the wall and had, as I suspected, gagged her with his hand.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ I shrieked.

  He glared back at me but kept his hand over her mouth. ‘Fuck off, stupid ginge,’ he yelled. ‘Me and this bitch have agro to sort out.’

  I struck him across the back of his head with the pump. He was so surprised that he released Karin immediately and spun around. Like Sheila, he suffered from acne. His face was mottled, his expression murderous as he lunged towards me. Karin screamed again. The sound ricocheted across the empty schoolyard. A flock of crows perched on a rubbish bin shot into the air. Her eyes were gleaming with what I believed was terror but would later realise was fury. I flailed wildly at Theo with the pump but he wrenched it easily from me.

  ‘Run, Nadine,’ Karin yelled and grabbed my hand. She was fast, her small feet drumming the ground. We’d lost him by the time we reached Gracehi
lls Park, a shortcut home from school. We cut across the grass towards the tennis courts and into the shady passageway leading towards the park gates. Bare branches tangled overhead. The wintery sun glanced off our faces then cast us into shadow again.

  ‘What was all that about?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s a freak,’ Karin linked my arm and shuddered. ‘All that acne…disgusting. I felt sorry for his sister and that’s the thanks I get for being her friend.’

  ‘Did you have a row with her about the party?’

  ‘What party?’

  ‘Lisa Maye’s. He said―’

  ‘He’s a liar.’ She flicked her blonde hair over her shoulders. ‘I was honest with Sheila about her acne. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings but sometimes the truth has to be told. Did you know it’s contagious?’

  ‘I don’t think it is.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’ She was emphatic. ‘It’s a filthy disease and it’s contagious. See that spot on my forehead?’ She pushed her hair back. The smooth skin between her eyebrows was marred by two tiny pimples, barely visible. ‘That’s how it begins,’ she said. ‘I’ve been to the doctor and he’s treating me with a special ointment so that it doesn’t spread. But I can’t risk being infected again.’

  I wanted to reassure her that she was wrong. I knew all about acne. It was one of my dreads. So far I was pimple-free. I’d read medical articles that claimed it was not contagious but to contradict Karin would suggest she was lying when, clearly, it was the doctor who’d made a mistake.

  ‘Where’s your bike?’ My mother asked when I arrived home.

  ‘I decided to walk home with Karin instead.’

  ‘Karin?’

  ‘The girl we met when we bought my school uniform.’

  ‘Of course. I remember her. Will your bike be safe?’ She looked worried. ‘ You know how expensive it was.’

  My parents had presented it to me on my twelfth birthday, a sturdy racing bike that I loved. The following day I’d find the tyres slashed. The handlebars were twisted and the pump broken. All repairable and a small price to pay for my friendship with Karin.