The Betrayal

by Laura Elliot

  For years the seating arrangement around our table on Christmas Day never changed. Four generations gathered together, the six of us joined by Eleanor, Rosanna and my uncles, Donal and Stuart. This year Donal, my father’s brother, is the only one of the older generation to join us. Stuart, my mother’s brother, is remaining in London. Six months ago he was diagnosed with cancer. He’s positive and upbeat, convinced of a good outcome, but his chemo has been tough so he’s staying close to home with friends. We’ll miss our beloved Rosanna and Eleanor – who always endured rather than enjoyed this noisy and often boisterous family meal – is spending Christmas in Wicklow with friends from First Affiliation. I tried not to look relieved when she told us. The dreaded moment postponed.

  Presents are exchanged on Christmas morning. No squabbles, sulks or disappointed silences. Each gift is judged to be the perfect one. Brian gives us pieces of pottery. I receive a decorative ceramic box from his new Willow Passion collection. It’s shaped like a heart, the lid split down the middle in a gentle curve. Can he possibly suspect… but, no. His eyes are guileless as he waits for me to comment on it. The glaze is subtle. Weeping willows hazed in mist, two figures glimpsed within the pale-green fronds. The position of their bodies hint at a secret dalliances, stolen moments, but the image is so delicately drawn that it adds to rather than diminishes their sexual vigour.

  Their happy mood continues throughout the day. I’ve never known them to be so civilised, pleasant and entertaining. They burst into applause when the turkey is carried to the table and Jake brandishes the carving knife. They heap their plates and talk about their childhood with the bittersweet nostalgia of octogenarians. Flash bulb memories, all of them zooming in on their old house in Oakdale Terrace. Jake demands to know if they’re talking about the house where they constantly complained about swallowing each other’s air? The house where warfare broke out over who should enter the bathroom first in the morning? They laugh and insist it was all part of its charm.

  ‘A toast to the best parents in the world,’ Ali’s brown eyes shine with appreciation.

  Donal raises his glass in a salute and says, as he always does,’Is féidir linn a bheith go léir le chéile ag an am seo an bhliain seo chugainn,’

  ‘I agree.’ Samantha leans towards him and clinks glasses. ‘May we all be together at this time next year.’

  ‘Cool,’ agrees Sam.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Jake clasps his chest and pretends to topple from his chair. ‘No one’s getting an increase in their living allowance and that’s that.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, stop being such a cynic.’ Samantha slaps his hand and cries out, ‘Merry Christmas to one and all.’

  What will next Christmas bring? Is there a protocol for separated couples? Where will we gather to feast and be merry? Jake’s mews? My place? I keep changing my mind about where I want to live. A cottage or a small, terraced townhouse, mellowed with memories? A smart city centre apartment with a balcony and good light for painting?

  We wave Donal off in a taxi and settle down to play Scrabble. Jake takes out his guitar and we sing the same Christmas songs we’ve sung since they were children. He plays some of his own songs, something he’s never done before. They listen appreciatively then Ali says, ‘they’re brilliant, Dad. Now play ‘Frosty the Snowman.’’

  * * *

  Jake is first into the kitchen this morning. He cooks a fry-up for breakfast and they come to the table without having to be coaxed from their beds. They’re fully dressed, instead of slouching, dead-eyed and baleful in onesies or pyjamas. They epitomise the perfect family as they tuck into rashers and sausages, pass toast and various bottles of ketchup to each other. My heart fails me when I look around the table at their happy faces. I want them to turn savage, to rain insults on each other as they once did without the slightest provocation. Anything to ease my guilt. But they continue to laugh at each other’s jokes, listen to each other’s opinions and discuss the planned hill-walking expedition we will take later in the week, weather permitting.

  It’s late evening and they’re lolling in armchairs, eating cold turkey and chocolates, when Jake switches off the television. Now that the moment has arrived I’m consumed by panic. This is a dreadful mistake. How have I allowed my desire for a different life to obscure the value of the one I have? Why do I have this urge to strike out on my own and discover the person I could have been if things had worked out differently? It’s such a puny, selfish reason. I could have controlled it…would have controlled it if that business card had not fallen from his wallet. He met her on that flight and never thought to mention her to me. His casual indifference astonished me. And with it came the anger. But I’m calmer now… surely it’s not too late to pull back from the brink? I gaze across at Jake. He’ll read my mind and understand that we must stop this madness now. His eyes meet mine, fixed, grey, steely.

  ‘We’ve something important to discuss with you,’ he says.

  The gravity of his tone silences them. Samantha moves closer on the sofa to Sam. Brian stops searching for the box of Trivial Pursuit and sits back on his heels.

  ‘We want… we’re going to….’ Jake’s carefully rehearsed words falter before their expectant faces.

  I press my hands against my stomach and lean forward. Jake, aware of my panic, pats my shoulder.

  ‘Oh my God, Mum!’ A horrified expression sweeps across Ali’s face. ‘You’re going to have a baby!’

  My breath explodes outwards. ‘How can I be pregnant when your father has had – ’

  Jake coughs warningly. His vasectomy is something he never intends discussing with his children.

  ‘No, Ali, I’m not pregnant,’ I reply in what I hope is a reassuring tone. ‘We want to talk to you about some… some important changes we intend to make.’

  ‘Like what?’ Brian looks from Jake to me.

  ‘We’re going to sell the house.’ Jake finds his voice again. ‘It’s too big for us, now that you’ve all left home.’

  ‘It was always too big for us,’ Samantha agrees. ‘We should never have left Oakdale. Do you remember the time – ’

  ‘Selling it is an excellent idea.’ Ali cuts short another trip down memory lane. ‘You said changes. What else?’

  ‘We’re also selling Tõnality.’ Jake examines his thumb then folds it into a fist. ‘We’ve decided to do something different with our lives.’

  ‘Different?’ Samantha sounds astonished.

  ‘I’m hoping to enrol as a mature student and study art,’ I reply.

  ‘I’m looking at options,’ says Jake. ‘I’m thinking of setting up a recording studio and reforming Shard.’

  ‘Cool,’ Sam exclaims through a mouthful of Ferrero Rocher but Ali looks equally horrified by this possibility.

  ‘Reforming Shard at your age, Dad? That’s so embarrassing.’ She gazes sternly at us. ‘This is serious mid-life crisis stuff. Are you going through the change, Mum?’

  ‘First I’m pregnant and now I’m menopausal.’ It’s important to remain calm. ‘Make up your mind, Ali.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she shrugs. ‘I just figured… you’re at that age.’

  ‘At our age we still have lives to lead and that’s why we’ve decided…’ Jake falters once again before continuing, ‘We’ve come to an agreement… we’ve decided to separate.’

  ‘Separate what?’ asks Samantha.

  ‘Separate from each other,’ he replies.

  ‘You’re leaving Mum?’ Brian stares disbelievingly at his father.

  ‘Dad,’ Ali shrills. ‘You can’t! This is too awful.’

  Samantha and Sam fix accusatory eyes on Jake.

  ‘After everything she’s done for you?’ says Samantha. ‘Is that all the thanks she gets? It’s not fair, Dad. It just isn’t.’ She dashes to my chair and flings her arms around me.

  ‘Too right,’ Sam agrees.

  I prise my head loose from Samantha’s fierce embrace and speak with as much composure as possible. ‘Your fath
er and I came to a mutual decision. We’re going to lead our own lives but that won’t make any difference whatsoever to your lives. We’ll have family days together, celebrations, Christmas. Whatever comes up we’ll be together to share it with you. This will be a perfect divorce.’

  ‘A perfect divorce.’ Brian snorts in disbelief. ‘That’s a paradox if ever I heard one.’

  ‘You’ll end up hating each other.’ Ali’s voice shakes dangerously. ‘That’s how it always works out.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong,’ says Jake. ‘This doesn’t mean we stop liking each other or anything ridiculous like that. But we’re still young enough – ’

  ‘Young?’ The twins, speaking in unison, appear stunned by this notion.

  Brian shoves the box of Trivial Pursuits back into the press and Ali shrills, ‘Thanks, folks, for making this the jolliest Christmas ever.’

  * * *

  They go to bed early, close their doors quietly. The atmosphere in the house has changed. The lights on the Christmas tree are too bright, the bedecked garlands mocking this season of good cheer.

  My earlier panic has eased now that we’ve told them the truth. I shake my head when Jake asks if I’d like a drink. I don’t want to talk about what we’ve done. He pours a measure of whiskey but leaves it sitting on the arm of his chair. He, too, seems reluctant to talk. What is left to say?

  The following day my children treat me with an eggshell caution, convinced I’ll crack and splatter them with my grief.

  ‘I’ll talk to Dad,’ Ali says when we’re alone in the kitchen. ‘He always listens to me. I can’t bear to think of you being left on your own.’

  ‘This is what I want, Ali. It’s a mutual decision.’

  ‘So you keep saying. But you’re allowed to be upset. Leave the stiff upper lip to the Brits.’

  Samantha offers a muscular shoulder for me to cry on. ‘I’ve never seen Dad as the marrying kind,’ she says. ‘He’s so… you know…?’ She taps her bottom lip as she searches for the right word. ‘So cool. Those posters of Shard are really retro. He could have made it big, gone international. Maybe he’ll do it this time… now that he’s free to follow his dream.’

  I ask if I’m the marrying kind and Samantha, oblivious to the chill in my voice, shrugs. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever thought about it. I mean, you’re my mum.’

  My father doesn’t pretend to be surprised when I ring him in Australia. ‘I always knew he’d pull up stakes and leave you sooner or later,’ he says. ‘You’ve got to put your foot down and demand that he pays you proper alimony.’

  Why does everyone automatically assume it’s Jake who wants out of our marriage? It implies that he’s the most dissatisfied, most disillusioned, most eager to escape. I’m filled with a childish desire to yell, ‘It was me! My decision. Mine alone!’ Instead, I inquire about the weather. What degree is it in Sydney when they are dining al fresco. Eoin has never lost the Irish compulsion to discuss climatic changes. When we’ve exhausted that topic he hands the phone to Lilian who’s polite, as always. I’ve never accepted her as my stepmother and our conversation is always an exchange of information about furniture and health. She must have overheard the discussion with my father, but our roles are too defined to tackle emotional issues. She tells me about her gall stone operation and the new suite of furniture she bought last week in a Harvey Norman sale. Just before we say goodbye she whispers, ‘Grab life by the balls, Nadine. Don’t let go, even when it shrieks.’

  ‘I will,’ I promise and we wish each other a happy Christmas.

  CHAPTER 15

  The wind is brisk this morning, the sky clear with a sharp, wintery blueness when they set off on their hill-walking expedition to the Dublin Mountains. I won’t join them this year. Some traditions have to break and I can’t endure their pity for another day. It’s good to have the house to myself. I tidy the living room and am about to stack the dishwasher when the front doorbell rings three times in quick succession. My heart sinks. Only Eleanor can make chimes sound imperious.

  She’s pale but composed as she sweeps past me into the kitchen and places her handbag on the table.

  ‘Where’s Jake?’ she asks. ‘He’s not answering his mobile.’

  ‘He must have turned it off when he went out.’ I switch on the kettle. ‘Something to eat, Eleanor? A mince pie, perhaps? Some Christmas cake?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m too upset to eat anything.’ She gazes reproachfully at me for ruining her appetite. ‘I would have preferred to speak to you and Jake together but, perhaps, that’s just as well. Woman to woman we can sort this out. I’ve had a most distressing phone call from your father.’

  My jaw clenches. Trust Eoin. He could never keep his mouth shut.

  ‘Tell me he’s mistaken,’ Eleanor makes it sound like a demand. ‘Jake has his failings, like all men, but he’d never walk out on his wife and family.’

  ‘He’s hillwalking with his family right now.’

  ‘Don’t be facetious, Nadine. You know what I mean.’

  ‘We intended telling you ourselves. Eoin had no right to ring you.’

  ‘So, it’s true? He’s leaving you?’

  ‘It’s a mutual decision.’ Is my voice developing a sing-song incantation, rather like a Buddhist chant? ‘And the children have accepted – ’

  ‘I’m glad you mentioned your children.’ Years of battling on the airwaves have perfected Eleanor’s interruptive skills. ‘Have you any idea of the trauma you’re going to cause them if you go ahead with this rash decision? The statistics on broken marriages that First Affiliation have compiled would make your hair stand on end.’

  ‘Why should they be unhinged by our divorce?’ I demand. ‘We’re not going to play games with their emotions. The truth is that Jake and I have outgrown each other and ‒ ’

  ‘Do you think marriage is a growth hormone, Nadine?’ She arches her eyebrows. Over the years, as her hair greyed and was dyed to a steely blonde, her eyebrows have remained black, as finely curved and expressive as calligraphy. ‘You don’t outgrow it like a pair of shoes. What do you think would happen to marriage if couples were to separate because they were bored with each other?’

  ‘I guess it would become one of those quaint customs from the past, like sacrificing virgins or foot binding.’

  ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, my dear,’ she snaps. ‘You must realise how such a reckless decision will affect my reputation.’

  At last she’s reached the nub of the matter.

  ‘You can’t be held responsible for our decision,’ I argue. ‘It’s not as if we’re going to broadcast – ’

  She delves into her handbag and slides a leaflet across the table towards me. ‘This woman is a highly qualified marriage counsellor. I want you and Jake to make an appointment with her. You can begin to sort out your problems by sitting down and discussing them with her.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of seeing a marriage counsellor, nor has Jake. This is all about perception. That’s all you’ve ever cared about. Your precious reputation.’

  In a radio interview shortly after the twins were born Eleanor spoke about the joys of being a grandmother. She described myself and Jake as a shining example of a young couple devoted to each other and their family. Sleepless with the demands of four children under three years of age and aware that she had never once offered to babysit, I tore the paper in shreds before ringing her and forbidding her ever again to use her grandchildren as propaganda. That was the first time I ever confronted her. Eleanor was used to tougher combatants than her hysterical daughter-in-law and she took the attack in her stride. But I never forgot my exhilaration as I slammed the phone down, dizzying in its mix of anger and elation. The sensation I now feel is similar.

  ‘Yes, my dear, I care about perception and make no apologies for doing so,’ she says. ‘It’s often a more potent force for change than truth.’ She pauses, swallows audibly, the veins in her neck tightening. ‘You and Jake have no right to ruin the lives of your
children with your selfish recklessness.’

  I long to slap her inflexible face. The feel of flesh on flesh, the sting of satisfaction. ‘You must respect our wishes, Eleanor. Jake and I are getting divorced. You have to stop interfering in our lives.’

  ‘And you must stop trying to ruin mine.’ She closes her handbag, pulls on her driving gloves. ‘This counsellor is experienced and discreet. I’ll tell her to expect your call.’

  * * *

  It’s dark now. They’ll be home soon. I carve the last of the turkey. Jake will be relieved to eat something spicy. He detests turkey but any time he suggests a succulent roast lamb or a cracking belly of pork instead of the traditional Christmas dinner, our family rise up in protest. The tyranny of tradition. I slice deeply into the white flesh and add it to the simmering curry sauce. My eyes sting from the piquant spices. I set the table, six places once again.

  A text comes through, the sharp bleep startling me. I reach into the corner unit for the phone and have clicked into the message before I realise it’s Jake’s mobile I’m holding.

  Xmas over at last. Homeward bound soon. It’s up to you… New York… New York!

  The front door opens. They’re glowing from the outdoors, crumpled anoraks, muddy hiking pants and boots, beanies pulled low over their foreheads.

  ‘Smells delicious!’ Jake sniffs the air and makes a beeline for the cooker. ‘Alleluia! It’s the end of the turkey.’