by Laura Elliot
‘My marriage is over, Karin. This is what I want…’ His voice rasped as his fingers slid under the V of her neckline. He glimpsed the edge of lace and his breath, harsher now, stirred the blonde, feathery strands framing her face.
‘Show me how much it’s over.’ She was still whispering as her dress pooled on the floor. The sight of her breasts, so pert and perfect in their kingfisher blue cups and slender straps, almost undid him. He was afraid it would be over before it began and he stopped, allowed the rush of desire to abate before he continued unhooking her, hoping he would not fumble and ruin the moment. When her breasts were free she held his face in her hands, forced him to look into the deep blue irises, her gaze unblinking, her whispering words commanding him to show her… show her… show her. He tore his gaze away and bent to trace his tongue over her dusty-pink nipples, to sink his lips into unfamiliar contours and crevices.
Her hands eased his trousers over his hips and he kicked them from him, uncaring now, her pliant body astride him, feather-light as he had known she would be, her blue thong eased aside and he was inside her, sliding in deep and easy, hearing her twittering cries as she arched back, their bodies moving together in a primal yet always familiar rhythm.
Afterwards, she collapsed against him, the sheen of perspiration on her forehead, her hair damp and spiky from the fervour of passion. She curled into his lap, her eyes half-closed, her breathing calm again, and his breath also quietened into the drowsy aftermath of spent desire.
‘My Jake.’ She murmured his name and raised both arms to his neck. He kissed the top of her head, nibbled the lobe of her ear. The musky scent of their love-making trailed from their fingers, rose in an intimate plume when she stirred. He watched her walking from the room, intoxicated by her nakedness, the sway of her slight frame with its surprisingly rounded curves. When she returned she was swamped in a bulky towelling bathrobe, a second one across her arm. He slid his arms into the sleeves and followed her to the bathroom. The water was running in the bath, and the air was scented with lavender as they sank together into the eddying waves of pleasure. He was cutting through the strings of his marriage and letting himself fall. A clean-shaven Rip Van Winkle returning to the world after an absence of twenty-three years.
CHAPTER 20
NADINE
The view from my office overlooks Merrion Square Park. Sometimes, when the windows are open, the voices of children reach above the traffic and rise towards me. The first weeks were terrifying, so many meetings, new faces, responsibilities. Now, two months later, the newness has worn off and the skills I took with me from Tõnality have come to the fore.
Lustrous is the most prestigious of Jessica’s eight magazines and is my responsibility. It’s devoted to celebrity culture, glamour and escapism, scandal and the red carpet. Her other magazines are equally targeted, weddings, businesses, interior design and then there’s Core, a muck-raking tabloid at the other end of the spectrum from Lustrous. Both magazines are edited by Liam Brett.
I don’t usually dislike people on a first impression but Liam has proved the exception to the rule. He addresses the female staff as ‘Babe’; a useful moniker that prevents him having to remember our names. I suspect he enjoys building up the celebrities who feature in Lustrous so that he can crash land them later with an exposé in Core.
Susanna was right when she said there would be blurred demarcation lines on the magazine. When one of the editorial team on Lustrous resigns after a row with Liam I offer to write her copy until she’s replaced. This involves writing features about celebrities who have done something to damage their image and need a sympathetic revamp on their reputations – or wannabes who are seeking any reputation, damaged or otherwise. Jessica makes excuses when the weeks pass with no sign of a new copywriter being appointed.
‘I don’t know how I ever managed without you, Nadine,’ she says. Compliments are her ammunition against protests. ‘You’re so multi-faceted.’
We used to laugh at Lustrous, Jake and I. All those celebrities posturing and pouting. He nicknamed it Ludicrous. My only fear is that I’ll do the same at a staff meeting.
* * *
I awaken on a Saturday morning filled with determination. No lying on in bed. The time has come to make a start on the attic. My life plan has changed but there’s no reason why I can’t turn the attic into a studio. Over the years I’ve enrolled in night-time art classes but I seldom finished a term. Nothing to stop me now.
The attic is chaotic, filled with clutter that needs to be sorted out. Dire warnings have come from California, London and the Dingle peninsula. Nothing belonging to Ali, Brian and the twins is to be thrown out until they’ve had a chance to decide what should be kept.
They too are feeling the effects of change. We can no longer afford to finance Ali as she waits to be discovered. When I reminded her that waitressing is the apprenticeship for an acting career, she sounded as if I’d asked her to stand on the block at a hiring fair. The twins were equally appalled by the idea of working part-time while they train for gold.
I’ll organise containers in a storage warehouse for the ‘must-not-throw-outs’ and the rest can be divided between Oxfam, the local recycling plant, the junk yard and Ebay. I look at my paintings stacked against the eaves, some finished, others abandoned at the halfway stage. Amateurish. They’ll make a fine bonfire.
I want Jake to help but his van, now roadworthy, is missing from the previous night. He arrives as I’m packing the boot with boxes for Oxfam. His hair is shaggier than it used to be and the strain he’s carried on his face for months has disappeared. He looks ten years younger whereas I’m only beginning, literally, to lift my head from the debris that was once our lives. He’s spent the night with someone. I know this to be true, not just by his crumpled shirt and sated eyes but by an aura surrounding him, something I can only sense: elation, suppressed excitement.
We’ve discussed this possibility… probability… actuality. If the law forces us to wait four years to finalise our divorce then we have the right to decide how it should end emotionally. Circumstances interfered with our plans but if we’re to survive this living together, yet apart, we will practice discretion. That means never bringing anyone with whom we have a relationship back to Sea Aster. We made this pact calmly, purposefully but I hadn’t reckoned on the shock of sensing… no, knowing… that he is moving on. I feel nauseous as an image of his naked body above a faceless woman flashes through my mind. I swallow and steady my breathing.
‘Looks like you’ve decided on a major clear out,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have given you a hand.’
‘You weren’t around.’ My legs buckle under the weight of a box. A brash new Shard sign has been painted on the side of his van. Splintering icy-blue slivers with a reddish-orange glow give the impression that the ice is blazing. SHARD is stencilled in a three-dimensional font. Each word looks as if it was hacked around the edges with a finely honed chisel.
‘I’ll help you now.’ He steps forward and tries to take the box from me.
‘No need. I’m managing fine.’ My voice is sharper than I intend and he draws back, his expression wary.
‘What’s the matter? You seem tense. Are you…?’
If he tells me I’m pre-menstrual I’ll take a brick to his head.
‘Finding it difficult?’ he waves his hand towards the boxes. ‘All the memories – ’
‘They need to be faced,’ I reply. ‘Better sooner rather than later. And I’m not tense. Just busy de-cluttering. It displaces negative energy, I’m told. What’s happening in your life?’
‘Same old … same old.’ He answers too fast, too glibly. ‘How’s Ludicrous?’
‘Stop calling it that.’ I point to the sign on the van. ‘Very dramatic.’
‘It was a band decision.’ He bends and lifts another box. ‘We’re practicing this afternoon otherwise I’d take this lot to the charity shop in the van.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll manage.’
‘We should arrange to get together some evening and do a major clear out.’
‘Sure… let me know when you’re free.’
He stands back as I start the car. I glance in the rear-view mirror before I turn around the curve on the driveway. He’s already disappeared.
* * *
In Malahide Village I carry the boxes into Oxfam. I imagine our discarded bric-a-brac taking up space in other peoples’ houses, the paintings hanging from different walls, the lamps glowing in new corners, the glass displayed on stranger’s shelves.
On a whim I drive from the village towards Bartizan Downs. The gates are closed and I no longer possess the means to enter. The trees are beginning to green, a shivery growth that partly hides these fortified houses with their sweeping lawns and quiet air of luxury. The gates slide apart and a woman glares suspiciously at me from her towering jeep. Cars do not loiter outside Bartizan Down without attracting attention. There’s so much to plunder and rob behind those coded gates with their ridiculous bartizans. What possessed us to buy such an ostentatious house? Why did we allow ourselves to be lured there by the purple prose of property supplements and the Judas kiss of a banker? I know the answer. Bartizan Downs was a statement. Its brash opulence proving to the world that Jake and Nadine Saunders, against all the odds, had made it.
The silver rush of the Broadmeadow River spills into the estuary as I drive back to Sea Aster. Saturday is a day for families and cars are parked under the trees. The swans are out of the water, intent on snatching bread from the fingers of excited children. They’re thuggish when they emerge onto dry land and grudgingly waddle from my path.
Music hits like a hand on my chest when I step from the car. A white van with Feral Childe Drummer painted on it is parked outside my apartment. Three other cars are parked on the grass. Cables run from the window of the breakfast room into the barn and the walls seem to vibrate with amplified energy. I peer through the open barn window, reluctant to be seen but unable to resist the temptation to see the band in action. Amplifiers are arranged on a makeshift stage and the retro Shard posters are pinned to the walls. Jake has installed the old sofa from Oakdale, as well as some bean bags for lounging. He has created a man shed and a boy’s den all rolled into one.
Hart moves with a sinuous grace that makes him unrecognisable from the shambling rhythm guitarist I used to know. Reedy plays with that same world-weary impassivity. Feral Childe, the new drummer Reedy recruited, has tumbleweed yellow hair, jeans with strategic rips and the figure of a teenage boy. I recognise the tune pulsing through the barn. One of Jake’s earlier songs. It’s different now, a slower beat with more depth, more melodic. Daryl juts his guitar into the air and Jake, his body already leaning into the music, begins to sing, his growly voice still sexy.
I was part of that circle once. Summer days in the garden, myself and Jenny sprawled in deckchairs, Rosanna carrying out jugs of lemonade and packets of Hobnobs. I clench my fists then determinedly unclench them. Throughout the afternoon I’m conscious of Shard. Not so much the pounding beat, just the reverberations of the past. When the rehearsal ends, Daryl climbs the stairs to my apartment. His eyes are shadowed. Another sleepless night, he confesses. Teething problems, flushed baby cheeks, nappies oozing an indescribable odour. He shows me a video of Jasmine spitting a blob of pureed carrot with ferocious determination at the camera.
I ask how Feral Childe is slotting into the band.
‘She’s cool,’ says Daryl. ‘Jake’s delighted with her. We all are.’
‘Feral can’t be her real name.’
‘May Smith,’ he says. ‘She changed it by deed poll on her sixteenth birthday.’ He swipes his iPhone again.
‘What’s her background?’
‘She was with Collective of Calm. Ever heard of them?’
‘No.’
‘They were based in New York and were anything but calm, from what I’ve heard. Feral came back home when they split.’
‘When was that?’
‘Early this year. Did I show you this video of Jasmine eating spaghetti? It’s a hoot.’
‘You showed it to me last week.’
‘Sorry, Nadine.’ He grimaces and slips his phone back into his pocket. ‘I used to hate baby bores like me.’
He looks relieved when I tell him it’s an addiction that will pass when Jasmine enters her teens.
Soon only the white van remains outside Sea Aster. Jake is cooking in the kitchen. Spicy, mouth-watering smells drift upwards. I hear Feral laughing, cutlery clinking, chairs being dragged to the table.
He knocks on my door shortly afterwards.
‘I can’t find a corkscrew. Do you have the one with the fancy lever?’ he asks.
‘I’ll get it for you.’
‘You can come down and join us if you like,’ he says. I don’t detect the slightest hint of enthusiasm in his voice. ‘It’s just a lamb tagine, nothing fancy.’
‘No, thanks.’ I hand him the opener. ‘I’ve things to do tonight. Enjoy your meal.’
I hear the dishes being cleared from the table and the hum of the dishwasher. Jake begins to play his guitar. Feral accompanies him on the bongos. At least they’re not in bed. I shy away from the image of her tumbleweed hair on the pillows, her boyish figure straddling him. Moving with the same pulsing force as she exercises over her drums.
They’re still making music when I ring Jenny.
‘Did I tell you Shard’s new drummer is female?’
‘Yes. You’ve mentioned it on a number of occasions. Why? Is that an issue?’
‘She’s downstairs playing the bongos. Can you hear her?’
‘Are you jealous?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Then why should I listen to her playing the bongos?’
‘I think Jake’s having a thing with her. Remember that New York text.’
‘What about it?’
‘I’m sure she sent it.’
‘Do you care?’
‘Not at all.’
‘So….’ Jenny pauses, coughs meaningfully. ‘Why are we discussing her?’
‘I’m not… it’s just… I can hear them.’
‘Doing what? Shagging?’
‘Jenny.’
‘Okay…making love by the silvery moon…is that what we’re discussing here?’
‘No. Sea Aster is off limits for that.’
‘An eminently sensible decision. Did I tell you I’m seeing someone?’
‘As in serious?’
‘Could be.’ She utters a most un-Jenny-like giggle.
‘Tell me everything,’ I demand.
And she does.
Downstairs Feral has changed from the bongos to a mouth organ. The melancholic strains writhe like an eel though the floorboards of Sea Aster. It’s after midnight before I hear Jake’s apartment door opening. I watch from the window as Feral walks with him towards her van. The outside light has switched on. I’ve a clear view as they stop beside the van and hug each other. This is not a brief hug. It’s spontaneous, filled with vigour and promise. Does it matter? Of course not. He’s free. I’m free. I need to escape from here. Watching Jake play out his new life in front of me is torture. At last they separate. Feral drives away, the wheels spraying pebbles. Jake stands in the pool of light until the rear lights disappear around the side of Sea Aster.
CHAPTER 21
JAKE
The sense of déjà vu startled him when Karin drove into Gracehills and they passed Nadine’s old house. Karin stared straight ahead and made no reference to it. She must have spent time there, stayed overnight, sat on the garden wall, walked to and from school with Nadine through Gracehills Park. A different front door and windows, the front garden paved, it was hardly recognisable but Jenny Corcoran’s house was unchanged. The same neatly-trimmed privet hedge, the rose bushes beginning to bloom. Her parents still lived there. Last year she had arrived home for Dan Corcoran’s seventieth birthday. At his party she and Nadine sang a rap song the
y had composed for the occasion to thunderous applause.
Today, Joan Moylan was celebrating her birthday. A white box on the back seat of Karin’s car contained a cake with her name and birthday wishes inscribed on the icing. Jake had only the vaguest memory of meeting Joan during that summer in Monsheelagh. Her face was usually shaded by a floppy sunhat and sunglasses. Her hair was drenched that night when she entered the harbour pub where Shard were playing and Jake only caught a fleeting glimpse of her distraught face before she disappeared into the storm.
She had made lasagne and a salad for the birthday meal. Broken thread veins and the lines on her face suggested battles lost and won. The conversation around the dining table was strained. Joan spoke about a book she had read and a televised crime drama she enjoyed watching. Jake found himself filling in the silences that inevitably fell once a topic had been exhausted.
Karin carried the birthday cake to the table. Two waxen numbers six and eight were stuck like miniature plump ladies in the centre. When Joan had blown out the candles Karin sliced the cake and poured tea. No champagne. Her mother was a recovering alcoholic, she had told Jake on the way to the house. Joan could never be trusted, even after twenty-five years. When Jake said that twenty-five years without touching alcohol suggested she was a fully recovered alcoholic Karin shook her head.
‘There’s no such thing,’ she said. ‘The temptation is always there. That’s why I find it so difficult to be around her, especially on days like today.’
