Текст книги "The Betrayal: A gripping novel of psychological suspense"

Автор книги: Laura Elliot

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Chapter 3

Nadine

Twilight is settling over Broadmeadow Estuary as I drive along Mallard Cove. Coots, oyster catchers and greenshanks forage between the mottled green islets of the bird sanctuary and the swans, noticing my car, waddle ashore seeking bread. The wind is brisk and the windsurfers, curving into its power, glide across the water. Eleanor is already parked outside Sea Aster. A glance at her watch rebukes me for being ten minutes late. I don’t react. I’ve learned to save my energy for the big battles. This is my first time to return to Sea Aster since Rosanna suffered the massive stroke that confined her to a nursing home. The ivy that once burnished the walls in a coppery glow throughout the autumn has been removed and Sea Aster looks almost indecently naked with its stark, grey exterior, the sharp apexes and curved bay window.

When it was obvious Rosanna would never again return to her home, Eleanor had the house renovated into two apartments, one up, one down, two separate entrances. She sounded nervous when she rang Tõnality earlier today. She had hoped Jake would meet her here this evening. He’s still in New York so I offered to come in his stead. My mother-in-law does not normally display signs of nervousness. Rushing headlong into confrontation is more her style but the tenant who rented Sea Aster, and has now left, proved to be a match for her. The battle to evict her when her lease expired was prolonged and bitter. Eleanor received some threatening phone calls so she’s right to be cautious. Sea Aster is isolated and cries for help would only be heard by swans.

‘When did the ivy go?’ I ask as we walk towards the front door.

‘I had it removed during the conversion,’ Eleanor replies. ‘It was too unruly.’

Unruliness. A cardinal sin in her book.

When she opens the front door I’m dismayed to see how the hall’s once-elegant dimensions have been divided by a crude plasterboard wall. My dismay turns to shock as we climb the stairs to Apartment 1. Strips of wallpaper have been torn from the walls and graffiti sprayed on the ceiling. Flies swarm against the windows. A hole has been kicked in one of the doors. The smell of overflowing ashtrays competes against the stink of cat urine. In the living room we draw back in disgust when we discover cat turds on the carpet. Containers carrying the congealed remains of four-cheese pizzas litter the table and floor.

‘I’m photographing everything.’ Eleanor’s rage grows as she surveys her inheritance. ‘This is what happens when promiscuity and anti-social behaviour are allowed to run riot.’

I offer to organise a swat team of fumigators, cleaners, and a vermin death squad. The mouse droppings in the kitchen suggest that the tenant’s cats were useless at anything except dumping its load behind the living-room sofa.

‘That won’t be necessary.’ She waves my offer aside. ‘The whole interior will be gutted.’

‘There’s no need to gut the house,’ I protest. ‘This is disgusting but it’s only superficial damage. The ceilings… those carvings. The graffiti can be removed without damaging them.’

‘Gutted,’ Eleanor repeats. ‘It’s the only way to make a fresh start.’

She has no feelings for Sea Aster. It wasn’t her childhood home and she never understood why her mother, a passionate bird-watcher and amateur photographer, decided to leave her comfortable bungalow in suburbia when her husband died and move here. She’s particularly fixated on a pair of black lacy stockings tied to a bedpost in one of the bedrooms. Six potted cannabis plants wilt on the dressing table. Jake and I once slept in this bedroom. Now, it’s defiled, revolting. Eleanor continues taking photographs. She will do a Powerpoint presentation with those images. The members of First Affiliation will love them. They are the standard bearers for family values, a fringe political party that believes society will fall apart if their members, led by Eleanor, don’t keep a strict and watchful eye on the moral status quo. She plans to convert the old house into their headquarters. Their current premises has damp issues and a lease that’s due to expire soon.

We leave the odorous atmosphere behind and walk around to the back of the house. To Eleanor’s relief, Apartment 2 on the ground floor has been left in pristine condition. She shakes her head when I invite her back to Bartizan Downs for something to eat. She has a meeting to attend and a speech to write before she goes to bed tonight. Work on converting the house will begin as soon as she receives planning permission to change its use from residential to First Affiliation’s headquarters.

I drive towards the gates of Sea Aster and pass the old stone barn where Tõnality first began. Darkness fell while we were inside, and the windsurfers have folded up their sails. Swans are clustered close to shore and a heron stands impassive and still in the shallows.

Rosanna wanted her ashes to float across this estuary on a slow, eddying tide. Eleanor refused point blank to even discuss the possibility of a cremation. An ad hoc scattering of ashes would be an undignified and messy ending to her mother’s long, active life, she insisted when I argued that it was Rosanna’s dying wish. She had her way in the end and Rosanna is buried with her husband, a boring man who, she once told me, had defined his identity by the club crest on his blazer and made love to her in the missionary position every Saturday night. At least on this occasion Rosanna is on top. Stop… I resist the urge to laugh out loud and swallow, suddenly close to tears as I apologise to Rosanna for being unable to organise the simple ceremony she desired. Will the members of First Affiliations appreciate their new headquarters? Or will they be too busy plotting strategies to notice the rugged beauty surrounding them? I suspect the latter.

An arts programme plays on the car radio as I drive along Mallard Cove. A female poet describes how her latest bout of depression inspired her new collection of poetry. You and me both, I think. But I’m not depressed. Just… what? ‘Flat’ is the only word that comes to mind. Seeing life in a pale, predictive palette sounds more descriptive. The depressed poet would forgive the alliteration and approve.

Jake insists I’m suffering from empty nest syndrome. Four children leaving home in the space of two years does take some adjusting yet I’m glad for all of them. Proud that they’re following their dreams. That’s X-Factor-speak, but it’s true. Last year we said goodbye to Ali, our eldest, as she headed to London and a career on the stage. A month later Brian dropped out of art college and moved to the Dingle peninsula where he lives in the shadow of a mountain and crafts beautiful shapes. Then we said goodbye to our twins Sam and Samantha when they left for Silver Ridge University. The fact that we produced not one, but two elite athletes is a never-ending source of amazement to us. We were aware of their speed from the first time they stood upright and tottered forward on long, sturdy legs. Now, the years of training have paid off and they’ve started a four-year athletic scholarship in California.

The heron dips its beak and the water flurries as an unfortunate fish is snapped from life. Triumphantly, its supper assured, the heron lifts its broad wings and flies away. Herons have no need for monogamy. Jenny made a nature documentary about them once. They mate to breed, good and dutiful parents, sharing incubation and feeding. But when their chicks are independent, ready to take their own paths through life, the parents return to their solitary vigils. To their solitary freedom.

The radio presenter introduces a travel writer who has just launched a book about his travels in Papua New Guinea. Instantly, Karin Moylan comes to mind… again. Ants on my skin, heart lurching. Is this what sufferers of post-traumatic stress experience when the past whizzes like a bullet through their memory?

I meet her mother occasionally, and always by accident. Joan Moylan is polite and sober yet I still visualise her stretched on a sofa or in bed, the duvet drawn tight, her gaze unfocused, the smell of stale alcohol on her breath. Sometimes, when it’s impossible to avoid speaking, we hold brief conversations about the weather and the price of groceries and how the cost of property has gone beyond ridiculous. We never talk about that summer in Monsheelagh, yet it’s moving in slow motion in front of our eyes. No wonder we hurry from each other in mutual relief.

I ring Jake when I return home but he’s not picking up. New York time means he’s probably still in meetings with Ed Jaworski. I detest Ed, with his phallic cigars and New York abrasiveness, but he’s the reason Tõnality changed from being a moderately successful supplier of musical instruments into the European distributors for STRUM. It’s a far cry from the early days when Jake worked from the barn in Sea Aster and Tõnality just consisted of a few guitars and drums for sale or hire. His brief fame with Shard – the band that almost made it internationally – had given him a certain cachet within the music industry, especially among the up-and-coming young bands who hoped to go one step further and actually make it. Within a few years he was able to move to Ormond Quay in the heart of the city. Tõnality became the place for young musicians to hang out, to check the guitars, have a roll on the drums, a tinkle on the piano. I joined him when the twins started school and took over the marketing side of the business. We set up a coffee bar and held open mic nights, impromptu music sessions. And that’s how we would have continued if we hadn’t met Ed Jaworski at a trade fair and took on the STRUM brand of saxophones, recorders, trumpets, ukuleles and mandolins. We expanded from our cramped city premises to the Eastside Business Quarter with its brash, modern offices and spacious warehouse. I can park here and move without fear of bumping into guitars but I still miss the sway of the Liffey outside the window, the footsteps of passing pedestrians stirring the heartbeat of the city.

Tonight I eat well. A steak and salad, two glasses of wine. I enter my home office and wait for Jake to ring. I switch on my laptop and bring up the new marketing plan for STRUM. The demarcation line between home and work has become increasingly blurred these days and this office is as cluttered as the one in Tõnality.

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 meal she 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 broke 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.

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