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

Автор книги: Laura Elliot

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

PART THREE

Chapter 12

Jake

Jake took the Gibson from its stand and sat down on the straight-backed chair he always used when playing his guitar. He turned the tuning peg and checked the B string. Still too sharp. When the guitar was in tune he began to strum ‘The Long Goodbye’. He needed to calm down. Music usually provided the perfect antidote but not tonight. He had needed a slap back to reality and that was what he received when the Kingfisher Graphics business card fell from his wallet. The shock on Nadine’s face. Such unguarded hurt in her eyes. What had she been remembering when she picked it up? She had been silent of the journey home and had gone straight into her office. Had she believed him? He needed to delete those texts and photographs, stop behaving like a lovesick schoolboy and bid goodbye to a fantasy that was never going to become a reality.

She crossed the hall and entered his music room without knocking. They had an unwritten rule to respect each other’s privacy and his uneasiness grew when she sat down on the edge of the tatty, old sofa, the only piece of furniture they had brought with them from Oakdale Terrace. His fingers pressed nervously on the fret as he strummed lightly, nervously.

‘I want to talk about our marriage.’ Her back was ramrod straight, her cheeks flushed.

‘What about our marriage?’

‘We both know it isn’t working anymore.’ She twirled a hank of hair around her middle finger, a habit she had never outgrown when she was upset. ‘I’m sorry for blurting it out like this. I’ve been trying to think of a right way to say this… but the right way doesn’t exist.’

‘Not working? Since when has our marriage stopped working?’ He automatically tightened the D string then twanged it so violently it snapped and cut his finger.

She flinched at the discordant sound. ‘You’re bleeding. I’ll get a bandage.’

‘It’s okay… okay.’ He pulled tissues from a box and wrapped them around the cut. ‘I’m confused. Are you saying you want to leave me?’

Her eyes filled with tears. ‘No, Jake. I want us to leave each other. I want us to be free to do the things we’ve always wanted to do.’ Her stance, the rigid set of her shoulders added to the tension in the room.

He stood up and rummaged in the media unit where he kept the spare sets of strings. ‘Let me get this straight. First of all you want to sell Tõnality. Then the house. Now you want to end our marriage. Am I leaving anything out? Would you like to disown our children, perhaps? Pretend they never existed?’

‘Are you going to pretend you still love me?’

‘Of course I love you.’ His hands shook as he tried to restring his guitar. He gave up and replaced it carefully on its stand.

‘Like a brother loves a sister,’ she said. ‘Like friends. That’s us, Jake. How often do we make love? We’re too tired, that’s what we say. We both know that’s not true. We never wanted this marriage but we knuckled down and made the best of it.’

‘We did more than that, Nadine. We worked at it.’

‘We’ve worked it to the bone. It’s made us old before our time. I won’t be forty for another six months but I feel as if we’ve lived the full circle of life when, really, there’s still so much more we can experience. I need more from my life and so do you.’

‘Stop telling me what I need,’ he shouted. ‘You’re willing to risk our marriage, our family, our home, our company on some harebrained notion that life should offer you more. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.’

‘You know I’m right. It’s time we stopped pretending.’

‘I’m not pretending.’ He sat beside her on the sofa, the space of a cushion between them. He grasped her shoulders, pulled her close to him. ‘What are you trying to do to us?’

‘I’m giving you back your freedom.’

The word throbbed into the open and a new energy, apprehension, tumultuous fear – Jake was unable to define it – vibrated between them.

‘I can’t talk about this anymore tonight,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to think… what to say….’

She swayed suddenly and moved closer to him, flushed, eager, her hands held outwards, pleading with him to embrace a vision only she could see. ‘We can make this work, Jake. You’ll thank me in the end. Once the children understand that nothing fundamental is going to change in their lives, they’ll accept our decision. It’s our time now.’

He felt her heat, the tremor of her breath when they kissed. Her lips opened under the pressure of his tongue. To his surprise, and, probably Nadine’s, they made love on the old sofa, as they used to do when the children were in bed and they lived in a small house where even a hiccup could be heard through the walls. No wonder the sofa sagged in the middle.

They did not bother removing their clothes. No foreplay to delay the inevitable clash of pleasure. No awkwardness as they unzipped, unhooked, unbuttoned, undid each other’s resolve to pretend that this was anything other than a familiar ritual. She was moist and ready, sweet and juicy as the apple she had so temptingly held before him. Her desire matched his own, their cries buried in each other’s shoulders as they shuddered into relief. When she moaned he was unsure if the muffled sound was carried on pleasure or pain.

The sofa was uncomfortable, broken springs pressing into their hips, legs cramping as they untangled themselves, the aftertaste of sex on their lips. A slight embarrassment as she fastened her bra, her face averted from him.

In bed, she fell into an exhausted sleep. He tried to imagine waking up beside a different face, a different form – Karin Moylan sauntered into view – but the leap was too great for his imagination. Nadine turned, still sleeping, and slid her arm across his hip. A practiced gesture, as established as his regular breathing when he finally drifted asleep. Her words were out there now, asteroids in space, already spinning off in directions neither of them could foresee.

Chapter 13

Three weeks had passed since that night. Sometimes, in the throes of work, Jake wondered if he had imagined their entire conversation. Freedom. The word had dangerous connotations and Nadine had teased them out in front of him. Was she crazy? Was he crazy not to listen to her? She had not mentioned their discussion since, nor had he, but ignoring something did not mean it would go away. She was waiting for him to make up his mind. When they were together he was aware of her every movement, each change of expression, the undercurrent of tension behind her words. Had he ever known what went on beneath that storm of red hair?

Small but significant changes were taking place between them. They had not made love since that night. The desire that flamed so swiftly had burned itself out and, now, they lay chastely apart, apologising, almost embarrassed, if they made contact. They avoided intimate actions like walking naked from the shower or dressing in front of each other. They tapped on their office doors before entering and no longer checked each other’s work diaries, something they used to do without a second thought. And the texts he had intended on deleting remained on his phone. New ones arrived from Karin but they no longer lifted his spirits or sank him into a reverie. He was focused on only one thing. The decision he must make. He had the unsettling sensation that a tamed animal might feel when faced with the challenge of an open cage door.

Then Darina Moylan died. Five years in the grip of Alzheimer’s, Darina passed gently away and Karin flew home from for her grandmother’s funeral. It was literally a ‘flying’ visit, she emphasised to Jake in her text. She would spend two days in Dublin where she would attend her grandmother’s funeral and view the apartment she hoped to buy.

They met in the Clarion Hotel beside Dublin Airport for an hour before she flew back to New York. She was waiting for him when he arrived, still dressed in funeral black, the brim of a hat low over her eyes. Darina had outlived her contemporaries and her funeral had been a quiet ceremony, Karin told him when he expressed his condolences. She was pleased with the apartment and had decided to buy it. He knew the location. One of the flashy Celtic Tiger developments built on the once derelict docklands overlooking the Liffey.

‘How’s the Shard reunion coming along?’ she asked after he had viewed photos of the apartment on her mobile.

‘We’ve had to postpone,’ he admitted.

Her eyes narrowed with disappointment when he explained that Reedy had been offered a contract with a band whose guitarist went into rehab just as they were about to tour the States.

‘We’ve still four months to go before we’re officially over the twenty-five year mark,’ he said. ‘So, it will happen before March.’

‘I’ll be living back here by then,’ she said. ‘Will you invite me?’

‘It’s an open concert. Anyone can come.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’ She stirred her cappuccino and licked the froth from the curve of the spoon. ‘How’s Nadine?’

‘Busy.’

‘That’s all you ever say.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘The truth. Is she happy with you? Are you happy with her? And, if so, why are you here with me?’

‘That’s a lot of questions, Karin.’

‘Are you going to answer them?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘That’s not an answer.’ She was challenging him, her head tilted at that now familiar angle.

‘I’ll tackle the last one first,’ he said. ‘I’m here with you because I can’t get you out of my head. You’re a torment and a pleasure. I keep thinking about New York. About what could have happened if you’d invited me into your apartment.’

‘I’ve thought about that too,’ she said softly. ‘But I’m not sure what we’re going to do about it.’

He had forgotten the power of her gaze. The smouldering promise carried on the sweep of eyelashes.

‘When are you moving back here?’ he asked.

‘Why?’

‘You shouldn’t have to ask.’

‘Oh, but I do. Dublin isn’t New York, Jake. It’s like a village with its ear to the ground. What about Nadine? If we do see each other… what are you offering me? An affair? I’ve been down that road before. It doesn’t lead anywhere.’

He was tempted to throw caution to the wind and tell her everything. Instinct warned him it was too soon. He was standing on the edge of a crevice, his toes braced against the fall.

‘I’m not offering you an affair, Karin.’

‘What then?’

‘A relationship… if that’s what you also want. But…’

She smiled ruefully. ‘Married men always have a ‘but.’ What’s yours?’

‘I’ve some important decisions to make. I can’t say more than that for now. Can you trust me to have everything sorted out when I see you again?’

‘Are you a rarity, Jake Saunders? An honest married man? Or are you teasing me? Promising something you can’t possibly deliver? Where’s Nadine in all of this?’

‘Nadine wants what I want.’

‘Really?’ She checked her watch and stood up. ‘You two seem to share everything, including the desire to end your marriage. It’s time to catch my flight.’

‘Is something wrong?’ He was startled by her abrupt comment but she had bent to pick up her overnight case. A slit at the back of her dress opened to reveal a trim of kingfisher blue. He admired the way she used her signature colour, flamboyantly draping it over her shoulders or discreetly revealing it in the bend of a pleat. She was smiling again when she straightened.

‘Why should anything be wrong?’ she asked as they walked towards the exit. ‘I want you, Jake. I always have… ever since that summer. But I don’t share. That’s something you have to accept or this relationship you’ve promised won’t work. Is that a commitment you’re prepared to make?’

‘Yes.’

At the top of the steps she stretched on her toes to kiss him. No longer eye-to-eye, mouth-to-mouth. A new configuration, his tall frame against her diminutive figure. Would their conversation have moved so swiftly from a light flirtation into something more demanding if Nadine had not dangled such alluring possibilities before him? She had kicked the supports of their marriage from under him and he was adrift on anticipation. On the newness of discovery. Addictive, mind-blowing emotions.

‘You were right about everything,’ he told Nadine when they were in bed that night. ‘Thank you for having the courage to take that first step.’

She looked exhausted, dark shadows under her eyes. Was she regretting her decision already? Too late now. His resolve was as fixed as the markings on a new coin.

‘It won’t be easy,’ she said. ‘Eleanor will be furious.’

‘I’ll deal with her. What we’ve decided to do is none of her business.’

‘We’ll tell the children when they’re all together at Christmas?’

‘We will.’ A claw sharpened with guilt scraped against his chest.

‘Do you think we’ll have phantom pains when we separate?’ she asked. ‘You in your mews. Me in my cottage.’

‘Phantom pains are possible,’ he replied. ‘For a while, anyway… until we get used to being apart.’

‘I hope we don’t end up hating each other.’

‘Impossible,’ he reassured her. ‘I’ll always love you.’

‘And I’ll love you.’

Declarations of love… what a way to end a marriage. They loved each other once with passion. Now they loved with affection. A world of difference existed between loving someone and being in love, overwhelmed, besotted, crazed with yearning, giddy, and delirious.

The trees lining the pavements of Bartizan Downs were bare now and the black branches had the clenched arthritic look of winter. It was dark when he and Nadine left for Tõnality in the mornings and dark when they returned in the evenings. Ravens crouched like a menacing army on the rooftops. Beady eyes and cruel beaks, their feathers sleek as oil as they rose in black, clamorous flight, heading to roost in distant trees in the Malahide Demesne.

Poverty and the downfall of a family, Rosanna used to say. Harbingers of doom, that’s ravens for you.

Chapter 14

Nadine

The twins, their peachy skin bleached by the chill of an Irish winter, are the first to arrive home. They radiate energy and purposefulness in their tight jeans and runners, ribbed tops showing off their flat, muscular stomachs. Ali, wrapped in faux furs and Uggs, follows a day later. Brian arrives late on Christmas Eve. He’s grown a beard and his hands feel abrasive, as if clay has lodged deep in the pores.

Our house emerges from its tomblike silence. It’s filled with voices, laughter, music, the clatter of footsteps, phones ringing. My family are happy to be together again. They seem possessed of a manic but joyous energy as they wrap presents and dash in and out from each other’s rooms to borrow wrapping paper, gift tags and glitter bobbins. They play CD’s of Christmas carols and outdo each other in their choice of gaudy festive jumpers. How will they react when we tell them? How have they not picked up on the nervousness between myself and Jake? When they were younger they could sense a shift in our moods by holding a finger in the air. These days, I suspect, we’d need to attack each other with axes before they’d notice.

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 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 father 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 New Year.