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

Автор книги: Laura Elliot

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 18

Nadine

Sea Aster is my salvation and my jail. No bars to keep me here but they exist, tough as steel and as unyielding. Having lost everything, we’re still in the palm of Eleanor’s hand, crushed tight by her determination, her will. But I can’t blame her for our recklessness, our over-borrowing, our pursuit of freedom. We did that all by ourselves.

The debts we built up were an amorphous blob until Gerard Lyons pulled the rug from under us. I’m horrified by the scale of what we owed – and how little we actually owned. Our cars have been repossessed and the only income we have is the inheritance Rosanna left us. It’s a small off-shore account but it will keep us going until we find our feet again.

We would be homeless except for Eleanor’s largess. I should be grateful. On my knees thanking her. She had the grace not to say, ‘I told you so’ but that doesn’t make any difference to how I feel.

We tossed a coin when we moved into Sea Aster to see who would occupy Apartment 2 on the ground floor. We both wanted it, particularly the breakfast room with its curving bay window overlooking the garden.

I lost the toss and climbed the stairs to Apartment 1 where the previous tenant wore black lace tights and kept cats with bowel problems. I’m convinced I can still smell them. Jake insists it’s my imagination. The apartment has been scoured, bleached and buffed, painted, redecorated, and a new bed installed. All traces of cats have been expunged and he shows no inclination to switch with me. Eleanor, having handed over the keys, has left us to our own devices. She has First Affiliation to run and it’s up to us to pick up the pieces of our shattered lives.

I awaken every morning with good intentions. Today I’ll sort out the attic where, on our arrival, we dumped the possessions we still actually owned. I’ll cut the grass, weed the flowerbeds, stamp some of my personality on my apartment. Instead, I sit at the window and stare for hours at the shifting moods of the estuary. When the spring tide overflows the shore, the swans swim with regal indifference along Mallard Cove. I envy their unconcern, their indifference to their sudden change of address. If only I could adjust so easily. I’ve come to believe I’m suffering from chronic fatigue.

‘You’re still in shock,’ Jenny reassures me every time we speak. ‘So much has happened so fast. You need time to absorb the changes. Find a job. It’ll keep you sane until you can move from Sea Aster and buy your cottage. Or is it a town house you want?’

‘What does it matter?’ I fight back the urge to weep. ‘I can’t afford a shoebox, let alone a cottage.’

‘Then rent,’ she advises me. ‘It’s no big deal. Do anything except stare at swans. Scrub floors, toss burgers. Otherwise, you’re going to sink into depression.’

‘I’ve sunk into it already.’

‘No, you haven’t. You’ve sunk into self-pity because things haven’t worked out the way you planned. Big difference. You and Jake are young enough to begin over. You have to get back on your feet and gain control over your life again.’

I blink back tears, wretched tears that make no difference no matter how many I shed. ‘All I can think about is how we’re still together but not… and all we’ve lost. Jenny, you’ve no idea what it’s like to lose everything.’

‘But you haven’t lost everything. You’ve lost possessions. You still have your family, your friends. Everything else can be regained in time or, maybe, you never needed all those possession in the first place.’

‘It’s the failure – ’

‘Failure, my foot. That’s an Irish concept. Over here we look upon failure as a learning curve. Onwards and upwards to the next stage.’

‘Tossing burgers?’

‘If it gives you a leg up, yes.’ For the first time my friend sounds impatient. I suspected a slight lack of sympathy when I told her the reason for ending our marriage. Jenny can understand adultery, violence, mental cruelty, alcohol and substance abuse. Even boredom, she admits, is grounds for such a sundering but she can’t get her head around the notion of ‘freedom.’ She makes it sound like a bauble with too much sparkle and I know she’s remembering her ex-partner Christopher, who stuck a farewell note about regaining his freedom to their fridge door with an I Love Vancouver magnet on the day before her thirty-eighth birthday. Timing was never Christopher’s strongest point.

‘How’s Jake?’ she asks.

‘Coping much better than I am. He’s clearing out the old barn and reforming Shard. They had some idea about playing a reunion gig but that bit the dust, along with everything else. Now he’s talking about a come-back launch for the band.’

‘Has Daryl still got the dreadlocks?’

‘A distant dream, Jenny. His baby daughter has more hair than he has.’

She fancied Daryl in those early Shard days. For a while I thought, maybe, but after Jake and I married she moved to Vancouver to study film.

‘And Hart?’ she asks.

‘He teaches yoga.’

‘Hart… you’ve got to be kidding.’ She laughs away her astonishment and says, ‘I thought he’d be pixilated in alcohol by now.’

‘He lives on alfalfa sprouts and bottled water.’

‘What about Bad Boy Barry?’

‘Bricklaying in Saskatchewan.’

‘I’m nearly afraid to ask about Reedy.’

‘He’s still the same.’

I asked him how his New York gig went when he came to Sea Aster to inspect the barn.

‘It was Boston,’ he replied. ‘Haven’t been to New York in years, more’s the pity. It’s a brilliant place to gig.’

I consider telling Jenny about that conversation. The fact that Jake lied about New York. But, maybe, he didn’t. Reedy gigs all over the place. Hard to keep tabs. Downstairs, Jake is hammering something. I never realised how much noise he makes. When we lived together his music was contained in a soundproofed room and the noises he made outside it were indistinguishable from the hubbub of our family. After they left, there was so much space in the house that our individual sounds lost their way back to us. Now, all I hear is him. Doors banging, his stereo blasting, footsteps stamping, chairs scraping, phone ringing. If I listen hard enough I’ll hear him turning in his sleep. His energy invades my space and is a constant affront to my lethargy. I’ve bought a cheap second-hand car but he spends most of his time working on a clapped-out band van he picked up on DoneDeal. It looks as if its next journey should be to the scrap yard but he’s intent on restoring it.

Susanna Cox from HiNotes rings one afternoon and shakes me back to life. I’m surprised to hear from her. None of our ex-business acquaintances have been in contact in the month since we lost Tõnality. I guess they’re afraid our bad luck will rub off on them.

‘I wanted to ring after I heard what happened but I wasn’t sure you’d appreciate a call,’ Susanna sounds uncertain. ‘How are you?’

‘Keeping busy.’ Just as well we’re not on Skype. At three in the afternoon I’m still in my dressing gown and the panda slippers Ali bought me for Christmas. ‘How are things in HiNotes?’

‘Just holding our heads above water,’ she admits. ‘Wanker bankers… but I don’t have to tell you that. Thankfully, parents still want their darlings to become music virtuosos so that keeps our doors open. Are you working again?’

‘Not yet. My CV is with a recruitment agency. I’m expecting to hear from them soon.’

Why tell the truth when a little white lie makes conversation that bit easier? The young woman in the recruitment agency looked appalled when she checked the educational qualifications on my CV. No degrees, not even a teeny weeny certificate? Years of experience with Tõnality were dismissed with a shrug of her shoulder pads. My earlier confidence drained away as she explained why a degree, and preferably, a masters or PhD, were de rigueur these days in her high-powered business world.

‘I thought about you last night when I was having dinner with a friend of mine,’ Susanna says. ‘Jessica Walls. You may have heard of her?’

Who hasn’t heard of Jessica Walls? Those living in caves, perhaps, but, even there, word would filter down through the limestone cracks.

‘She’s looking for an advertising manager,’ Susanna continues. ‘I mentioned your name.’

I feel my chin lifting, my mind growing still.

‘Are you interested?’ she asks when I don’t reply.

I clear my throat and try to keep my voice from wobbling. ‘Does it matter that I don’t have a business degree?’

‘Jessica had zilch degrees to her name when she launched her first magazine,’ Susanna replies. ‘School of life, just like you. Go and meet her. I’ve filled her in on your background. She trusts my judgement.’

‘Does she know about Tõnality?’

‘She knows and understands how it can happen. She’s folded twice and picked herself up again. Each time she grew bigger. Now she has Lustrous as her flagship magazine. Selling advertising will be your main responsibility, although you’ll probably be involved in other aspects of the magazine. Jessica works her staff hard but you won’t be bored. What do you think?’

‘Sounds like Tõnality. I was Jill of all trades there.’ I force myself to sound confident. As Eleanor would say, perception is everything. ‘Thanks, Susanna. I appreciate your help.’

‘One other thing,’ she says. ‘Tell Jake to ring me if he’s interested in some part-time teaching. One of my guitar teachers is heading for Australia next month. Sign of the times, I’m afraid.’

His jeans, ripped at the knees, are covered in oil, his khaki t-shirt damp with sweat when he emerges from under the chassis of his band van.

He agrees to ring Susanna about the guitar classes.

‘Things are looking up, then,’ I say.

‘I guess.’ He slaps his hand off the van and the side window slides down.

There’s a streak of dust on his cheek. I instinctively lean forward to wipe it away then pull back. He bends and picks up a wrench.

‘Good luck at the interview,’ he says. ‘I know you can do it.’

Chapter 19

Jake

Pale walls, a light wooden floor, a table set for two, glass doors opening onto the balcony. Dublin city lay below him, spires, rooftops, bridges, luminous glass pyramids, and Liberty Hall jutting like an amputated thumb into the skyline.

‘What do you think of my view?’ Karin joined him on the balcony.

They leaned over the rail to stare down at the ant-sized pedestrians and the stream of traffic flowing along the quays. Life pulsed here, unlike Sea Aster with its secluded entrance and quietly lapping estuary.

‘Beautiful.’ Jake gazed into her eyes. ‘Quite perfect and as beautiful as I remembered.’

Her lips opened. The hot, hard dart of her tongue aroused him instantly. She moaned softly in response but was the first to draw away.

‘I’ve spent all afternoon preparing a meal for you,’ she said. ‘Let’s sit down and eat before it’s cold.’

She had cooked medallions of lamb with a port jus, gratin potatoes and asparagus with roasted peppers. They steered away from dangerous topics throughout the meal. Nadine’s name was never mentioned. He heard about the design commissions she had received since returning home. He told her about Shard and clearing out the barn, and how he was restoring the band van. Reedy had organised occasional session work for him in the Raison D’être studios, which paid well, if irregularly, and Reedy also intended to find a new drummer.

Was he speaking too fast, laying breathless facts before her? These days he found it impossible to slow down. Being busy was the answer, the only way to cope. And it worked. Mind over matter. Rise in the morning instead of lying in bed and letting his thoughts scurry like ants deprived of their sheltering stone.

Dessert was simple and delicious, fresh raspberries and homemade ice cream, served in blue-rimmed bowls. When it was finished she poured brandy into goblets and carried them to the sofa. Her dress, a buttery shade of yellow, settled in folds around her knees when she sat beside him.

‘Tell me what happened?’ she said. ‘From your email I got the impression you and Nadine had gone through a bereavement, rather than a separation.’

‘A bereavement?’ He pondered the word. It seemed appropriate, if inaccurate. Music played softly in the background. Clair de Lune, Jake recognised the expressive sway and sweep of Dubussy, the rhythmic notes challenging yet soothing. ‘I wanted to contact you,’ he said. ‘I lost count of the times I stopped myself from ringing. Nothing was working out as planned and I didn’t want to burden you with my problems.’

‘Would you have got in touch if I hadn’t made the first move?’ she asked.

He hesitated. Since the collapse of Tõnality she had become a wishful thought, an almost forgotten allurement, and that’s where she would have stayed if she had not emailed him to ask when he intended keeping his promise.

‘I promised to contact you when I’d sorted out my life,’ he said. ‘But how could I come back to you and tell you I was still living with Nadine, even though we’d separated.’

She listened without interruption while he described the tumbling apart that had left him and Nadine still together.

‘Upstairs… downstairs,’ she said. ‘That’s close.’

‘It may seem that way but I assure you – ’

She touched his lip with her fingers and silenced him. ‘Space doesn’t matter, Jake. It’s your emotions that will determine the distance between the two of you. How close are you to Nadine… here?’ He saw a flash of blue below her cleavage as she leaned towards him. She lifted his hand and pressed it to her chest. He felt the steady thud of her heart against his palm and when she moved, almost imperceptibly, his hand curved on the swell of her breasts. ‘And here,’ she whispered. ‘How close… how close… Jake?’

‘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.