I’m tired by the time I return to Bartizan Downs. Lights blaze from neighbouring windows. We don’t draw our curtains here. We’re gated and protected, fortified against each other and from the world outside by high walls. I shower and slip on my pyjamas.
Jenny is at her desk when I ring Vancouver, her printer clattering beside her. She listens without interruption while I tell her about this chance sighting.
‘Are you sure it was Karin?’ she asks when I pause for breath.
‘I’m almost positive. Her hair’s short now but she still has that cut-glass profile.’
A second phone keeps ringing and interrupting our conversation. ‘Hold on, Nadine. I’d better take this.’ She sounds distracted.
‘You’re busy. I’ll go. I just wanted to tell you about her.’
‘No, wait.’ She speaks briefly to someone than comes back to me. ‘I can’t believe she still has the power to upset you so much.’
‘Neither can I.’ Once again I experience that breathless jolt of recognition.
‘It’s so long ago,’ Jenny says. ‘What happened was not your fault. You’ve worked through it. You’ve moved on. Don’t let her get to you again. She’s not, and never was, important.’
‘I’m sorry I interrupted you.’
‘You didn’t interrupt me.’ Her voice sharpens. ‘Are you listening to me, Nadine?’
‘Yes… yes.’
‘Ring me anytime you want to talk some more about this. Promise.’
‘I will. How’s work?’
‘We’re wrapping up the documentary. It’s always manic at this stage. Is everything okay in Tõnality?’
‘Business could be better,’ I admit. ‘This recession is getting worse.’
‘I keep reading the financial reports. It sounds grim.’ The second phone rings again. ‘Hold on a minute. I’ll switch this off.’
‘No, take it Jenny. You’ve obviously up to your eyes. I’ll be in touch soon. Love you.’
‘Love you, too.’
Then she’s gone, back to her world of ozone layers and climate change and melting icecaps. Her documentaries are more scary than a zombie movie. She’s my best friend, wise and sensitive–and has had her heart severely broken on two occasions. When she gives advice I listen.
Karin Moylan Never Was Important.
Chapter 2
Jake
Some people play with worry beads when they are stressed, others attend a shrink. Jake Saunders used music. As an escape route it never failed him and now, with an hour to kill before he boarded his flight to New York, he opened his laptop and plugged in his earphones. He replayed the last recording he had made. A melody with potential, he decided, but the lyrics were weak. Hackneyed lines that made him wince. He needed to hack down to the heart of the song. A long goodbye to a love affair. The relationship over but the dependency on togetherness too ingrained to allow for separation. Art reflecting life; it was a thought too close for comfort.
Nadine’s abrupt departure at the airport bothered him. Her expression had been so distant as she stared at him through the car window that, for an instant, he thought she was going to drive away without saying goodbye. Her mood changed so easily these days. The pressure of running Tõnality was taking its toll on both of them. The impact of an empty house, their parenting done. This should be their time to wind down. Instead, they were locked into a recession and a debt that was balanced like a rock on their shoulders.
The boarding area gradually filled up. Jake bent lower over his laptop and tried to ignore the pungent garlic fumes emanating from the man sitting beside him. He should be working on the spreadsheet for Ed Jaworski instead of wasting time on a song that was certain to remain unsung. He had a drawer full of such songs. Half-finished ideas that inevitably fizzled out when some new emergency at work took over.
His neighbour stood up and stretched, strode towards the toilets. His seat was immediately taken by a woman. Her perfume battled against the garlic fumes and won. Jake breathed deeply. The perfume Nadine used was light and floral but this was heavy and curiously intimate, as if the scent had been blended in a moist, exotic jungle. She opened a magazine, flicked pages, crossed her legs: small, slender feet, blue shoes, sheer tights. He stole a sideways glance at her. Mid-thirties, maybe older, he guessed. There was a maturity about her full, glossy mouth, and her blonde hair, short and brushed back from her forehead in a quiff would only be worn by a woman confident enough to know she could carry off such a chiselled image and still look beautiful.
Earlier, he had noticed her when he was going through security. Something about the tilt of her head as she spoke to an official looked familiar. The impression was so vague that she had passed through the security gates and out of his mind until now.
A collective groan arose from the passengers when an announcement informed them that their flight to New York would be delayed. She closed her magazine, tapped her fingers against the cover. Her nails, perfect ovals, were painted an iridescent blue. He switched off his laptop. Impossible to concentrate. He hated airports. The ruthless security routine, the slumped wait in the boarding area and the eventual slow shuffle aboard after unexplained delays. He accidentally jogged her elbow as he removed his earphones.
‘Sorry.’ He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. ‘I wonder what’s caused the delay?’
‘Some technical hitch, I guess.’ She stood up and buttoned her jacket. ‘I’m going for a coffee. Can I bring something back for you?’
‘Why don’t I go with you?’ He put the laptop in his overnight case and zipped it. ‘Stretch my legs. We’ll be sitting long enough when we finally get on board.’
He slowed his stride as they walked towards the coffee bar. The women in his life were tall and long-limbed, his wife and mother, his two daughters. Everything about this woman was petite, from the crown of her head to the toes of her high-heeled shoes. He insisted on paying for cappuccinos and two Danishes, which he carried to a nearby table.
‘Will the delay affect you?’ she asked when they were seated. She sounded Irish but her accent, with its slight drag on the vowels, suggested she had been living for some time in New York.
‘I’ve to attend a business meeting but it’s not until tomorrow,’ he replied. ‘What about you? Business or pleasure?’
‘I live in New York.’ She removed her jacket and hung it from the back of the chair. Her dress was sleeveless with a low V in front, the hem resting primly on her knees.
He stretched out his hand. ‘I’m Jake.’
‘I know who you are.’ She shook his hand and tilted her head, a half-smile tugging at her lips. ‘You’re the Jake Saunders from Shard.’
He felt a once-familiar and long-forgotten buzz of recognition.
‘I’m flattered that you remember.’
‘Oh, I do remember.’ She held out her arm, the inside exposed, and ran her fingers along the pale skin. ‘This is where you once signed your autograph.’
‘I’m sorry…’ He struggled for a name, an occasion, a place to remember her by. How many autographs had he signed? Thousands, probably, writing his name with a flourish for the young women who called out to him as they waited outside the pubs and clubs, their arms and autograph books an extension of their thrusting, nubile bodies. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to enlighten me.’