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.
Chapter 5
Nadine
A Shard retrospective. Our business is falling apart and Jake talks about offering fans a chance to relive their youth. At night when he’s not rehearsing he closes the door of his music room while I try and catch up on the backlog of work. We could be facing bankruptcy but his eyes glaze when I try to discuss this terrifying possibility. Ed Jaworski’s decision fell upon us like the sword of Damocles and we’re still reeling. We can take legal action, of course. Spend a fortune and face a team a STRUM lawyers across a courtroom. They will beggar us, rubbish our reputation, break us down before the first hearing has concluded.
Tonight, when he returned from band practice, he stood outside the door of my office. I heard his footsteps stop then move on. I heard the door of his music room close. We live in a house with many rooms, spacious and stylishly furnished, yet the two smallest rooms are the ones we use most frequently. Our refuge from a marriage we tolerate for everyone’s sake but our own.
We don’t fight anymore. Not the way we did in the early years, hurling insults without caring where they landed and forgiving each other in bed with the same pent-up ferocity. Now, we use evasion, a polite chilliness, reasoned discussions that respect each other’s point of view, even when it doesn’t tally with our own. I remember these youthful rows with a certain indulgent nostalgia. We were so aware of each other then, conscious of tinder boxes and the danger of a hapless remark. One particular row when I was expecting the twins stands out in my mind. It began as a casual discussion about what we would be doing if we were still free and single. I was lying on the sofa in the breakfast room in Sea Aster, heavily pregnant and Ali and Brian, still babies, were sleeping upstairs. My wish list included art college, living in flatland with Jenny, a gap year in Australia, Euro-railing through Europe; aspirations vague enough not to offend Jake. He was more specific. Recreational drugs and eventual rehab, all night parties, riding a Harley Davidson on Route 66, the rise and rise of Shard, and an occasional threesome. The latter was meant to be a joke, he insisted afterwards, but by then it was too late.
‘What a pity we didn’t make it a threesome at the time,’ I snapped. ‘Then, maybe, the other girl would have become pregnant instead of me.’
‘Just my luck,’ he retorted. ‘Think how wonderful my life would be if she’d been blonde, beautiful and sexy, instead of always moaning about her fucked-up marriage.’
‘Whose fucked-up marriage are we discussing?’ My anger heaved with resentment and the twins kicked frantically at my drum-stretched stomach. ‘You’re the one who feels trapped. You’re the one who can’t wait to take off on your Harley Davidson. If you’d known how to use a condom…’
‘Oh, here we go again.’ He hinged his arm exaggeratedly and studied his watch. ‘Now it’s time to bring up the subject of the defective condom ― ’
‘It wasn’t the condom that was defective….’
On and on we went, one word borrowing another until it seemed as if our bitterness was beyond healing. But it did heal and that night, before we slept, we promised each other that if we still felt trapped when the twins were eighteen and independent we’d give each other the freedom to pursue the life we would have led if we had not been so heedless.
I wonder if Jake ever remembers that hurt-filled night. I doubt it. Each row is a fresh one to him, unencumbered by the past whereas mine are weighted with history and etched on my memory cells. This is a female trait, he believes, rather like premenstrual tension or the ability to carry hot objects to the table without scalding my hands.
We left our twins at the airport last month. They never looked back. No last, lingering glances, their eyes eloquent with gratitude for eighteen years of nurturing and unconditional love. Instead, they looked ahead to their futures, unaware that their departure would snap the last fragile link holding their parent’s marriage together. I’ve poked at this truth, worried it like a dentist prodding a tooth nerve. I’ve waited for a reaction, the jerk of reality that signals pain. Nothing. Our marriage has a serene surface, a veneer that has taken us to the point where Jake seeks solitude in his music room rather than opening my door to say goodnight to me.
Ed Jaworski’s brutal decision has proved that a contract is not worth the paper it’s written on. Vows can be broken and the sky does not fall down. What I feel for Jake is affection and gratitude for the years we’ve shared. I remember what it was like in the beginning but that flame has cooled into ash. Only an odd spark reminds us of what we’ve lost… and how it all began.
I danced with Jenny, handbags at our feet, short skirts swirling over leggings, stonewashed denim jackets. We were seventeen years of age and dizzy with the wonder of it. The mirror ball spun a kaleidoscope of colour across our upturned faces. Moonflowers exploded, strobes pulsated, and I danced harder, my eyes swallowing the sight of him. His black hair streaked with blond, skin-tight jeans, leather vest — rangy and sexy and ready. Two years since we’d met in Monsheelagh but all that was behind me and I was living in the thrilling, exhilarating now of a new beginning.