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.