An arts programme plays on the car radio as I drive along Mallard Cove. A female poet describes how her latest bout of depression inspired her new collection of poetry. You and me both, I think. But I’m not depressed. Just… what? ‘Flat’ is the only word that comes to mind. Seeing life in a pale, predictive palette sounds more descriptive. The depressed poet would forgive the alliteration and approve.

Jake insists I’m suffering from empty nest syndrome. Four children leaving home in the space of two years does take some adjusting yet I’m glad for all of them. Proud that they’re following their dreams. That’s X-Factor-speak, but it’s true. Last year we said goodbye to Ali, our eldest, as she headed to London and a career on the stage. A month later Brian dropped out of art college and moved to the Dingle peninsula where he lives in the shadow of a mountain and crafts beautiful shapes. Then we said goodbye to our twins Sam and Samantha when they left for Silver Ridge University. The fact that we produced not one, but two elite athletes is a never-ending source of amazement to us. We were aware of their speed from the first time they stood upright and tottered forward on long, sturdy legs. Now, the years of training have paid off and they’ve started a four-year athletic scholarship in California.

The heron dips its beak and the water flurries as an unfortunate fish is snapped from life. Triumphantly, its supper assured, the heron lifts its broad wings and flies away. Herons have no need for monogamy. Jenny made a nature documentary about them once. They mate to breed, good and dutiful parents, sharing incubation and feeding. But when their chicks are independent, ready to take their own paths through life, the parents return to their solitary vigils. To their solitary freedom.

The radio presenter introduces a travel writer who has just launched a book about his travels in Papua New Guinea. Instantly, Karin Moylan comes to mind… again. Ants on my skin, heart lurching. Is this what sufferers of post-traumatic stress experience when the past whizzes like a bullet through their memory?

I meet her mother occasionally, and always by accident. Joan Moylan is polite and sober yet I still visualise her stretched on a sofa or in bed, the duvet drawn tight, her gaze unfocused, the smell of stale alcohol on her breath. Sometimes, when it’s impossible to avoid speaking, we hold brief conversations about the weather and the price of groceries and how the cost of property has gone beyond ridiculous. We never talk about that summer in Monsheelagh, yet it’s moving in slow motion in front of our eyes. No wonder we hurry from each other in mutual relief.

I ring Jake when I return home but he’s not picking up. New York time means he’s probably still in meetings with Ed Jaworski. I detest Ed, with his phallic cigars and New York abrasiveness, but he’s the reason Tõnality changed from being a moderately successful supplier of musical instruments into the European distributors for STRUM. It’s a far cry from the early days when Jake worked from the barn in Sea Aster and Tõnality just consisted of a few guitars and drums for sale or hire. His brief fame with Shard — the band that almost made it internationally — had given him a certain cachet within the music industry, especially among the up-and-coming young bands who hoped to go one step further and actually make it. Within a few years he was able to move to Ormond Quay in the heart of the city. Tõnality became the place for young musicians to hang out, to check the guitars, have a roll on the drums, a tinkle on the piano. I joined him when the twins started school and took over the marketing side of the business. We set up a coffee bar and held open mic nights, impromptu music sessions. And that’s how we would have continued if we hadn’t met Ed Jaworski at a trade fair and took on the STRUM brand of saxophones, recorders, trumpets, ukuleles and mandolins. We expanded from our cramped city premises to the Eastside Business Quarter with its brash, modern offices and spacious warehouse. I can park here and move without fear of bumping into guitars but I still miss the sway of the Liffey outside the window, the footsteps of passing pedestrians stirring the heartbeat of the city.

Tonight I eat well. A steak and salad, two glasses of wine. I enter my home office and wait for Jake to ring. I switch on my laptop and bring up the new marketing plan for STRUM. The demarcation line between home and work has become increasingly blurred these days and this office is as cluttered as the one in Tõnality.

It’s after eleven and there’s still no word from Jake. I shower and slip on my pyjamas, apply night cream. The lines around my eyes look deeper, more ingrained. Laugh lines, as they’re euphemistically called. I see nothing funny about them. They’re chipping away at my youth when I still have to discover what it’s like to be young and carefree. Why hasn’t he rung? He knows how anxious I am about his meeting with Ed. This recession is relentless and Ed will be disappointed with the latest STRUM figures. They are within the agreed growth margin but Ed expects more. The concept of squeezing blood from a stone is not something he understands.

My phone is out of charge. No wonder Jake hasn’t been able to get through. I ring him on the landline. Evening time in New York and he’s heading out for a meal. He sounds rushed, his phone on speaker. His echoing tone fills me with alarm.

‘What’s wrong, Jake?’

‘I’ve been trying to ring you all afternoon,’ he says. ‘Where were you?’

I explain about Sea Aster and my phone being out of charge but I sense he’s not listening.

‘How did the meeting with Ed go?’ I ask.

‘I’ll tell you about it when I’m home,’ he replies.

‘Tell me now,’ I demand. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.’

‘Have we lost the STRUM account?’

His silence confirms my worst fears. My mind goes into overdrive, calculating lost business, lost reputation, lost everything we’ve struggled so hard to achieve.

‘But why, Jake? Our sales figures are bang on target.’

‘He’s pulling out of our contract in case this recession affects the brand. He says it’s nothing personal.’

‘But that’s ridiculous. He can’t break our contract because he thinks there could be a slowdown in business.’

‘We’ll fight this all the way.’ Jake sounds too hearty, too confident.

‘You know what that will entail. We can’t afford a long, drawn-out legal battle.’

‘Look, Nadine, I’m heading out for a bite to eat and I’m exhausted. STRUM is not the be all and end all of our company. We’ve other equally strong brands and we’ll acquire more. Right now, all I want to do is wind down for a few hours and get my head together. We’ll talk about everything tomorrow when I’m home. Try not to worry. With or without STRUM, we’ll get through this crisis.’

He’s closing down the conversation and there’s nothing I can do except agree that we’ll cope, as we always do, and survive. ‘Enjoy your meal, Jake. I’ll pick you up at the airport tomorrow.’

Distance helps us to pretend. We’re unable to look into the whites of each other’s eyes and see our panic reflected there. But there’s something else on his mind. I sense his hesitation before he says goodbye. I can always tell. We’re capable of simultaneous thoughts, which we often speak aloud in the same instant or exclaim, ‘That’s exactly what I was going to say.’ The twins also have the same capacity for synchronised expression, but that’s to do with a split zygote whereas Jake and I have simply developed a hybrid mentality.

Chapter 4

Jake

He arrived before her and took a seat at the bar adjoining the restaurant. A pianist in an embossed, velvet jacket played softly on a grand piano. A candelabra blazed on top of the piano and orchids in a moon-shaped vase emitted a faint scent of vanilla. Karin Moylan entered shortly afterwards, aware but indifferent to the eyes that followed her as she walked towards him. Shrine was her favourite restaurant in New York, she told him as they sipped an aperitif. Her dress was black and figure-hugging, accessorised by an elaborately coiled blue necklace.