It’s hard to remember the person I was then. The fear and self-loathing that consumed me. Only for those faint scars, I’d never believe I’d touched such a destructive chord in myself.

‘What kind of pressure?’ he asks.

‘Bullying. There were girls involved. Karin Moylan was one of them. The mind games she played almost destroyed me. Don’t let her do the same to you.’

He looks shocked but also understanding when I tell him about the cuttings, the savage and painful path I took. I’ll strip my soul if it stops him welcoming her into his life. I watched my children like a hawk during their teenage years for signs of insecurity, of stealth and secret hurts. But they are brash tiger cubs, open and unafraid to pursue their dreams. When I leave in the morning I can tell it’s okay. Karin Moylan will no longer be welcome in Slí na hAbhann.

It’s late in the afternoon when I reach Sea Aster. Winter has taken its toll on Mallard Cove. The van judders over potholes, the wheels skid on perished seaweed. I drive slowly, nervous in case I get a puncture. It’s quiet on the estuary, too cold for the usual Saturday family excursions to feed the swans.

I unlock the front door of apartment 1 with the new key Jake posted to me. He collects my post every day and sends on what’s important. The rest is junk mail which he’s piled neatly on the hall table. A note from him lies on top. He left a bottle of wine and fresh food in my fridge.

I open windows and allow the breeze from the estuary to flow through the rooms. I heat the soup and make a pasta. The evening passes quickly. I need to pack even less than I thought. Coping in small spaces is habit-forming. My bedroom looks the same as I remember. But appearances are deceptive. Karin Moylan was here. I sense her presence. She trawled through my possessions before she climbed into the attic to destroy my paintings.

Jake has sorted out the clutter. Everything is packed and stacked, each container labelled, and ready to be stored in a warehouse until needed.

I sleep fitfully and awaken, my mind sharp with images of her smile as she flatters Brian, her hands caressing the sensuous glazes on the bowls and ceramic box she bought from him.

When morning arrives, I write a note to thank Jake for the food and wine. An envelope lies in the hall. I didn’t notice it last night and post is not delivered on Sundays. My name and the Sea Aster address are printed on the front. There’s no postmark. She had been here during the night.

I slide open the flap and draw out a photograph. They are together, her and Jake, staring cheek to cheek into the camera. It’s a close-up selfie. Lipstick on Jake’s cheek, his lob-sided grimace, as if he’s been caught unaware. Her glistening, white smile. When was it taken? I find the answer on the bar receipt she stapled to the photograph.

I load the last of my possessions into the van. Before I leave I tear the photograph into small pieces and replace them in the envelope. I leave it where it belongs, on the hall table with the key and the junk mail. A jigsaw for Jake to solve.

The wind is brisk, the clouds scudding above the estuary. A lone windsurfer, rigid as an exclamation mark, shoots across the water. Canoeists in colourful safety jackets flash their paddles in rhythmic movements as they approach the shore. Alaska stripped the resin from my marriage, separated me from the glue of a shared life. When I drive from Sea Aster I know I’ll never return.

Jake rings when I’m on the ferry. I see his name on the screen and turn off my phone. He’s a liar who sleeps with the woman who slashed my paintings. Who, even now, all those years later, seeks to sink a blade into my flesh.

‘Ring me back, Nadine.’ He leaves a message on my answering machine. ‘I need to talk to you immediately.’ His tone is authoritative, not apologetic as I would have expected. Its urgency alarms me. I lean into the buffeting wind and ring him from the deck. He answers immediately. He’s found the photograph, joined to dots, so to speak.

‘Why didn’t you let me know you received it?’ he asks.

‘Let you know what? That you lied about not seeing her again?’

‘I didn’t lie – ’

‘Are you telling me the camera never lies?’

‘Of course the camera lies. It can orchestrate whatever it likes. Anything connected with her, no matter how slight it seems, you must talk to me.’

‘She’s been to Brian’s pottery twice.’

‘Twice.’ His sharpness adds to my fear.

‘Did you know?’

‘I knew she was there once.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I was trying to keep things under control.’ His breath is hard, heavy.

‘What else has she done? You must tell me everything, Jake.’

I hear about his discovery in her apartment, the pieces from our lives she assiduously assembled in my son’s beautiful ceramic box.

‘You’ve no idea how sorry I am…’ he attempts another one of those hopeless apologies.

‘That doesn’t matter now.’

The ground is shifting, draining my bitterness away. Whatever has gone before is of no importance. Karin Moylan is spreading her spores through our family. Must I wait helplessly until she strikes again or confront her? The ferry churns the water, distancing us.

When I return to Wharf Alley I google her. Kingfisher Graphics. I ring her number and listen to her voice on the answering machine.

Hi there…thank you for calling Kingfisher Graphics. I’m still enjoying the weekend and am unable to talk to you right now.’ Her laughter is dark, throaty. I imagine how Jake would have responded, charmed by its contagious inflections. ‘Please leave your number and I’ll ring you first thing in the morning.

I hang up without speaking. Soon there will be a reckoning.

Chapter 49

Jake

Five musicians standing on a roof. Arms akimbo, folded, plunged in pockets or suggestively clasping a hipster belt. Brooding expressions. It was all there. The five members of Shard staring from the cover of Core. Jake bought the magazine in Malahide Village and entered a café. He had been opposed from the beginning to the band featuring in the magazine but Mik Abel had overrode his objections.

‘It’s free publicity,’ he insisted when Jake argued that Core was a tabloid rag. ‘They’re interested in the band’s progress. Otherwise they wouldn’t have approached us. We can’t afford to look a gift horse in the eye.’

‘Mouth,’ said Jake. ‘You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth but on this occasion we can.’

‘No, we can’t,’ Mik replied. ‘I’ll look a gift horse in the arse if it gives the band free exposure. Your personal view of Core is not shared by its readership which is massive.’

Last week a photographer had arrived to Sea Aster astride a Harley Davidson and introduced herself as Lucky. She chose the barn as the backdrop location for the photo shoot. The weathered stone walls and deep-set windows would add an uncompromising grimness to the photographs, she believed, but then she changed her mind and ordered them up on the roof. Jake felt ridiculous as he folded his arms and stared into the camera. He was getting too old for such posturing but Lucky refused to release them until she was satisfied she had achieved the perfect alignment.

Jimmy French, the journalist from Core, was a small, wiry man who studied Jake through raddled eyelids and asked a few basic questions about the band. His lack of interest was obvious as he twisted his shoe on the butt of a cigarette and drove away. He left Jake with an unsettling feeling that this was not going to end well.

Lucky’s cover shot could not be faulted. The band looked menacing and rebellious, apart from Feral, who could usually brood on command but seemed dreamily preoccupied. He ordered an Americano and opened the magazine. His misgivings rushed to the fore when he turned the pages and saw the ominous headline. His unease turned into dismay as he read through the feature.