‘I’ll be waiting for you.’

Chapter 50

Nadine

Tears roll down Eleanor’s cheeks when she sees me. Her mouth moves but she’s unable to speak. She’s silent for the first time since I’ve known her. Helpless, silent and scared, my poor, bewildered mother-in-law has suffered an ischemic stroke. Hopefully, there’ll be no lasting damage but looking at her lying there it’s hard to equate her with the woman she was. I want her back: whole, healthy, bossy and insufferable. She’s a warrior and that determination will bring her through. I tell her this as I sit beside her bed. The need for Jake to be on standby in case of a crisis has passed but I’m only allowed a brief time with her. I’m not sure she recognises me or, if she does, how quickly she will forget me when I leave.

He met me at the airport. He was exhausted, older looking, his hair greying. When did that happen? He opened his arms to me. I ran towards him and we hugged like old friends, not lovers, but it was good to feel his familiar embrace. He’d parked the Shard band wagon on the roof of the car park. I noticed the logo. Designed by Feral’s wife, he said. It lacks the eye-catching power of the previous one but neither of us make mention of this fact.

‘How long will you stay?’ he asks when we leave the hospital.

‘Until Sunday.’

‘I appreciate that.’

We are once again on the bridge, holding our breath in case it cracks beneath us.

We stop to shop in The Pavilions. This is the first time we’ve shopped together since we moved into Sea Aster. But we’re not really together, as our separate shopping trollies signify. We head off in different directions but keep meeting in the same aisles, exchanging strained smiles and making a ‘fancy seeing you here’ jokes. We queue together at the check-out. I take sneak peeks into his trolley to check if his taste buds have changed. The contents look familiar, the usual staples. Nothing that suggests his appetite has been influenced by her. Karin. My teeth clamp on her name but we never speak it. She or her, that’s our reference point.

When we return to Sea Aster I read the feature in Core. I remember Jimmy French. Weasel eyes and fingers stained with nicotine. He was a cypher for this sensationalist piece of journalism, nothing more than that.

Jake makes our evening meal and talks throughout. This loquaciousness is new. It worries me. He never talked for talking’s sake, and, now, he skirts around the main subject. He drinks too much wine and it allows him to finally show me the drawings she did for First Affiliation.

When I was seven months pregnant on the twins I went into premature labour. The urge to save them was the most primal emotion I’ve ever experienced. They were born after an emergency caesarean section and, afterwards, looking at them in their incubators, I was filled with the same joy and unconditional love I experienced when Ali and Brian had been laid in my arms. That same protective love surges over me when I pick up my phone and ring Karin Moylan.

She doesn’t seem surprised to hear my voice. Has she been waiting for this moment, knowing we’d face each other sooner or later? She suggests we meet tomorrow and take afternoon tea in the Westbury Hotel. What a novel idea. Business affairs are sorted out over lunch. Affairs of the heart belong to candle-lit dinners but afternoon tea is a civilized ritual and, so, we will behave accordingly. But I’m a lioness whose cubs have been threatened and civility is a luxury I can’t afford.

Elegant armchairs are arranged around tables laden with tiered cake stands and plates of finger sandwiches. She’s seated when I arrive, her legs crossed, her hands joined and resting on the white tablecloth. Demure is a word that comes to mind until I look into her eyes and see the glitter. It’s hatred, disguised under a cataract of guile. But I recognise it, embrace it. The past does not heal. That’s the cruellest myth of all. It lies in abeyance until time pulls the trigger on memory. Three six nine, the goose drank wine… the words beat a rhythm in my brain. I remember us kneeling on my bed, hands clapping, challenging each other to be the first to miss the beat… our hands moving faster, faster… frantic and furious like the beat of my heart. I resist the urge to run and sit down opposite her in a soft armchair. My neck is damp and the flush that rushes to my face is, I hope, invisible behind the layer of makeup I applied before I left Sea Aster.

‘I’ve already ordered,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I’ve an appointment in an hour.’

As if on cue a waiter arrives with the afternoon tea selection. The clinking of cups and plates makes conversation impossible for the next few moments. Jake has told me about the van. My teeth water as I imagine the gouging she did with her dainty hands. I hear the screech of a knife on metal, the hiss of tyres imploding. Here, in this muted atmosphere where footsteps are silenced on thick carpets and conversations murmur, I want to scream and shatter the illusion that we are having coffee and a catch-up chat about old times.

‘How is Eleanor?’ she asks when the waiter departs. ‘I heard about her stroke on the news.’ She pours tea but does not attempt to fill my cup. I do likewise.

‘She’s making good progress.’

We both choose a sandwich from the selection. The thought of eating makes my stomach churn but I will play this game to its final move.

‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ she says and sinks her teeth into tuna and sweetcorn.

‘I’m sure you are relieved,’ I reply. ‘It would be a heavy burden to carry if you were responsible for her death.’

She finishes the sandwich and dabs her mouth with a white linen napkin.

‘Her death?’ she says. ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ Her head tilts, inquisitively, and her expression implies that what I have to say is of the utmost importance.

‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m stating facts. You gave that information about Jake to Jimmy French, either directly or through Liam Brett. You’ve had your revenge and Eleanor almost died because of it. Jake has told me everything. This has to stop now.’

The bracelet on her wrist slides forward as she takes an éclair from the cake stand. She bites daintily into the pastry, no crumbs or splodges of cream on her lips. She could always eat with style, nothing dribbling on her chin as she nibbled sandwiches oozing with mayonnaise and tomatoes on Monsheelagh Bay.

‘I’ve read that article.’ She lays the half-eaten éclair on the plate. ‘Did Jimmy French write one word that was untrue? Your mother-in-law believes in perception. No wonder she collapsed when she was forced to confront the truth.’

Her composure is intact, her legs crossed at the ankles. She takes another bite of the éclair, her throat hollowing as she swallows. ‘You’ve just made an appalling accusation with absolutely no foundation. Jake told me you were neurotic and I believed him. Not because he said it, men always blame neuroticism when their wives step out of line, but because I saw it at first hand when you were young. It seems that nothing has changed.’

I’m afraid to reach for a cake in case my hands tremble and, so, I link my fingers and rest them on my lap. ‘If you attempt to contact any member of my family again I’ll ―’

‘Your family?’ For an instant I think she will lose her composure. An image of glass shattering comes to mind but she smiles, as if amused by a joke she’s no intention of sharing.

‘What about my family?’ she asks. ‘Did you think I’d forgotten?’ She places the half-eaten éclair on the side plate. Her teeth have made indents in the soft choux pastry and she now intends to savage me. ‘You were responsible for everything that happened on that holiday.’