Gerard Lyons tapped on his computer screen and repeated words like ‘insolvency’ and ‘repossession.’ Jake hoped desperately that he misunderstood what they were being told but one look at Nadine’s stricken face told him otherwise. Their house now belonged to the bank. They had offered it as collateral when they borrowed to expend Tõnality. There would be no extension on their loan. They should go quietly, their bank manager advised. No sense making a scene in front of their neighbours. Missed VAT repayments had been uncovered. An examiner was being appointed to run Tõnality and they were not allowed to set foot inside the premises.

The air seemed different when Jake emerged from the bank, stultifying and thick as soup. The ground tilted beneath him, at least that was how it seemed, and he was forced to hold onto the wall for support. Vertigo, it had happened to him on a few occasions and always at times of intense stress. As he staggered towards his car the trees lining the centre of the road appeared to move, the branches to embark on a mad can-can dance. He swallowed bile, forced himself to focus on the car parked in front of him. If he concentrated hard enough on that one spot the nausea would pass. Slowly the branches stopped swooping and his surroundings came into balance again.

‘Be careful what you wish for — you might just get it.’ His lips felt chapped, his mouth dry. ‘You have it now, Nadine.’ His voice was so hoarse that she had to lean towards him to hear. ‘No house. No company. No marriage. Everything we’ve achieved… all gone in a puff of smoke.’

Like a butterfly flapping its wings in a distant jungle, the reverberations of her decision had caused chaos. He knew he was being illogical but logical thought was impossible as he came face-to-face with his failure. She sat stiffly beside him, glassy tears sliding down her cheeks, and made no reply. A house of cards doesn’t fall slowly, Eleanor had said. Jake wondered why there was no sound, no crash or clatter as their lives collapsed around them.

Chapter 18

Nadine

Sea Aster is my salvation and my jail. No bars to keep me here but they exist, tough as steel and as unyielding. Having lost everything, we’re still in the palm of Eleanor’s hand, crushed tight by her determination, her will. But I can’t blame her for our recklessness, our over-borrowing, our pursuit of freedom. We did that all by ourselves.

The debts we built up were an amorphous blob until Gerard Lyons pulled the rug from under us. I’m horrified by the scale of what we owed – and how little we actually owned. Our cars have been repossessed and the only income we have is the inheritance Rosanna left us. It’s a small off-shore account but it will keep us going until we find our feet again.

We would be homeless except for Eleanor’s largess. I should be grateful. On my knees thanking her. She had the grace not to say, ‘I told you so’ but that doesn’t make any difference to how I feel.

We tossed a coin when we moved into Sea Aster to see who would occupy Apartment 2 on the ground floor. We both wanted it, particularly the breakfast room with its curving bay window overlooking the garden.

I lost the toss and climbed the stairs to Apartment 1 where the previous tenant wore black lace tights and kept cats with bowel problems. I’m convinced I can still smell them. Jake insists it’s my imagination. The apartment has been scoured, bleached and buffed, painted, redecorated, and a new bed installed. All traces of cats have been expunged and he shows no inclination to switch with me. Eleanor, having handed over the keys, has left us to our own devices. She has First Affiliation to run and it’s up to us to pick up the pieces of our shattered lives.

I awaken every morning with good intentions. Today I’ll sort out the attic where, on our arrival, we dumped the possessions we still actually owned. I’ll cut the grass, weed the flowerbeds, stamp some of my personality on my apartment. Instead, I sit at the window and stare for hours at the shifting moods of the estuary. When the spring tide overflows the shore, the swans swim with regal indifference along Mallard Cove. I envy their unconcern, their indifference to their sudden change of address. If only I could adjust so easily. I’ve come to believe I’m suffering from chronic fatigue.

‘You’re still in shock,’ Jenny reassures me every time we speak. ‘So much has happened so fast. You need time to absorb the changes. Find a job. It’ll keep you sane until you can move from Sea Aster and buy your cottage. Or is it a town house you want?’

‘What does it matter?’ I fight back the urge to weep. ‘I can’t afford a shoebox, let alone a cottage.’

‘Then rent,’ she advises me. ‘It’s no big deal. Do anything except stare at swans. Scrub floors, toss burgers. Otherwise, you’re going to sink into depression.’

‘I’ve sunk into it already.’

‘No, you haven’t. You’ve sunk into self-pity because things haven’t worked out the way you planned. Big difference. You and Jake are young enough to begin over. You have to get back on your feet and gain control over your life again.’

I blink back tears, wretched tears that make no difference no matter how many I shed. ‘All I can think about is how we’re still together but not… and all we’ve lost. Jenny, you’ve no idea what it’s like to lose everything.’

‘But you haven’t lost everything. You’ve lost possessions. You still have your family, your friends. Everything else can be regained in time or, maybe, you never needed all those possession in the first place.’

‘It’s the failure — ’

‘Failure, my foot. That’s an Irish concept. Over here we look upon failure as a learning curve. Onwards and upwards to the next stage.’

‘Tossing burgers?’

‘If it gives you a leg up, yes.’ For the first time my friend sounds impatient. I suspected a slight lack of sympathy when I told her the reason for ending our marriage. Jenny can understand adultery, violence, mental cruelty, alcohol and substance abuse. Even boredom, she admits, is grounds for such a sundering but she can’t get her head around the notion of ‘freedom.’ She makes it sound like a bauble with too much sparkle and I know she’s remembering her ex-partner Christopher, who stuck a farewell note about regaining his freedom to their fridge door with an I Love Vancouver magnet on the day before her thirty-eighth birthday. Timing was never Christopher’s strongest point.

‘How’s Jake?’ she asks.

‘Coping much better than I am. He’s clearing out the old barn and reforming Shard. They had some idea about playing a reunion gig but that bit the dust, along with everything else. Now he’s talking about a come-back launch for the band.’

‘Has Daryl still got the dreadlocks?’

‘A distant dream, Jenny. His baby daughter has more hair than he has.’

She fancied Daryl in those early Shard days. For a while I thought, maybe, but after Jake and I married she moved to Vancouver to study film.

‘And Hart?’ she asks.

‘He teaches yoga.’

‘Hart… you’ve got to be kidding.’ She laughs away her astonishment and says, ‘I thought he’d be pixilated in alcohol by now.’

‘He lives on alfalfa sprouts and bottled water.’

‘What about Bad Boy Barry?’

‘Bricklaying in Saskatchewan.’

‘I’m nearly afraid to ask about Reedy.’

‘He’s still the same.’

I asked him how his New York gig went when he came to Sea Aster to inspect the barn.

‘It was Boston,’ he replied. ‘Haven’t been to New York in years, more’s the pity. It’s a brilliant place to gig.’

I consider telling Jenny about that conversation. The fact that Jake lied about New York. But, maybe, he didn’t. Reedy gigs all over the place. Hard to keep tabs. Downstairs, Jake is hammering something. I never realised how much noise he makes. When we lived together his music was contained in a soundproofed room and the noises he made outside it were indistinguishable from the hubbub of our family. After they left, there was so much space in the house that our individual sounds lost their way back to us. Now, all I hear is him. Doors banging, his stereo blasting, footsteps stamping, chairs scraping, phone ringing. If I listen hard enough I’ll hear him turning in his sleep. His energy invades my space and is a constant affront to my lethargy. I’ve bought a cheap second-hand car but he spends most of his time working on a clapped-out band van he picked up on DoneDeal. It looks as if its next journey should be to the scrap yard but he’s intent on restoring it.