‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘I’m looking for Nadine Saunders.’

‘Do you mean Nadine Keogh?’

‘I guess I do.’ His startled laugh rang hollow. ‘Any idea where she is?’

‘She went out early.’

‘On her own?’

The woman pulled the edges of her cardigan over her breasts and narrowed her eyes. ‘Is that an appropriate question to ask?’

‘I’m her husband.’

‘Her husband…’ She seemed taken aback. ‘I didn’t realise…’

‘I just want to know if she’s okay.’

‘She on a project with a group from her college. A mini-bus picked her up. I’m Aurora Kent, a friend of hers.’

‘Any idea when she’ll be home?’ Jake loosened his grip on the railing.

‘She left very early so it could be soon. Would you like a cuppa while you’re waiting?’

He was surprised by the spaciousness of her container with its insulated walls and wooden floor. Angels stood, lay or stretched on shelves, pensive, meditative expressions, gossamer wings shimmering. The real ones were surrounding him, Aurora claimed, and working hard to heal his troubled aura. He asked if his aura was blue.

‘Light brown.’ She peered intently at him. ‘Are you confused about anything? Discouraged?’

‘Isn’t everyone?’

Aurora Kent was the kind of woman he would normally avoid like the plague but, two cups of tea later, he almost believed in the existence of her angels.

His phone rang.

‘Where the hell are you?’ Feral sounded querulous. Morning sickness again. ‘We’re ready to hit the road.’

‘It’s not goodbye,’ Aurora said when he was leaving. Her handshake was hard, her eyes bright with a hawkish concentration. Despite his protests she insisted on presenting him with an angel.

‘Archangel Michael,’ she said. ‘The Great Protector.’

‘I’m afraid I’m a sceptic when it comes to angels,’ he admitted.

‘That’s not an issue for Michael,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t discriminate.’

The little figurine had such a belligerent expression that Jake longed to fling it into the nearest bin. But Aurora’s kindness stalled the temptation and he placed it on the dashboard of his van.

Reedy drove them to the ferry. Archangel Michael, sword and shield at the ready, swayed on the dashboard and lulled Jake to sleep. Would Karin be on the ferry, watching from the deck as the coastline receded? Or had she already flown back to Dublin to plan her next tactic to drive him mad?

Samantha skyped the following night, hesitant, tearful, her expression doleful enough to suggest she was falling behind on her personal best.

‘How did the tour go, Dad?’

‘Good… good. What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve done something really stupid.’ She twirled a hank of hair around her finger. He thought of Nadine, the same nervous habit. Genetic impulses.

‘Promise you won’t get mad when you hear,’ she begged.

‘Spit it out, Samantha.’

‘Promise.’

‘Okay, I promise.’ He prepared himself for the worst. Banned substance. She had tested positive and was about to be expelled from Silver Ridge. Either that or she was pregnant. She had mentioned a shot putter she was seeing. Jake winced as he imagined a muscle-bound baby with a penchant for spinning in circles.

‘I’ve… em… actually… I’ve been emailing your girlfriend… only now I find out she’s not your girlfriend. Ali says she’s a psycho stalker and you hate her guts.’ Samantha rushed the final words together and stretched her lips, braced for his reaction.

He drew back from the screen, as if distance could deaden his daughter’s voice.

‘What were the emails about?’

‘Just stuff about Silver Ridge. She wanted information about the athletic scholarship because her friend’s son is thinking of coming here.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me she’d been in touch?’

‘Well, it’s a bit complicated.’ Samantha paused and drew a deep breath. ‘The first email she sent to me was a mistake. It was meant for you. She realised what she’d done immediately and sent another asking me to delete it without reading it.’

‘And did you?’

‘I didn’t have time. Not that I would have,’ she hurriedly added. ‘But I’d seen the photo by then.’

‘What photo?’

‘The one attached to the email. You and her in a bar. She told me you wanted to keep her a secret until you and Mum were properly divorced. She asked me not to mention anything about it.’

‘What personal information did she want?’

‘I didn’t realise it was personal, Dad. It didn’t seem important.’

‘Just tell me.’

‘Stuff about the gigs you were playing and Mum’s new place and your new phone number because she said she’d lost it and needed to get in touch with you when you were on tour.’ Samantha twisted her hair even more furiously. ‘God! I’m so stupid. I’d no idea she was lying but Ali says… Dad – you look like you’re going to strangle me.’

‘Samantha, leave your hair alone and listen carefully. I’m not angry with you but I will be if you don’t send any further email you get from her into spam.’ He leaned closer to the screen. ‘Spam… do you understand. And delete her from your address book immediately.’

His heart was pounding. Was this how a heart attack started? The feeling of suffocation, the heat across his forehead? The belief that his life was totally outside his control?

‘I’ve done so already.’ Samantha was on the verge of tears. ‘Dad. I’m really sorry. Are you going to be okay? She’s not a bunny boiler… is she?’

‘Nothing as dramatic as that, Samantha. She likes playing games, that’s all. She won’t bother you again but if, by chance, she does contact you, let me know at once, no matter what time it is. Is that clear? Let me talk to Sam.’

He repeated the same warnings to his monosyllabic son, whose vocabulary gene, Jake suspected, had been hijacked in the womb by his twin.

He switched off Skype and rang Karin. As he expected, her answering machine came on.

‘I know what you’ve been doing to Samantha,’ he said. ‘Your emails prove you’re a dangerous liar who’s stalking my family. If you contact her or any one of my children again I’m taking out an injunction against you. This is a warning, not an idle threat.’

She was probably listening, immune to his fury. Her emails to Samantha would have been as innocuously bland as the many texts she had sent to him.

Chapter 54

Nadine

Ali lives with Christine in a two-bed flat in Islington. Her bedroom is the width of my arms and the kitchen in Eyebright is bigger than the galley where she’s making lunch. She rang last night and asked to meet me after my art class finished. Christine is out and we’re alone. Something is wrong. Shadows under her eyes. Disturbed sleep and she’s probably prey to those voices in the small hours that distort whatever rationality she still possesses. I know all about them.

I haven’t seen her for a few weeks. She’s cancelled on two occasions when we were supposed to meet for coffee. She came to Wharf Alley a few times when I first moved in but not so much anymore. On her last visit, Aurora did an angel reading. Ali was subdued afterwards. Her radiant smile may fool others but not me. When we’re together she changes from giddy optimism to tearful admissions that Mark’s divorce is not a simple as she first believed. His wife invested money in Barnstormers. She was supportive when her husband was a struggling director. I have a deep sympathy for this faceless woman, whom he is betraying with my daughter. Ali must be patient and understanding; it will all work out in the end. He offers her these reassurances. I can offer a comforting arm but my words of caution are not welcome. She reserves her acting for the stage. I, as her mother, get the full brunt of her emotions.

I sink into a sofa with broken springs and indefinable stains I’ve no wish to analyse. She seems tense and preoccupied as she sets a low coffee table with fresh bread rolls and cheeses, some cooked chicken and appetising chutneys. I know better than to ask for information. Pull one way and Ali pulls in the other direction. She’ll get to the heart of the matter in her own good time. She avoids my eyes and passes the salad bowl, waits until I take what I need before she says, ‘I received a letter in the post yesterday.’