They would perform the songs that made them famous and introduce Jake’s newer songs, dust them off and bring them to life. Reedy claimed they would need a boot camp to kick them into shape if they were to appear in public again and they now rehearsed three nights a week in the basement of a recording studio. Now, two months in, they had formed into a tight, cohesive unit. The rehearsals were chaotic, argumentative and fun. Jake had forgotten what it was like to have fun. Forgotten what it was like to be the singer in a band.

Tonight, before he left for band practice, Nadine made a comment about fiddling while Rome burned. She said it tersely, pointedly. He hoped she would be in bed when he returned. Band practice had gone on longer than anticipated and he had wanted to spend an hour in his music room before calling it a night. Reedy, whose musical opinion he respected, liked ‘The Long Goodbye’ but believed the arrangement needed further development. He was walking towards his music room when he noticed a light under the door of Nadine’s home office. He had hesitated outside. He should go in and say goodnight, face her accusatory gaze, her acerbic comments. But the composition was inside his head, guitars strumming, drums drumming, a keyboard adding depth to the arrangement. He needed to pin it down before it evaporated under the harsh reality of talking about Tõnality, which was all he and Nadine ever did these days.

His phone bleeped when he was in his music room. A text from Karin with an attached photo. She was on a film set, sitting on the steps of a trailer while people in Regency costumes walked past her. Busy day on the set, she texted. How did band practice go?

He heard a door slam, Nadine’s footsteps on the stairs. He should have mentioned Karin as soon as he returned from New York. It would have been so easy when she picked him up at the airport. Guess who I met on the flight… an old friend… Karin Moylan sends her best. But he said nothing and now it was impossible to drop her name casually into their conversation. She was his secret and her importance was growing in proportion to the clandestine nature of their texts.

Her texts came every day, usually accompanied by whimsical photographs of New York, an opera she had attended, a flash concert in a shopping centre, skyscrapers lit at night on Fifth Avenue, an image of her jogging in Central Park, her skin glowing, her nipples straining against her sweat top. She never mentioned Nadine, nor did he. But what pithy, witty response could he text in return? Cash flow problems and an irate bank manager? The kiss of death, Jake reckoned. His own responses were equally bland and light-hearted.

New York was his coded word for her.

Is New York awake yet?

What’s happening in New York right now?

Raining here, pining for some New York sunshine.

Wish I was in New York and could stay there forever.

He had deleted that last text, its double entendre too blatant for anyone’s eyes but his own. She had become his buffer zone, his cloud nine, his fantasy against his daily grind of cancelled orders and lies about the cheque being in the post. He should buy a new phone with a secret number. The thought that he was becoming a cliché appalled him. Nadine would never check his phone and what harm if she did? The texts were harmless, mildly flirtatious and, like Shard, a welcome distraction from running his troubled company.

Nadine was in bed and awake when he lay down beside her. She was still annoyed with him. He could tell by her eyes. The chill factor.

‘Sorry I was so late getting back from band practice,’ he said.

‘I thought you might come into the office and acknowledge my existence.’

‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

‘Of course you didn’t.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Analyse the meaning yourself.’ She turned away from him and pressed her face into the pillow. ‘It’s late and I’m tired. Goodnight.’

Chapter 7

Nadine

Smart Art’s is crowded tonight but Art has kept our usual table for us. Friday night is our wind down time, pizzas and beer on our way home from work. We made a rule when we started this weekly ritual that we would not discuss Tõnality. We keep to this decision, even though it’s uppermost in our minds. We talk about the children, although we both agree we must stop calling them ‘children.’ They’re adults, eligible to vote, eligible to marry, eligible to die for their country, if called upon to do so. But what do we call them instead? We give up on that one and talk about Ali’s disappointment when she didn’t receive a phone call after her last audition. I read out a text from Samantha informing us that Sam had beaten his personal best and we discuss Brian’s new pottery collection. It’s noisier than usual in the pizzeria. I ask Jake if we can break the taboo and discuss Tõnality. He sighs, shrugs.

‘If you must.’

A man at the next table starts singing ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’. He’s too drunk to remember the words and Jake rubs his hand across the back of his neck.

‘This recession could ruin us.’ I raise my voice as Jake leans forward to hear me. ‘We should sell Tõnality while it’s still viable. Let’s take a look again at those offers we received last year and seriously consider the best one.’ I look away as his eyes widen, their greyness exaggerated by the flickering nightlight on the table.

‘What’s brought this on?’ His astonishment is not surprising. I’ve leaped in at the deep end without testing the shallows first but I feel reckless tonight.

‘Think of it, Jake. We sell the company to Paul Rowan or Susanna Cox. Both offers were good. Then we sell the house.’

‘Sell the house?’ His eyelids flicker. ‘How many beers have you had?’

‘Just the one.’

‘I’d hate if you’d had more. You’re talking absolute nonsense.’

‘Just hear me out. If we sell them both we can pay off our debts and you’ll be free to do what really matters…like Shard.’

‘Is this about the reunion gig?’ He’s instantly on the defensive. ‘I know you resent the time…’

‘I don’t resent it at all.’ I cut across him. ‘I’ve always felt responsible for the band’s breakup. I’m glad you’re seeing the lads again.’

‘What is it, then?’ he asks. ‘We’re managing to keep our heads above water and you love that house.’

‘Not any more. It’s like a mausoleum since the kids left.’

‘But they’ll come back to live there,’ he says. ‘At least the twins will when they finish college. And Ali and Brian will come home for holidays.’

‘The twins won’t be back here for another four years. We’ve no idea where they’ll decide to live. Ali and Brian have never settled in Bartizan Downs. Where they stay for their holidays is not going to bother them.’

He knows I’m right. When we first moved into Bartizan Downs they were thrilled with their spacious bedrooms, the fully equipped gym in the basement, the home cinema and games room. Such giddy excitement until the novelty wore off and they returned to a sprawled position in front of the television. They demanded a yearly subscription to the Oakdale Leisure Centre where they could link up with their friends. When it was time to leave, they did so without regret. Like Eleanor and Sea Aster, they’ve never considered it their family home.

‘I’ve been thinking a lot lately about our… our….’

This is the moment to say it. Our marriage is over. We should buy two separate houses. A mews for Jake. Somewhere close to the city with space at the back to open the record studio he often talks about. I’d like something in the country, an old, converted schoolhouse, perhaps, or a cottage with a river running through my back garden.

‘Our what? Jake is waiting for me to continue. ‘Have you found something else you want to sell?’ He smiles grimly at his own joke but his gaze is wary.