Shane’s lips straightened. So, she was going to use that against him.

  Jenny said, ‘Your life is not about you only. It’s about me too. This is our chance to step away from my family. We can, finally, while still in our forties, be free.’

  ‘There’s nothing more boring than being a reaction to your parents, Jenny.’

  She looked at him, trying to be hurt, but it was obvious that she knew he was right.

  It was true that, unlike Jenny, Shane had never been in line to inherit a few million. Instead, Shane had inherited his father’s lawn mower. Also true, he had not been raised by pushy parents with big dreams who had pictured their son as a future prime minister. Instead, they’d tried to keep his expectations low; not because they disapproved of dreams but to avoid the inevitable disappointments that people of their rank – occupiers of the middle pews, halfway up the parish church – were destined to endure. His parents had been ruled by the pragmatism of three Irish recessions and had pictured their son as a diligent office worker with a good pension and a serviceable mortgage. But he had done better than that. Eventually.

  Shane threw back the second whiskey; it followed the first, weaving its warm path down Shane’s gullet to bond with something inside. His synapses were fizzling with the certitude of it, like an old dependable lover artfully slipping him a hotel key card. There it was – clarity. I’m not accepting this. I’m going to find Otto and get our money back. Right now. All of this will not even be a footnote in my life. He looked at his wife and tried to understand how they’d got to this place, but couldn’t do it. I wanted Jenny from the moment I saw her in college. I wanted her when she didn’t even know who I was. Back then, she had looked like the perfect daddy’s girl whose father had decided that, although he couldn’t protect her from the world, he could gold-plate it. But there had also been a vulnerability to her, like she was the type of young woman who would easily get lost in crowds. When he’d discovered exactly who she was, or rather, whose sister she was, it hadn’t seemed like bad luck, but rather like fate. He remembered calling into Jenny’s house to ask her out. Christ, the balls it had taken. The sheer nerve.

  He was going to need those qualities again.

  18

  Twenty-Five Years Ago

  Shane pressed the doorbell and waited and waited and suddenly, Lorcan Donaldson was before him, revealing all his height, brawn and style. Even his shoelaces looked pressed. There was no doubt he was the dog that always ate first. Yet, at the same time, there was an air of desolation about him – as if, even then, he knew that a time of personal disaster was inevitable, and rapidly approaching.

  Lorcan brought him through an entrance as palatial as that of a Dublin museum. Inside, the broad hallway retained the atmosphere of a bygone age. Lining the walls were side tables holding ornate lamps and a sofa with gold leaf finish. The large staircase led to a spread of tiger skin nailed to the wall. It was so far away from his own house, that Shane may as well have landed on another planet. He listened and heard the silence, despite the fact that there were five people in the residence – Jenny, Hugh, Joan and their parents. There was definitely a stay-in-your-room, Agatha Christie-type vibe going on.

  Resting on the hall sofa was a silver tray containing a platter of half-eaten crackers and cheese, along with assorted dips and accoutrements. Without thinking, Shane picked up the salt shaker from the tray. It was heavy and the lesson it taught was that money weighed a lot. It was here to last. He thought of the salt shaker in his own home. It was red, plastic and cracked. He noticed Lorcan looking at him and immediately put it back down. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Nice.’ Lorcan grunted and gestured for him to enter the first of the three hallway doors.

  Shane arrived in a large drawing room with chandeliers, bunched velvet curtains and antique furniture. His own home’s entire footprint could’ve been contained within this room. Watercolours of the Irish landscape hung from the walls and a turf fire glowed in the huge hearth. It was the first time he’d come across such wealth, and just standing there he realised that real money doesn’t walk and talk – it fucking nukes.

  He’d gambled that Hugh wouldn’t be in; but there the wanker was – and immediately he began mouthing off. For a moment, Shane wondered if he’d made a colossal error. He wondered if he should just cross the room and shut him up again. But a moment passed, and Shane knew that he didn’t want to feel Hugh’s flesh once more breaking open under his fist; because he reckoned that this time it would feel good – like the second time he did coke and had known that, if he did it a third time, he’d probably never quit.

  Instead, Shane stood there and took it from this over-privileged arsehole who had gone to a school that actually had an official anthem, which everyone sang proudly in Latin; this dickhead who believed he was tough and hard because he was a great out-half. Yet Shane knew that, if Hugh had been obliged to go to his school, then he would’ve been bullied into hanging himself within a week.

  But taking it off Hugh didn’t matter, because right there in front of him was Jenny, sitting on the floor, back against the sofa, dressed in a Gucci fake-retro suede mini and an expensive, high-necked and antique boho lace blouse. Her legs were long and tanned, her neck slim and delicate within a noose of shells, a perfect Natasha, straight from the pages of War and Peace. Her bare feet could have come from a Vogue manicure feature, her painted toes like the keys of some unfeasibly elegant instrument. Shane simply stared at that banging body, that was non-stop worked-out muscle, her thighs that looked like machine parts visible beneath her mini. This was the Jenny he had tried not to stare at in lectures; whom he’d followed across the campus.

  Shane charted the flow of skin from bare toes to where her miniskirt had become hitched up to expose half an inch of pale buttock. The sight inked up his mind, reassuring him that he had been correct when he sensed something dark about her; a darkness which suited her better than her nice exterior. It made her more interesting. After all, no one ever sold their soul to an angel.

  19

  Now

  4.12 pm: Jenny watched as Shane rounded the desk, buttoning his jacket. She asked, ‘What are you considering doing?’

  ‘I’m considering failure and the means and ways not to repeat it.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To make this right.’ He spoke as if each word cost him blood.

  ‘But. But what are you—’

  ‘What am I going to do? I’m going to get our cheque back and then I’m going to fuck Otto with the biggest, baddest stick I can find.’

  ‘But…’ Her husband was making all her sentences begin with ‘but’. ‘That’s insane. This isn’t you. You never—’

  ‘I just got out of hospital after somebody died in front of my face after trying to kill me. My wife has put all my life’s savings, behind my back, on a puffed-up bet. And then Otto – her glorified bookie – stood here in this very room, only two hours ago, acting like my best friend, and yet knowing that he already had our money… But wait. Joan mentioned twenty-five years ago. What has twenty-five years ago got to do with any of this?’

  ‘Twenty-five years ago is…’ She needed to think quickly. ‘When we started going out with each other. Remember? Mum and Joan use it as a point of reference for when my life went awry. Joan was fucking with you. Looking for an opportunity to try and blame you for me being disinherited. Just typical Joan behaviour – why merely present her big exposé of the investment, when she can press your buttons, too?’

  ‘But how does Joan know about the investment? And your mother, too?’

  Jenny took a step back. ‘What do you mean?’

  She knew exactly what he meant.

  ‘How are Joan and your mother in a position to tell me about this?’

  ‘Mum… her friends… two or three of them are involved in the investment. Or their husbands are. So, she must’ve heard from them. Through the grapevine that…’ Jenny could feel her confidence swell with each new piece of fiction. ‘That we were investing in it, too.’ Jenny nodded with satisfaction. It seemed believable to her, aside from the fact that she’d just made it all up.

  What Joan and her mother knew and were threatening to reveal was, unbelievably and frighteningly, much more significant than any of this.

  Jenny took Shane’s hand between both of hers. She remembered holding her father’s hands like this. He hadn’t been a vain man, but he did like to pamper himself with a weekly manicure and between appointments would be constantly oiling his fingers, because they were always so rough and dry. Jenny would tease him. ‘Daddy, don’t touch me. You’re like a lizard!’

  ‘Shane, I’m sorry.’

  He spoke slowly, clearly and patiently. ‘You’ve disappointed me.’

  Jenny exhaled. Her father had said that to her, and it had broken her heart. Her mother had said that to her, and it had broken her spirit. But never her husband. Never her best friend. Then again, the fact is that everyone disappoints, eventually.

  Shane left the study and moved through the hallway. The front door opened, and she waited for it to slam. It closed with barely a sound.

  Next to the window was a large corner beanbag where Shane would often flop in the evening, listening to music or reading or looking at the people drifting by. Standing next to the beanbag, Jenny watched Shane walk away, his jacket suspended from a crooked finger. She had believed their relationship was special, different, that it could withstand anything. All lovers do – and most lovers are wrong.

  Jenny surveyed the study, full of her sister’s atoms and her husband’s anger. Red wine – that fighting fuel for couples nearing their end – still dribbled down the hardbacks. Her plan to get the house was in ruins. She had been determined – determined – that it would work. It would be infuriating – even heart-breaking – if there wasn’t something bigger, something much worse, closing in on her. There it was – that feeling – the one she had refused to pay attention to over the last few weeks; the feeling that her steady, simple-enough life was about to get blown to bits; as was bound to happen sooner or later to anyone who tried to live a steady, simple-enough life.

  Jenny turned away from her husband’s desk. She glanced at the framed photograph of her father on the cabinet. His eyes fixed their gaze to hers and they wouldn’t let go, even when she continued further into the room. The antique clock next to it read 4.20 pm.

  Jenny sighed and readied to steel herself. There was only one course of action. It was time to confront her mother; not just about being evicted from Clareville but about the contents of her text. Incredibly, her mother had referred to what had happened twenty-five years ago. But that was what Vera never talked about – even though, by just not talking about it, she managed to make sure that it was always there in the room between them, like oxygen.

  Jenny focused hard on what she was about to face. My past will not steal my present. Whatever Vera was up to, whatever she wanted, whatever she was planning, she was spinning her web very cleverly. Here I am – caught between Scylla and Charybdis.

  She took up the wine bottle and necked a long swig. How had everything already gone so wrong, in just a few hours? That morning, Shane hadn’t been hurt, LaLucia was hauling her career up the ladder, Otto was going to lock down their investment. It had been a guaranteed great day.

  She pictured the bearded man in the leather jacket. His image was like a totem of misfortune. She checked her watch – fewer than five hours till sundown. But he didn’t make Mum and Joan interfere with my life. He didn’t make me meet Otto this afternoon. She thought back to what had happened in that bar, less than an hour ago. Nothing is ever simple.

  20

  One Hour Ago

  Otto’s lips were on hers, his mouth opening, his tongue pushing.

  Jenny immediately retreated. ‘What the?’ she said, as a complete sentence.

  ‘I’m just… I’m just… Celebrating. Hey, the deal is done!’

  This mild flirtation had to end today, in this bar. Every time she’d clandestinely met Otto over the past two months, part of her had wilted. But the deal was her big chance.

  She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t about the money; that it was about her family, about her mother. But at the same time, it was always about the money. Jenny had to keep her eye on the prize. She couldn’t allow herself to feel regret.

  However, being kissed by Otto was not part of the deal. Fine, she’d toyed with him. She flirted with most men she liked. It was part of her repartee. But there was a difference between being coquettish and intimating availability. That had not occurred.

  Jenny said, ‘Screwing clients – it’s gratifying to the male ego, apparently. But I thought you were above such things. God, you’re pathetic.’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘For future reference you’ll know when I’m joking because it’ll be fucking funny.’

  Otto waved at her last sentence like it was fading smoke. ‘It was a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Didn’t feel like a misunderstanding.’

  ‘I get it. I get it, right?’

  ‘Who do you think you’re dealing with? After what you did to me? Remember? Or did you forget because it’s more convenient that way?’

  Some of the older patrons glanced over.

  ‘Of course I haven’t forgotten. Not for as long as I live. You know that.’ He took his glasses off and suddenly his face looked dim and empty without them. ‘And that kiss… it wasn’t like that.’ Otto clearly wanted Jenny to keep her voice down, and he led by example, continuing in a whisper: ‘I don’t know what I was thinking just now. Maybe it’s because I recently realised that I love you. And because I love you, I want what’s right for you.’

  ‘You don’t love me. If you did, you wouldn’t say you want what’s “right for me”. With love, you only recognise yourself. Like, do you think I ever gave one moment’s thought as to whether I was right for Shane? Of course not. He was right for me. The end.’

  Otto put his glasses back on. It was clear he was angry, because he was so obviously trying hard not to be angry. Picking up his drink too quickly, a wave of orange juice landed on his shoe. And just like that, Otto’s hatred flowed at flood level. He slammed the glass onto the counter and shouted, ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Jenny didn’t look around. Everyone heard and, no doubt, everyone was looking. It was better to act disinterested and hope that her indifference was contagious. She said, ‘You need to learn how to relax and act like a fucking human being. Otherwise, you’ll discover that you have no real friends and instead are just surrounded by people who are paid to tolerate you. Now, Otto, I want you to calm down. Can you do that for me?’

  Otto agreed to calm down which, of course, made him tenser.

  Lighten the mood. ‘What were you thinking? I mean, I’m not even your type.’

  He stared at her. ‘Yes, you are.’

  Jenny’s eyes narrowed. ‘Really? And what type would that be?’

  ‘You’re in excellent shape and—’

  ‘What are you, my fitness instructor?’

  ‘And… you’re the type that appeals to men who prefer their women to be able to hold a conversation. In that, you’re smart. Nearly as smart as me.’

  ‘You old charmer, you.’

  ‘Sure, I suspected I was punching, but I thought we had something. Besides history.’

  ‘Can someone that rich be punching?’

  The rumour of a smile spread from the corner of his mouth. He was beginning to relax. He was beginning to see that he could run with this; that everything had not been ruined. He said, ‘Let me get you champagne.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No? What’s the matter? Are you on strike against money?’ When Otto crossed his legs, he did so in a feminine manner – like an actress being interviewed on television. Once again, he looked healthy, prosperous and disreputable. It was his charisma that made him handsome. Without it, he would seem mole-like in an exemplary dull accountant way.

  Otto asked, ‘So was LaLucia loaded with high-net-worth individuals? The types that like to play on their yacht every weekend – you know, the one they bought last year because it was so sparkly when they walked by it in the midday Ibiza sun.’

  Jenny pointed her chin towards the barman, whose attention it wasn’t hard to get after the outburst, and ordered a pint. Then she said, ‘It was fine, until I was harassed by a weird stalker guy who hates me because of my Insta feed or something.’

  Otto put down his drink. ‘Jesus. You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, it was just weird.’

  ‘Have you a weapon? Like, do you carry?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of that…’

  ‘If you’re being stalked, I’d advise you to think of that.’

  ‘Well, hassled just once by a complete knob doesn’t make him a stalker, I suppose. Just felt “stalkery.” Anyway, it’s over. Forget it.’ She hadn’t realised how uncomfortable talking about it would make her feel.

  ‘No. Go on. What did he want? There’s something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘There’s lots of things I’m not telling you. Because I’m a private person, Otto.’

  ‘Jesus, I’m just showing concern.’

  ‘No need. I’m fine and it’s over.’ The barman placed the pint before her and Jenny took a sip, resisting the desire to knock it back in a single draught. She asked, ‘Anyway, how did it go with Shane?’

  ‘He reluctantly talked about it for maybe five seconds. Your plan for him to have a last-minute change of heart was mission-completely-and-utterly-fucking-impossible. Sorry – I tried.’

  ‘Shane is just being true to himself.’ She didn’t know why she was trying to explain her husband’s reasoning to Otto, as he utterly believed that those who rejected pure capitalism were providing an implicit admission that they lacked the balls and energy required to succeed in this world. ‘Shane was never a guy who tried hard to please people all the time.’