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hotel and allowed the fantasies that had teased him throughout the night to fade. He was relieved rather than disappointed by her decision. He tried to understand this relief. Was it caused by fear or fidelity? Despite occasional torrid fantasies that always petered out under the pressures of work and family Jake had been a faithful husband. Was it uncertainty that scared him off? Fear of failing in the bedroom? No, remembering her alluring eyes, the seductive swell of her bottom lip, he knew such fears were unfounded. But, now, away from her dizzying presence, his brief bout of amnesia, fuelled by alcohol and anticipation, was over. He was chilled by the reality of his situation and the future of the company that he and Nadine had worked so hard to build.

Chapter 5
    Nadine
    A Shard retrospective . Our business is falling apart and Jake talks about offering fans a chance to relive their youth. At night when he’s not rehearsing he closes the door of his music room while I try and catch up on the backlog of work. We could be facing bankruptcy but his eyes glaze when I try to discuss this terrifying possibility. Ed Jaworski’s decision fell upon us like the sword of Damocles and we’re still reeling. We can take legal action, of course. Spend a fortune and face a team a STRUM lawyers across a courtroom. They will beggar us, rubbish our reputation, break us down before the first hearing has concluded.
    Tonight, when he returned from band practice, he stood outside the door of my office. I heard his footsteps stop then move on. I heard the door of his music room close. We live in a house with many rooms, spacious and stylishly furnished, yet the two smallest rooms are the ones we use most frequently. Our refuge from a marriage we tolerate for everyone’s sake but our own.
    We don’t fight anymore. Not the way we did in the early years, hurling insults without caring where they landed and forgiving each other in bed with the same pent-up ferocity. Now, we use evasion, a polite chilliness, reasoned discussions that respect each other’s point of view, even when it doesn’t tally with our own. I remember these youthful rows with a certain indulgent nostalgia. We were so aware of each other then, conscious of tinder boxes and the danger of a hapless remark. One particular row when I was expecting the twins stands out in my mind. It began as a casual discussion about what we would be doing if we were still free and single. I was lying on the sofa in the breakfast room in Sea Aster, heavily pregnant and Ali and Brian, still babies, were sleeping upstairs. My wish list included art college, living in flatland with Jenny, a gap year in Australia, Euro-railing through Europe; aspirations vague enough not to offend Jake. He was more specific. Recreational drugs and eventual rehab, all night parties, riding a Harley Davidson on Route 66, the rise and rise of Shard, and an occasional threesome . The latter was meant to be a joke, he insisted afterwards, but by then it was too late.
    ‘ What a pity we didn’t make it a threesome at the time,’ I snapped. ‘Then, maybe, the other girl would have become pregnant instead of me.’
    ‘Just my luck,’ he retorted. ‘Think how wonderful my life would be if she’d been blonde, beautiful and sexy, instead of always moaning about her fucked-up marriage.’
    ‘Whose fucked-up marriage are we discussing?’ My anger heaved with resentment and the twins kicked frantically at my drum-stretched stomach. ‘You’re the one who feels trapped. You’re the one who can’t wait to take off on your Harley Davidson. If you’d known how to use a condom…’
    ‘Oh, here we go again.’ He hinged his arm exaggeratedly and studied his watch. ‘Now it’s time to bring up the subject of the defective condom ― ’
    ‘It wasn’t the condom that was defective….’
    On and on we went, one word borrowing another until it seemed as if our bitterness was beyond healing. But it did heal and that