The Betrayal

by Laura Elliot

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Nadine and Jake were tied by a night of passion that resulted in pregnancy. Now their children have flown the nest, they give one another the freedom to pursue their dreams. Jake embarks on a passionate affair with a beautiful woman who happens to share a dark history with Nadine. As lust spirals into obsession, Jake must break free. How well did he ever know his wife?

Release date: August 14, 2015

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

A glimpse. That’s all it takes. One glimpse as she steps from the taxi and I’m back there again, on the edge of a blade, waiting for the relief of another searing cut. I watch her go, her confident stride in tune with the sway of her pert behind. Karin Moylan is more beautiful than I remember, still the petite, hourglass figure, the dainty Cinderella feet. A scar from my teens opening on the turn of a heel. No time for hesitation. I ease back into my car and take refuge. What a coward I am. To hide from my past instead of confronting it with a nonchalant nod, a casual greeting, a polite enquiry about her mother’s health… no… that’s not possible. I watch as she enters the airport. The automatic doors open and close behind her. Able to breathe again, I turn my face towards Jake when he taps on the window to say goodbye. I slide the glass down. He leans forward to kiss me. His lips touch mine, a fleeting caress.

‘Ring you when I get to New York,’ he says.

‘Have a safe flight.’ My hands tighten on the steering wheel, my foot impatient on the accelerator as an authoritative voice on the public address system warns about the penalties of lingering overlong in the drop-off zone.

Jake grips his overnight case, his briefcase in his other hand. Years of experience have taught him to travel light. He follows in her footsteps and turns to wave at the entrance to Departures.

It’s been raining all morning and the windscreen wipers swish briskly as I drive towards the Eastside Business Quarter. Did she see me when her taxi veered past my car and parked further along the drop-off zone? Her scarf fluttered like wings over her shoulders. I’d forgotten how she always favoured blue plumage. Would Jake notice her among the crowd of passengers surging through Departures? Would he recognise her if he did? I fight back panic, shake my head. Too many years have passed since that summer in Monsheelagh, and their time together was fleeting.

I could ring Jenny when I reach the office but she’s probably asleep. The eight-hour time difference between here and Vancouver spoils any chance of an impulsive conversation. I’ll ring her later this evening when I’m calmer.

Shock recedes. It has no place else to go as my day gathers momentum. With Jake away we’re one down in Tõnality, the company we run together, and most of my morning is spent tracking a lost consignment of mandolins that was supposed to be en route to us from China. The lost mandolins are traced and rerouted back to us via Rotterdam. I work throughout the afternoon on a new marketing strategy for the STRUM brand. The business park is empty by the time I set the security alarm and close the shutters. No one hangs around here in the evenings. It’s too soulless, too uniform with its cube-like buildings and parallel roads. Jake calls it a battery coop, a place to labour and leave when the day is done.

The silence of the empty house bears down on me when I open the front door. I should eat something; rustle up a pasta, grill a steak. In the end I scramble eggs and toast bread. The kitchen glistens, chrome and granite, honey-toned wood. Four years ago, when we moved here from our modest three-bedroom house on Oakdale Terrace, I joked with Jake that we’d need a skateboard to work this kitchen. I’ve become accustomed to my spacious surroundings, but now, with everyone gone, the atmosphere feels different, filled with unresolved issues. The weight of lives lived separately within its walls.

My footsteps seem unnaturally loud as I walk across the marble tiles. A pair of shoes that Jake decided against bringing to New York lie in the hall. I carry them upstairs to our bedroom and place them on the shoe rack. The bed is as tossed as we left it this morning, our pillows still dented. I kick off my high heels and lace up my trainers, change into a tracksuit. A run will pound her out of my head.

Could I have imagined her? I’ve done so in the past, glimpsed a swirl of blonde hair and found myself staring into the blank, blue gaze of a stranger. This woman’s hair was short, sculpted to her scalp. Perhaps I was mistaken, hassled by traffic jams and having to drop Jake off at the airport. But why that sudden shocked recognition? My skin lifting as if electrified by memory? No, I was not mistaken.

The gates of Bartizan Downs slowly slide apart. I turn right and drive towards Malahide. The village is quiet, apart from a trickle of people emerging from the railway station and a few smokers standing outside Duffy’s pub. I turn down Old Street and head towards the estuary shore where strollers, joggers and dog walkers come in the evening to close off their day. I love this place, with its shrieking seagulls and stately swans. The rain has stopped but the clouds are heavy with the threat of more to follow. It will be dark soon. Already, Sea Aster is invisible on the opposite shore. I lived there with Jake when we were first married. Gentle Rosanna with her camera and binoculars gave us succour when we were desperate. Does her ghost hover over the old house, trapped by the threads of memory? Three months since her death. All that wonderful bird knowledge ebbing away on her last breath. It was her time to go but I still feel the raw grief of her passing. The house belongs to Eleanor now but she will never love it as her mother did.

I’m tired by the time I return to Bartizan Downs. Lights blaze from neighbouring windows. We don’t draw our curtains here. We’re gated and protected, fortified against each other and from the world outside by high walls. I shower and slip on my pyjamas.

Jenny is at her desk when I ring Vancouver, her printer clattering beside her. She listens without interruption while I tell her about this chance sighting.

‘Are you sure it was Karin?’ she asks when I pause for breath.

‘I’m almost positive. Her hair’s short now but she still has that cut-glass profile.’

A second phone keeps ringing and interrupting our conversation. ‘Hold on, Nadine. I’d better take this.’ She sounds distracted.

‘You’re busy. I’ll go. I just wanted to tell you about her.’

‘No, wait.’ She speaks briefly to someone than comes back to me. ‘I can’t believe she still has the power to upset you so much.’

‘Neither can I.’ Once again I experience that breathless jolt of recognition.

‘It’s so long ago,’ Jenny says. ‘What happened was not your fault. You’ve worked through it. You’ve moved on. Don’t let her get to you again. She’s not, and never was, important.’

‘I’m sorry I interrupted you.’

‘You didn’t interrupt me.’ Her voice sharpens. ‘Are you listening to me, Nadine?’

‘Yes… yes.’

‘Ring me anytime you want to talk some more about this. Promise.’

‘I will. How’s work?’

‘We’re wrapping up the documentary. It’s always manic at this stage. Is everything okay in Tõnality?’

‘Business could be better,’ I admit. ‘This recession is getting worse.’

‘I keep reading the financial reports. It sounds grim.’ The second phone rings again. ‘Hold on a minute. I’ll switch this off.’

‘No, take it Jenny. You’re obviously up to your eyes. I’ll be in touch soon. Love you.’

‘Love you, too.’

Then she’s gone, back to her world of ozone layers and climate change and melting ice caps. Her documentaries are scarier than a zombie movie. She’s my best friend, wise and sensitive – and has had her heart severely broken on two occasions. When she gives advice I listen.

Karin Moylan Never Was Important.

Some people play with worry beads when they are stressed, others attend a shrink. Jake Saunders used music. As an escape route it never failed him and now, with an hour to kill before he boarded his flight to New York, he opened his laptop and plugged in his earphones. He replayed the last recording he had made. A melody with potential, he decided, but the lyrics were weak. Hackneyed lines that made him wince. He needed to hack down to the heart of the song. A long goodbye to a love affair. The relationship over but the dependency on togetherness too ingrained to allow for separation. Art reflecting life: it was a thought too close for comfort.

Nadine’s abrupt departure at the airport bothered him. Her expression had been so distant as she stared at him through the car window that, for an instant, he thought she was going to drive away without saying goodbye. Her mood changed so easily these days. The pressure of running Tõnality was taking its toll on both of them. The impact of an empty house, their parenting done. This should be their time to wind down. Instead, they were locked into a recession and a debt that was balanced like a rock on their shoulders.

The boarding area gradually filled up. Jake bent lower over his laptop and tried to ignore the pungent garlic fumes emanating from the man sitting beside him. He should be working on the spreadsheet for Ed Jaworski instead of wasting time on a song that was certain to remain unsung. He had a drawer full of such songs. Half-finished ideas that inevitably fizzled out when some new emergency at work took over.

His neighbour stood up and stretched, strode towards the toilets. His seat was immediately taken by a woman. Her perfume battled against the garlic fumes and won. Jake breathed deeply. The perfume Nadine used was light and floral but this was heavy and curiously intimate, as if the scent had been blended in a moist, exotic jungle. She opened a magazine, flicked pages, crossed her legs: small, slender feet, blue shoes, sheer tights. He stole a sideways glance at her. Mid-thirties, maybe older, he guessed. There was a maturity about her full, glossy mouth, and her blonde hair, short and brushed back from her forehead in a quiff that would only be worn by a woman confident enough to know she could carry off such a chiselled image and still look beautiful.

Earlier, he had noticed her when he was going through security. Something about the tilt of her head as she spoke to an official looked familiar. The impression was so vague that she had passed through the security gates and out of his mind until now.

A collective groan arose from the passengers when an announcement informed them that their flight to New York would be delayed. She closed her magazine, tapped her fingers against the cover. Her nails, perfect ovals, were painted an iridescent blue. He switched off his laptop. Impossible to concentrate. He hated airports. The ruthless security routine, the slumped wait in the boarding area and the eventual slow shuffle aboard after unexplained delays. He accidentally jogged her elbow as he removed his earphones.

‘Sorry.’ He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. ‘I wonder what’s caused the delay?’

‘Some technical hitch, I guess.’ She stood up and buttoned her jacket. ‘I’m going for a coffee. Can I bring something back for you?’

‘Why don’t I go with you?’ He put the laptop in his overnight case and zipped it. ‘Stretch my legs. We’ll be sitting long enough when we finally get on board.’

He slowed his stride as they walked towards the coffee bar. The women in his life were tall and long-limbed, his wife and mother, his two daughters. Everything about this woman was petite, from the crown of her head to the toes of her high-heeled shoes. He insisted on paying for cappuccinos and two Danishes, which he carried to a nearby table.

‘Will the delay affect you?’ she asked when they were seated. She sounded Irish but her accent, with its slight drag on the vowels, suggested she had been living for some time in New York.

‘I’ve to attend a business meeting but it’s not until tomorrow,’ he replied. ‘What about you? Business or pleasure?’

‘I live in New York.’ She removed her jacket and hung it from the back of the chair. Her dress was sleeveless with a low V in front, the hem resting primly on her knees.

He stretched out his hand. ‘I’m Jake.’

‘I know who you are.’ She shook his hand and tilted her head, a half-smile tugging at her lips. ‘You’re the Jake Saunders from Shard.’

He felt a once-familiar and long-forgotten buzz of recognition.

‘I’m flattered that you remember.’

‘Oh, I do remember.’ She held out her arm, the inside exposed, and ran her fingers along the pale skin. ‘This is where you once signed your autograph.’

‘I’m sorry…’ He struggled for a name, an occasion, a place to remember her by. How many autographs had he signed? Thousands, probably, writing his name with a flourish for the young women who called out to him as they waited outside the pubs and clubs, their arms and autograph books an extension of their thrusting, nubile bodies. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to enlighten me.’

‘I’m Karin Moylan.’ She spoke with the certainty of someone who knew her name would bring instant recollection.

‘Karin Moylan… I don’t believe it.’ The memory came back to him in disjointed flashes. The holiday, the music, and Karin, a waifish shadow against the glow of Nadine with her blaze of red hair and long coltish legs. ‘I’d never have recognised you. No… that’s not true. Now that you say it—’ He stopped, embarrassed as he attempted to join the fragments of that holiday together. What was the name of the place where they stayed? Somewhere in West Clare, he remembered. Fishing boats and a cliff, a golden beach and long sunshine days. A ramshackle house where he, along with the lads who made up the band, had stayed for a month to work on their first album.

‘Monsheelagh,’ she said, as if picking up his thoughts. ‘I was on holiday with my parents.’ Her eyes, slightly too large for her small heart-shaped face, had a disconcerting directness when she added, ‘Nadine was staying with us.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I remember.’

‘How is she? It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.’

‘She’s good. Busy, as we all are these days.’

‘I was studying in London when I heard about your marriage. You were both so young.’ Her voice dropped a tone, denoting pity. ‘I hope everything worked out for you.’

‘Yes, it did.’ He resented her pity and rushed defensively to banish it. ‘We’ve a good life and four terrific kids.’

‘I never meant to lose touch with her but you know the way it is.’ Her scarf rippled when she shrugged, the material so light and gauzy it seemed as if a deep breath would float it from her shoulders. ‘Our lives veered off in different directions but I’ve never forgotten her.’

‘These things happen,’ he agreed.

‘I still imagined you with long hair and those wild tiger streaks.’

‘The streaks went a long time ago,’ he admitted. ‘So did the wildness. These days I’m one of society’s staunchest pillars.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ She tilted her head again, a finger pressed to her cheek. ‘You still have that look… you know… slightly edgy, alternative.’

It was pathetic to be flattered so easily. His black hair was slightly longer than the norm, his style of dressing more casual, and he still had the rangy physique of his youth but, in truth, Jake felt indistinguishable from the other grey-suited businessmen swarming from the business park every evening with their laptops, briefcases and mortgages.

‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’

‘I run a graphic-design agency in New York,’ she replied. ‘But I’m considering moving back to Dublin after Christmas. My mother has some health issues and I’m an only child.’

‘Nothing too serious, I hope?’

‘She’ll be fine. She always is.’ Her sigh was almost inaudible but Jake understood the depths of frustration it carried.

A voice boomed over the loudspeaker and drowned his reply. Their flight was ready for boarding.

‘We’d better go.’ She stood up and brushed imaginary crumbs from her dress, buttoned her jacket, adjusted her scarf.

‘See you in New York,’ she said when they boarded the plane and made their way to their allocated seats.

‘Enjoy the flight.’ He continued down the aisle and settled into a seat four rows behind her on the opposite side. What a strange coincidence to bump into each other after all that time. Her profile was visible as she removed her jacket. She was unable to reach the baggage hold above her and the man beside her stowed her jacket away. He was young and heavy-set, his square face framed by a mop of black curls and a startlingly long beard. Earphones the size of saucers rested on his shoulders.

When the last of the passengers were seated and the cabin crew had closed the overhead lockers, she slanted her legs to one side and allowed him to leave his seat. He hurried down the aisle and hunkered down beside Jake.

‘Your friend’s asked me to swap places,’ he whispered. ‘It’s no problem, mate. She’s shit scared of flying and to be honest, no offence, but it’s a long flight. If she’s gonna use that sick bag I’d prefer it to be on your time, not mine.’

‘No problem.’ Jake almost laughed out loud at Karin’s woebegone expression when she turned to look back at him.

‘I hope I haven’t been presumptuous,’ she said when he sat beside her and clicked the safety belt. ‘The thought of interacting with that beard for the entire flight was more than I could handle.’

‘I can imagine.’ He was conscious of her bare arm on the armrest between them, the heady waft of perfume. The engines growled and the cabin staff began to outline the safety instructions.

‘Inflating your life jacket as the plane goes down must be the most ineffective way of spending your last moments on earth,’ she said as the plane taxied down the runway.

‘How would you spend them?’ he asked.

She looked thoughtful, as if visualising the downward plunge, and replied, ‘Hopefully, in the arms of my lover.’

He wondered whose arms would hold her if the plane plummeted from the skies. It seemed too blatant a question to ask. Enquiries about a wife and family were okay. Pallid information. But a lover… how could that be phrased? Is your lover married? Are you married and having an affair? Is your lover a he or a she? Jake took nothing for granted.

Tiny blue gemstones sparkled on her ring as she stretched upwards to adjust the air conditioning.

‘Allow me,’ he said.

The jolt of pleasure was instantaneous when their hands touched. No wedding ring, he noted as the cool air flowed over their faces.

‘Are you going to New York for business or pleasure?’ she asked.

‘Purely business,’ he said. ‘I’m only staying two nights.’

‘Do you go there often?’

‘About four times a year. Trade shows, business meetings, that sort of thing.’

‘Are they always flying visits?’

‘Not always. We usually manage a show or two while we’re there.’

The ‘we’ slipped out like an unintended hiccup.

‘We?’ she quizzed him.

‘Nadine runs the company with me.’

‘Business and marriage,’ she mused. ‘Is that a difficult combination to manage?’

‘Not really. We’ve been doing it for a long time.’

‘I don’t think I could work with someone that close to me. It would be claustrophobic, I need my own space.’ The swell of her bottom lip suggested there was turbulence behind her smiling demeanour.

‘Except when you’re on a plunging plane and need your lover’s arms around you.’ The conversation had come full circle and Jake was pleased at his adroitness.

‘I’ll have to find one first. Unlike you and Nadine, I haven’t been so lucky in love. No husband, no children… not even a lover.’

‘I refuse to believe you. Any guy would…’ He hesitated, suddenly uncertain whether he wanted to continue the conversation.

‘Would what?’ she prompted softly.

‘Consider himself the luckiest guy in the world.’ He could no longer pretend he was not flirting with her. What harm? A mild flirtation always alleviated the boredom of a long flight.

‘When you find him, package him and send him on to me by first class mail.’ Like her perfume, her laughter had a tantalising intimacy, as if everything outside the space they shared was of no importance.

‘I’ll need an address first.’

She opened her handbag and handed her business card to him. Kingfisher Graphics. The logo was a kingfisher, glossy blue feathers that matched her eyes.

‘Tõnality.’ She glanced at the business card he slipped from his wallet. ‘That’s an unusual name. What kind of business do you run?’

‘We supply musical instruments. From mouth organs to church organs and everything in between, for sale or hire. If you ever need anything…’

‘All I can play is the tambourine.’

He glanced quickly at her and away again. Was that a throwaway remark or one loaded with significance? Impossible to tell by her expression. This was the moment to say something meaningful about that holiday, but would they be the right words? And would she want to hear them after… how long? Twenty-four, twenty-five years?

‘Nadine wanted to be an artist,’ she said. ‘What a pity it didn’t work out for her. She was good. I couldn’t draw a straight line, yet I ended up becoming a graphic designer.’

‘Do you specialise in a specific area of graphic design?’ He took his lead from her. Let the past rest in peace.

‘It varies from commission to commission,’ she replied. ‘My latest contract is with a film company.’

‘That sounds exciting.’

‘It can be, especially when it’s a historical film, as this one is. I’m researching the props we need from that period, signage, calligraphy, portraits. I could go on and on. It’s fascinating to dip in and out of the past, don’t you think?’

He leaned his head against the headrest, content to listen to her. Clouds lay below them, gossamer mountains rimmed with gold.

When the plane landed at JFK he waited with her while she reclaimed her luggage. She lived in the East Village. A fire escape on the outside of her apartment and a view of the city to die for, she said. Should he ask to view it with her? Suggest meeting for an evening meal? A stroll in Central Park? Hot dogs on Coney Island? Usually the women he met on such flights occupied his thoughts for a day or so until they became an amalgamation of all the other flights he had taken, the similar conversations he had enjoyed, the ignited spark that was always extinguished once he landed on terra firma. But Karin Moylan was not a stranger. She came with a past, and its potency had grown during their journey together.

‘Perhaps when you return to Dublin we could get together…?’ He allowed his words to trail into a question.

‘It would be nice to see Nadine again.’ Their gaze locked for a fraction longer than politeness demanded. ‘If that is what you have in mind?’

‘I’m sure that could be arranged,’ he replied, ‘if that’s what you have in mind.’

She fanned his business card before her face and smiled. ‘I’ll ring you when I come back,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we’ll have decided by then.’

Twilight is settling over Broadmeadow Estuary as I drive along Mallard Cove. Coots, oystercatchers and greenshanks forage between the mottled green islets of the bird sanctuary and the swans, noticing my car, waddle ashore seeking bread. The wind is brisk and the windsurfers, curving into its power, glide across the water. Eleanor is already parked outside Sea Aster. A glance at her watch rebukes me for being ten minutes late. I don’t react. I’ve learned to save my energy for the big battles. This is the first time I have returned to Sea Aster since Rosanna suffered the massive stroke that confined her to a nursing home. The ivy that once burnished the walls in a coppery glow throughout the autumn has been removed and Sea Aster looks almost indecently naked with its stark, grey exterior, the sharp apexes and curved bay window.

When it became obvious Rosanna would never again return to her home, Eleanor had had the house renovated into two apartments, one up, one down, two separate entrances. She’d sounded nervous when she rang Tõnality earlier today, hoping Jake would meet her here this evening. He’s still in New York, so I offered to come in his stead. My mother-in-law does not normally display signs of nervousness. Rushing headlong into confrontation is more her style, but the tenant who rented Sea Aster, and has now left, proved to be a match for her. The battle to evict her when her lease expired was prolonged and bitter. Eleanor received some threatening phone calls, so she’s right to be cautious. Sea Aster is isolated and cries for help would only be heard by swans.

‘When did the ivy go?’ I ask as we walk towards the front door.

‘I had it removed during the conversion,’ Eleanor replies. ‘It was too unruly.’

Unruliness. A cardinal sin in her book.

When she opens the front door I’m dismayed to see how the hall’s once-elegant dimensions have been divided by a crude plasterboard wall. My dismay turns to shock as we climb the stairs to Apartment 1. Strips of wallpaper have been torn from the walls and graffiti sprayed on the ceiling. Flies swarm against the windows. A hole has been kicked in one of the doors. The smell of overflowing ashtrays competes against the stink of cat urine. In the living room we draw back in disgust when we discover cat turds on the carpet. Containers carrying the congealed remains of four-cheese pizzas litter the table and floor.

‘I’m photographing everything.’ Eleanor’s rage grows as she surveys her inheritance. ‘This is what happens when promiscuity and anti-social behaviour are allowed to run riot.’

I offer to organise a swat team of fumigators, cleaners and a vermin death squad. The mouse droppings in the kitchen suggest that the tenant’s cats was useless at anything other than dumping its load behind the living room sofa.

‘That won’t be necessary.’ She waves my offer aside. ‘The whole interior will be gutted.’

‘There’s no need to gut the house,’ I protest. ‘This is disgusting but it’s only superficial damage. The ceilings… those carvings. The graffiti can be removed without damaging them.’

‘Gutted,’ Eleanor repeats. ‘It’s the only way to make a fresh start.’

She has no feelings for Sea Aster. It wasn’t her childhood home and she never understood why her mother, a passionate bird-watcher and amateur photographer, decided to leave her comfortable bungalow in suburbia and move here when her husband died. She’s particularly fixated on a pair of black lacy stockings tied to a bedpost in one of the bedrooms. Six potted cannabis plants wilt on the dressing table. Jake and I once slept in this bedroom. Now, it’s defiled, revolting. Eleanor continues taking photographs. She will do a PowerPoint presentation with those images. The members of First Affiliation will love them. They are the standard bearers for family values, a fringe political party that believes society will fall apart if their members, led by Eleanor, don’t keep a strict and watchful eye on the moral status quo. She plans to convert the old house into their headquarters. Their current premises has damp issues and a lease that’s due to expire soon.

We leave the odorous atmosphere behind and walk around to the back of the house. To Eleanor’s relief, Apartment 2 on the ground floor has been left in pristine condition. She shakes her head when I invite her back to Bartizan Downs for something to eat. She has a meeting to attend and a speech to write before she goes to bed tonight. Work on converting the house will begin as soon as she receives planning permission to change its use from residential to First Affiliation’s headquarters.

I drive towards the gates of Sea Aster and pass the old stone barn where Tõnality first began. Darkness had fallen while we were inside, and the windsurfers have folded up their sails. Swans are clustered close to the shore and a heron stands impassive and still in the shallows.

Rosanna had wanted her ashes to float across this estuary on a slow, eddying tide. Eleanor refused point blank to even discuss the possibility of a cremation. An ad hoc scattering of ashes would be an undignified and messy ending to her mother’s long, active life, she insisted, when I argued that it was Rosanna’s dying wish. She had her way in the end and Rosanna is buried with her husband, a boring man who, Rosanna once told me, had defined his identity by the club crest on his blazer and made love to her in the missionary position every Saturday night. At least on this occasion Rosanna is on top, I think. Stop… I resist the urge to laugh out loud, and swallow, suddenly close to tears as I apologise to Rosanna for being unable to organise the simple ceremony she desired. Will the members of First Affiliation appreciate their new headquarters? Or will they be too busy plotting strategies to notice the rugged beauty surrounding them? I suspect the latter.

An arts programme plays on the car radio as I drive along Mallard Cove. A female poet describes how her latest bout of depression inspired her new collection of poetry. You and me both, I think. But I’m not depressed. Just… What? ‘Flat’ is the only word that comes to mind. Seeing life in a pale, predictable palette sounds more descriptive. The depressed poet would forgive the alliteration and approve.

Jake insists I’m suffering from empty-nest syndrome. Four children leaving home in the space of two years does take some adjusting to, yet I’m glad for all of them. Proud that they’re following their dreams. That’s X-Factor-s