Page 10 of Our Song

Tadhg looks famous, and it freaks me out.

I don’t mean he’s, like, bedecked in gold.

He doesn’t look flashy. His vibe is understated and normal.

But there’s something about people who are seriously successful that differentiates them from us ordinary mortals.

He has a sort of glow . And then there are his clothes.

You can tell the plain navy cardigan is cashmere, and not the M&S washable kind.

Those jeans are from some obscure eco-friendly Japanese label.

The materials of his Clark Kent glasses speak of a wildly expensive optician, not Specsavers.

His boots are rich, polished brown leather.

He doesn’t look like he still scours charity shops for what we used to call ‘old dead men’s suits’.

He looks at home in this fancy restaurant. It feels a bit wrong.

And maybe it’s the money, maybe it’s clean living, maybe it’s just good genes, but up close and personal, when he stands up to greet me, it’s clear that the years have definitely been kind to him.

His dark hair is still thick and wavy, cut short in the back and a little bit longer at the front, the way it always was.

His skin is radiant, but with a few normal fine lines around his eyes.

His face moves naturally. He doesn’t have that slightly embalmed, tanned look of some male rock stars over thirty-five.

His excellent cheekbones and strong nose are as satisfying to behold as they were twenty years ago.

Even with the cashmere and the expensive jeans, he still looks like himself.

He looks very, very good.

I silently thank Katie for the vintage recommendation. Most of my regular new clothes would look tatty next to Tadhg’s quiet luxury. And then I hate myself for caring so much about what he thinks of me.

We stand there by his table for a moment. He still looks pretty happy to see me, and for a moment I think he might be going to hug me and I’m not sure what I’d do if he did, but then he says, ‘Sorry, where are my manners? Take a seat.’

I slide into the booth and realise that, while a booth with leather seats might be good for a celebrity’s privacy, it’s quite difficult to get in and out of with elegance and grace. I have to keep pulling my skirts from under me as I make my way along the padded leather.

‘So …’ I say. I’m about to say it’s good to see him, because it is, despite everything it really is, but before I can say anything a smiling young woman with amazing hair and a dress I almost bought in Cos during the week but didn’t because, well, I’m unemployed and also six inches shorter than her, approaches and says, ‘Hi! You must be Laura. I’m Tara. ’

‘Hi,’ I say, accepting her handshake before she sits down next to Tadhg. ‘Nice to meet you.’ A part of me is glad someone’s here to buffer any potential awkwardness between me and Tadhg. Another, shamefully bigger, part of me is disappointed that he and I can’t just talk on our own.

‘You too! Have you had a look at the menu yet?’

A server miraculously appears at her side and presents us with menus.

I feel slightly faint as I read the prices. Tadhg orders first, a starter and a main. So this is going to be a proper long lunch. He orders sparkling water for the table then says, ‘Sorry, do you want wine, Lol? I’m driving so I’ll give it a miss.’

Though not a boozy one, which is probably for the best.

‘No, thanks.’ I need to keep a clear head.

Once we’ve ordered, silence descends on the table. I think of the days when Tadhg and I couldn’t stop talking to each other and feel a sharp twinge of sadness. Tadhg looks as awkward as I feel. Thankfully, Tara breaks the silence.

‘So, Laura,’ she says breezily. ‘I suppose you’re wondering why we contacted you out of the blue.’

‘You said it’s about my song.’ My voice sounds firm and controlled, to my own surprise, because I feel anything but.

‘Your and Tadhg’s song.’ Tara’s voice is still bright but now it’s steely.

‘Well, we played it together when we were in the band,’ I say, ‘but I wrote it.’

I don’t look at Tadhg as I say it.

‘Ms McDermott—’ says Tara.

Oh, it’s Ms McDermott now, is it?

‘I wrote the chords,’ I say. ‘And I wrote the melody. And the words.’

‘Do you have any proof of that?’ says Tara.

I knew that’s what all this was about. I fucking knew it. But I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach, all the same.

‘Tara,’ says Tadhg. ‘Do you mind if I talk to Laura alone, just for a minute?’

‘Sure,’ says Tara.

She slips out of the booth and takes a seat at the bar.

I look over and see her fiddling with her phone, but she keeps glancing over at us.

Probably worried I’m going to leap over the table and attack Tadhg for trying to steal my song.

Well, she needn’t worry – if I wanted to attack him I’d have to wriggle out of this banquette first and that would take about ten minutes so he’d have plenty of time to make his escape.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ says Tadhg. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. ‘Tara’s brilliant at her job and she’s really sound, but as far as she’s concerned this is just another business meeting. I’m not sure she gets how … well, how close we were.’

Oh . I didn’t realise I needed to hear him acknowledge this. But it turns out I did.

‘Well,’ I say faintly. ‘That was a long time ago.’

‘Yeah,’ he says. There’s a moment of silence, but somehow it’s not as awkward now. Tadhg clears his throat. ‘The reason I wanted to see you is because a few weeks ago I found myself playing that song and remembering how good it was. I want to finally finish it with you. Together. As co-writers.’

I don’t say anything. I did not expect this.

‘It’s a really good song,’ he says.

‘I know.’

‘And it’ll be better if it’s finished,’ he says earnestly. ‘I think we could make something great out of this, Lol. We were so good together.’

My eyes meet his and my breath stops.

‘We were good together sometimes.’ I take a sip of water.

‘We were good together a lot of the time,’ he says. The banquette suddenly seems small. I could reach my hand across the table to touch his, if I wanted to. If I dared. I can still remember what it felt like to hold those hands.

I pull myself together. I should tell him that he’s thinking of another Laura.

I should tell him that until this week I hadn’t played my guitar in almost a year.

I should tell him that the Laura he knew – the Laura who didn’t write ads for pensions, the Laura who wrote songs and made people stare at her in awe when she played them on stage – doesn’t exist anymore.

I should tell him all this. I know I should.

But when was I ever totally honest with Tadhg?

I say, ‘How exactly do you want to do this?’

Tadhg looks relieved, as if he half-expected me to walk out before he could make his case. Then the waiter arrives with our starters.

‘Let’s talk about it in a minute,’ he says, waving at Tara to join us.

The food is delicious. Between mouthfuls, Tadhg says, ‘So, are you still working in advertising?’

‘How did you know I worked in advertising?’ I try not to sound as taken aback as I feel, but his expression suggests I’ve failed.

‘Um, through Brian,’ he says. ‘Sorry, is it weird that I know? I just asked how you were doing and he told me.’

Brian, aka Brían, is an academic now and lives in Bristol.

I knew he and Tadhg had stayed in touch.

Tadhg couldn’t make Brian’s wedding five years ago because he was playing some massive gig in Japan.

I remember how I felt when I realised I wasn’t going to see him there.

A mixture of huge relief and massive disappointment.

‘No, of course it’s not weird,’ I say. It does feel a bit weird, but neither Tadhg nor Brian has done anything wrong or inappropriate. ‘And yes, I am. Working in advertising, I mean. I’m freelance, but I’m starting a new job soon.’

‘So does that mean you’re free right now?’ says Tara.

‘Maybe,’ I say warily.

‘Good,’ she says. ‘So you should be able to spend some time in Tadhg’s studio working on the song.’

I bristle at the assumption that I can afford to spend my time faffing around a millionaire’s musical playroom.

‘Well, it depends,’ I say. ‘As I said, I’m self-employed. I can’t just … not work or stop looking for work.’

‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’ Tadhg looks embarrassed. ‘I should have made it clear. You’d be paid for your time.’

‘You’d be working from ten to five, at top session-musician day rates,’ says Tara. And she names a sum that is well over twice as much as I was planning to charge per day for doing a freelance stint in an ad agency. ‘More if you end up working late.’

I stifle a gasp. This is a lot of money.

‘Where’s the studio?’ I bet it’s out in Wicklow or Meath or something. And it’ll take me an hour and a half to get there every day. Oh well, now I’ve heard the day rate I’d be willing to take three buses to earn it.

‘Fairview,’ says Tadhg.

I think I’m hearing things. ‘What do you mean, Fairview?’

‘Come on, Lol, you know what Fairview is. The northside suburb. You know Marino Crescent?’

Of course I know Marino Crescent. It’s the only Georgian crescent in Dublin, a beautiful curved row of tall eighteenth-century houses situated two miles from the city centre, facing a little park that used to be the owners’ private garden but is now open to all.

But more relevant to me is the fact that it’s fifteen minutes’ walk from Katie and Jeanne’s house.

‘You have a studio in Marino Crescent?’ I think I must be goggling at him.

‘Well, and a house. I live there.’

‘I’m sorry, what ?’