Page 23 of Our Song

‘How was your dinner thing?’

I ask Tadhg this question as if I haven’t been thinking about his mysterious ‘dinner thing’ since yesterday evening.

Not all the time, obviously. But enough.

A lot. Too much. I didn’t mention it to Katie after I got home last night.

I barely wanted to admit to myself how much it bothered me, so I was hardly eager to tell her.

I just told her we’d written a couple of songs together and she said, ‘Two songs in one day? Wow, it really is like old times. Apart from you pining after him, of course,’ she added.

‘Ha! Yeah, of course,’ I said.

‘There’s no pining, is there?’ she said suspiciously.

Bloody Katie, she knows me too well.

‘No!’ I said. ‘Absolutely none. Don’t worry, it’s not like before.’

‘Really?’ said Katie.

‘Really,’ I said. ‘This time, I know what I’m doing.’

But now, in Tadhg’s kitchen, I’m not sure I do know what I’m doing. I’m not even sure I managed to sound all that casual when I asked him about the dinner. Maybe it’s for the best if he tells me it was a hot date.

Tadhg sighs. ‘It was just Hugo.’

So it wasn’t a date. Unless Tadhg is into men as well as women now, in which case good for him, but not good for me, because although the thought of Tadhg with another man is pretty hot in theory, it would not be hot at all for me in reality; in reality I don’t want him to be with anyone else of any gender …

Bloody hell, this is getting ridiculous.

‘Um, who’s Hugo?’ I say.

‘Hugo,’ says Tadhg, and now his face is so grim I stop worrying that Hugo was Tadhg’s date, ‘thinks he’s my manager.’

I’m embarrassed by how relieved I am to hear this.

‘And isn’t he?’ I hand him a cup of tea. We’re taking turns to handle tea duties now. I’m getting very familiar with his kitchen.

‘Thanks.’ Tadhg takes the cup. ‘And no, he isn’t, not if I can help it.’

‘Then why …?’ I ask gently.

Tadhg sighs. ‘His dad, Jim, was my manager. He signed me after ‘Winter Without You’ broke through. He was brilliant. Really brilliant. He got me that Glastonbury slot. He’s basically why I broke America. And he was really sound too. Just the perfect manager.’

‘So what happened to him?’ I say, though I can guess.

‘He died a few months ago,’ says Tadhg. ‘Which was … yeah. It was a shock. He just dropped dead of a heart attack.’ He takes a long breath.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

He nods his acknowledgement. ‘Anyway, he owned the management company and his son Hugo was working for him, managing a few other acts, but after he died Hugo inherited Jim’s artists as well as the company.’

‘Ah,’ I say. ‘And I take it you don’t … see eye to eye?’

‘No, we do not,’ says Tadhg. ‘God love him, he’s not the worst person in the world, but we just don’t have the same outlook. I’d have trusted his dad with my life but …’ He trails off.

‘You don’t trust Hugo?’

Tadhg sighs. ‘I suppose I don’t, really.

Not the way I trusted Jim. And Hugo knows I’m actively looking for new management.

Which is why he decided to pop over from London to try and persuade me to stay.

Hence the dinner last night.’ He rolls his eyes.

‘I almost forgot about it. He told me last week that he was coming over but I suppose I tried to push it out of my mind.’

‘So how did it go?’

‘Not great,’ says Tadhg. ‘He’s obsessed with shaking things up – his words, not mine. He’s into all that disruptor bollocks.’

‘And how does he want you to do that?’

‘Oh, he has many ideas.’ Tadhg sits on the edge of the kitchen table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. ‘There’s a couple of producers he wants me to work with, one in Sweden and one in America. Max Ahlberg and Jack Johns. He thinks I should have some songwriting sessions with them.’

It is, I know, ridiculous of me to feel a twinge of jealousy at the thought of Tadhg working with professional producers, but I do.

‘What do you think?’ I say. ‘Do you want to be, um, shaken up?’

To my surprise he says, ‘Well, maybe.’

‘Seriously?’ I say.

‘Just not by those guys,’ says Tadhg. ‘They’re not terrible or anything but I don’t want to write songs with them.

’ He picks up a pen from the table and twists it around in his hands.

‘My stuff can be pretty poppy but not their sort of pop.’ He mentions a few Grammy-winning acts Ahlberg and Johns have produced, and I see what he means. ‘We wouldn’t be a good match.’

‘It doesn’t sound like it,’ I agree.

‘But … I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately,’ says Tadhg. ‘Since Jim died. About what I want to do next musically.’

‘And?’ I say.

‘Well, I do kind of feel that I’m in a rut.’ He stops fiddling with the pen and looks at me. ‘Or at least that I want to do something different. So I started thinking seriously about writing songs with other people.’

‘Have you … have you ever done that before?’ I’m genuinely interested. I haven’t paid enough attention to the details of his career to know who he’s worked with. ‘Professionally, I mean.’

‘I’ve tried a few times,’ he says. ‘But it never worked. I’ve never been able to write songs with anyone else.’ He pauses and then says, ‘Apart from you.’

I don’t know what to say to this. I’m flattered – more than flattered – that I’m the only person he’s ever written with. But it all reminds me that this is all about Tadhg’s job. His career. This reunion is primarily about work. Not our old friendship.

‘In fact, that’s what made me think of our song,’ Tadhg continues. ‘And after I started playing it again, I really, really wanted to finish it. That’s why I asked Tara to mail you.’

‘So what did you say to Hugo last night?’ I ask.

‘I told him I didn’t want to write with Ahlberg and Johns,’ says Tadhg. ‘And that I was already in the middle of a songwriting session. With you.’

He’s telling his manager – well, his sort-of manager – about me? This fortnight of workshopping really is serious. ‘And does Hugo approve?’

‘Well, he still wants me to work with Ahlberg and Johns,’ says Tadhg.

‘He thinks working with them will be good publicity, if nothing else. Show I’m going in a ‘fresh new direction’ – his words, not mine.

But I told him I didn’t need their direction and I was sticking with you.

And that’s that.’ He clasps his hands at the back of his neck and looks up to the ceiling.

‘I’ve got to sort out meetings with new managers. I’ve kind of been letting it slide.’

‘Well, you did say Jim only died a few months ago,’ I say. ‘You can’t rush into things.’

‘I suppose,’ says Tadhg.

‘And you’ll get out of that rut,’ I say. ‘You don’t need any help to do that.’

‘I think I do,’ says Tadhg, with a wry smile. ‘Sorry for banging on about this.’

‘You haven’t been,’ I say. ‘I know I haven’t won any Grammys, but do you want to go to the studio and write some more songs with me?’

Tadhg laughs. ‘There is nothing I’d like more.’

It’s as if yesterday’s work has ignited some fresh creative fire. Yesterday we were bringing each other fragments of songs we’d already written; today we’re coming up with brand-new music. We write a whole new song there and then.

‘I’d love to play that last one with a full band,’ I say. ‘No offence to your drumming, of course. But it would be great to …’ I trail off and Tadhg grins.

‘Play with a proper drummer? I agree. And actually,’ he adds thoughtfully, ‘we might be able to do something about that. I can see if my friend Sam’s free to call in for a few hours this week. He only lives in Glasnevin. I’ll give him a ring right now.’

And he actually does it. He takes his phone out of his pocket and makes the call.

‘Hey, man, how are you? Good, thanks. Really good. Listen, how are you fixed this week? Do you have any spare time? No, I’m working on some songs in the studio with my friend Laura …

Um, yeah, that’s right. She is. Yeah.’ Tadhg looks at me and whispers, ‘Sorry, I’ll be back in a sec,’ and leaves the room, closing the kitchen door firmly behind him.

I can’t help feeling slightly paranoid. What was this mysterious Sam asking about me?

Tadhg comes back a minute or two later.

‘So,’ he says, ‘if it’s okay with you, Sam will call over for a few hours this afternoon. What do you think?’

‘I think we’ll make a lot of noise,’ I say. ‘In a very good way.’

‘Excellent,’ says Tadhg.

We spend the rest of the morning working on all the new songs.

We still don’t have proper lyrics for them, but I tell myself they can come later.

Writing lyrics feels weirdly intimate at the moment, and I don’t know if either of us is ready for that.

What would we write lyrics about? In the past, we never really wrote lyrics together.

Because Tadhg was so good at it and I was so unwilling to write about what I was actually feeling, he became our primary lyricist by default.

Which was probably for the best, given the lyrics I did write, like ‘Midnight Feast’.

I suppose we could divide the songs up between us now, but the only lyric subjects that spring to my mind are my complicated new feelings for Tadhg and the memories of my anger and hurt at Dave.

And I don’t feel like sharing any of that with Tadhg at the moment.

I’m also not exactly eager to listen to any potential lyrics about Tadhg’s recent love life. Or current love life, if he has one. If he does, I don’t want to find out about it by playing the guitar while he sings heartfelt words about it. I’d rather leave the songs wordless for now.

We’re just finishing lunch when I think of Sarah’s daughter Ellie. I feel a bit weird asking him, but then I think how happy it would make Ellie and I realise my embarrassment isn’t as important as her getting a message from her hero.

‘Um, can I ask a favour?’ I say.

‘Sure,’ says Tadhg.