Page 34 of Our Song

‘Surely not,’ says Katie. ‘I know it’s been complicated but I’m a hundred per cent sure that man cares about you. He wouldn’t throw you to the wolves like that.’

I take a deep breath. She’s right. Of course she’s right.

‘Sorry, I’m being ridiculous,’ I say. ‘I know he wouldn’t.’

Then a sleepy-eyed Jeanne comes into the kitchen, holding up my phone. ‘Morning,’ she says, putting it on the table. ‘Your phone kept buzzing, Laura – I thought I should bring it down in case it’s urgent.’ She looks at my and Katie’s faces. ‘What has happened? Is everything okay?’

I check my phone. There are many, many messages. And several missed calls from one number.

Tadhg’s.

I look at the earliest messages, the ones from the unknown numbers. They’re all long.

Hi Laura, long time no see! This is Caroline White, though you might remember me as Caroline Moriarty.

I got your number from a group mail for Brian’s 30th.

Anyway, I see you’re working with our old friend Tadhg – how amazing!

If you’re doing any events with him, I’d love to talk to you about lending you a few pieces – I own a clothing and lifestyle brand called Moon. Anyway, give me a call! Xxx

Hi Laura, my name’s Jenny Toolan and I’m a producer on the Chris Walsh show on RTé Radio 1. Might you be available on Monday to talk to Chris about your work with Tadhg Hennessy? I think our listeners would be really interested in your story. Please give me a call on this number. Thanks so much!

Laura this is Ruairí Flynn. I just saw the story, I’m SO sorry.

I had no idea this woman was a journalist. She saw a photo of one of those college gigs on my Instagram and messaged me.

She said Tim was doing some sort of official retrospective thing.

I’m really sorry and I hope you’re not offended by what I said.

If there’s anything I can do to help/make up for this, let me know.

I look at the other messages, some from good friends expressing concern, mostly from people I know but haven’t seen for ages. Most are genuinely positive, expressing surprise or delight or congratulations. But it’s a weird feeling knowing they’re only contacting me because I’m connected to Tadhg.

And then a text from Tadhg appears.

Tadhg : I’m so sorry, Lol. Please ring me. I can explain everything.

He’s apologising. He can explain it.

He’s responsible for the story.

I feel like I might throw up.

I do not call Tadhg back.

Tadhg calls again. I let it ring out.

Then my phone starts vibrating again, and my parents’ landline number comes up on the caller ID, and I groan aloud because I know I have to answer this one.

‘Laurie!’ I can hear the anxiety in my mother’s voice. ‘Are you all right? Your dad and I saw this article about you and Tadhg Hennessy …’

I try not to sigh. ‘I’m fine, Mam. Don’t worry about me.’

‘That article said you were homeless!’

‘I’m not! I’m still living with Katie and Jeanne. Seriously, this article is nonsense. I’m sorry you and Dad were worried.’

‘So you’re not working with Tadhg Hennessy?’

‘No, I am, but—’

‘Then it’s not all nonsense!’

‘The Cinderella stuff is nonsense! We’re just working together. It’s fine.’

Or it was. I don’t think it’s fine anymore.

‘So you’re not still unemployed then?’

I take a deep breath and remind myself my parents, with their public sector jobs, have never quite understood freelancing.

‘I was never unemployed, Mam. I was freelance. I am freelance. And I’ve got an agency contract lined up.’

‘So this thing with Tadhg Hennessy is a freelance job?’ says my dad. My mother’s clearly put the phone on speaker.

‘Um, yes, exactly,’ I say. ‘It’s just a short-term thing, then I’ll be back at an agency.’

‘Oh, thank goodness. What should I say if anyone asks about you?’ says my mother.

Oh Christ, I hadn’t thought about this. ‘Don’t talk about it to anyone you don’t know! If any strangers or anything get in touch, just tell them, um, no comment. And tell everyone else that it’s just a job, and it’s grand, and I’m grand.’

‘You’re sure you’re okay, Laurie?’ says my mother.

‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘I’m really sorry you were upset.’

‘We’re just worried about you, pet,’ says Dad and he really sounds it.

‘There’s no need!’ I say. ‘Look, I’d better go. Seriously, don’t worry. I’ll talk to you soon.’

I hang up and Katie hands me a cup of tea. Even though, God love her, Katie never puts in quite enough milk and always puts in too much sugar, I thank her and start drinking it.

‘Your folks okay?’ says Katie.

‘Just worried I’m living on the streets.’ I let out a groan. ‘What am I going to do?’

‘You need to talk to Tadhg,’ says Jeanne.

‘I really don’t,’ I say. ‘I can’t. Not right now. Fuck, I’m sorry about all this. I know you didn’t sign up for all this drama when you let me stay here.’

‘Oh, stop it,’ says Katie. ‘You don’t need to apologise for anything.’

‘You didn’t cause this drama,’ says Jeanne. ‘It’s this dreadful journalist woman.’

My phone vibrates with another call and this time it’s Aisling. I have to answer it.

‘Laura, I’m so sorry! And Kev’s so sorry. Seriously, he didn’t mean to cause any trouble. Are you okay?’

‘Not really,’ I say.

‘I didn’t think you’d mind me telling him about you and Tadhg.’ Aisling sounds on the verge of tears. ‘But I didn’t think he’d tell anyone.’

It turns out Kev knew the journalist back in college. She found me on social media and discovered Kev was a mutual connection. She messaged him and asked him about me and Tadhg, and of course Kev was only delighted to share what he’d just discovered.

‘He didn’t know she was asking as, like, a journalist,’ says Aisling. ‘She said she knew Tadhg herself.’

I take a deep breath and try to convince myself it’s not really Aisling’s fault. I didn’t tell her to keep me and Tadhg’s history a secret. But I really can’t bear to talk to her at the moment.

‘I don’t blame you,’ I say. ‘But I’d better go.’

I hang up just as my phone lights up with an alert. There’s a new text from Tadhg. In fact it looks like there are quite a few texts from Tadhg, all more or less saying the same thing.

Tadhg : Please ring me, Lol. I can’t apologise enough for this.

I can’t ring him now. I have a feeling that if I do the shock and anger will turn into distress and I’ll start crying instead. And I vowed a long time ago that I was never, ever going to cry in front of him.

‘Come on, Lol,’ says Katie. ‘Have a shower and me and Jeanne will take you out for breakfast. How does that sound?’

Suddenly, the thought of getting out of the house is very appealing. I might even leave my phone behind.

‘Okay,’ I say.

Half an hour later, Katie, Jeanne and I are seated in our favourite local breakfast spot. We come here fairly regularly and the staff all know us to see. But today, after the server takes our orders, she looks at me oddly.

‘This might be a weird question,’ she says, pencil still posed over her order pad, ‘but … is that you?’ And she points at a newspaper left on the seat of the table behind ours.

My appetite vanishes. The story about me and Tadhg is not the lead headline.

But over the masthead of the newspaper there’s a text band saying ‘Tadhg Hennessy helps desperate pal: full story page 4 and 5’ and next to it is a photo of Tadhg looking extremely elegant and handsome next to the awful, awful photo of me staring into the heavens in my parka.

‘Oh my God,’ says Jeanne in a genuinely horrified voice.

‘Um, yeah.’ My voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away. ‘I suppose it is me.’

The server looks like she’s going to ask something else but then Jeanne says, ‘Could we get some tap water, please?’ and the girl says, ‘Oh yeah, of course,’ and goes.

Katie reaches over, grabs the paper and then sits on it. ‘Now no one else here will see it,’ she says.

‘It’s on the front page,’ I say numbly. ‘People will see it in shops.’

It turns out it wasn’t even the only copy in the café.

More customers arrive for leisurely breakfasts over the Sunday papers, and I can see that appalling front page on a few tables.

All the staff keep looking over at us, and at least one customer glances up from reading the story itself and does a double-take when she sees me.

Who knew print media still had such power?

I haven’t finished my eggs but I can’t stay there a minute longer.

‘Look, I’m going to go,’ I say. ‘You stay and finish your breakfast.’

Katie and Jeanne make protesting noises but I insist. I need to be on my own for a while.

I pay for all our breakfasts on my way out, and a few heads turn as I make my way to the counter.

The girl at the till, who’s there most weekends, says, ‘It’s so cool about you and Tadhg Hennessy! You should bring him in here sometime!’

I smile weakly at her and think I would rather die.

Once outside, I cross the road to Fairview Park and wander along a path under the trees.

My phone is on silent – I couldn’t quite bring myself to leave it at home – but when I take it out of my bag there are more texts and messages.

It feels like everyone I’ve ever known has heard about this story.

Even if Tadhg somehow has an explanation for it coming out, it still won’t change the fact that the whole world now thinks I’m his charity case.

People will be talking about this, they’ll be talking about me …

And somehow it’s only now that it hits me they’ll be doing all this on social media.

I’m not particularly active on Twitter, and my DMs are limited to mutuals only, but when I open it I see that I have 3,000 new followers. And hundreds and hundreds of people have tagged me in their tweets. Numbly, I click on the mentions feed.

If @tadhghennessymusic wants to rescue someone can he rescue me instead of some ugly hag like @lauramakesads?

OMG Tadhg can do so much better than you @lauramakesads

Leave Tadhg alone @lauramakesads!

So jealous of you and Tadhg @lauramakesads!!!!! Lucky girl

I close the app quickly. I feel hot and sick and my hands feel clammy.

I stand there for a minute, letting the waves of sickness wash over me.

But then, because I’m clearly a masochist, I open Instagram.

Again, I’ve got thousands of new followers.

There are many, many new comments. My hands are shaking so much I nearly drop my phone as I click on the comments under the most recent photo I posted on the grid, a nice one of me and Katie at a friend’s birthday party a few months ago.

A shallow part of me is glad that at least I don’t look like a tragic waif in this one – I’m wearing my Paris vintage dress, the one I was wearing, fuck, how was it only last night?

And Katie looks incredibly chic, with her bleached wavy bob and a batwing Cos top.

Then I look at the comments.

She doesn’t exactly look destitute, does she? She must have spun Tadhg some sob story.

Tadhg has such a good soul. Can’t believe he’s been taken in by this grifter.

Amazing hair, amazing dress. And her friend is gorgeous!

OMG Tadhg can do so much better than this.

Jesus she looks good for her age, doesn’t she? Isn’t she practically 40?!

Aww you are so cute! Love the dress.

How much did you pay that guy to say everyone fancied you?!!!!

I click on another photo. There are many, many more comments like this.

There are comments analysing my face, my body, my hair, how old I look, how old I must be.

There are comments calling me a whore, calling me a con artist, calling me a groupie.

There are comments praising me, saying I must be so talented, that I look amazing.

There are so, so, so many comments. I make my account private but it’s too late, I’ve seen all the comments now.

I’ve seen what people are saying about me.

Hundreds, thousands of people, all over the world, all with an opinion of me. It’s too much. It’s just too much.

I sit down on a park bench and burst into tears.