Page 39 of Our Song

He looks away for a second, and when he looks back at me his expression is so full of sympathy and guilt and something that looks a bit like love that I can’t hold it in any longer.

I dig my fingernails into my palms the way I always used to, but it doesn’t work this time, and to my absolute horror I realise I am, at last, after all these years, doing what I vowed I’d never do and crying in front of Tadhg.

Or rather, crying next to Tadhg, because now he’s sitting beside me on the bed and his arm is around me and I’m sobbing into his shirt as he holds me tightly and strokes my hair and murmurs, ‘It’s okay, Lol. It’s okay, sweetheart. It’ll be okay.’

And somehow this doesn’t feel tragic, or humiliating, or shameful.

It feels like comfort.

But once I’ve cried myself out a bit, I pull away from him and say, ‘Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to cry all over you.’

I reach over, grab a tissue from the box on my bedside table and blow my nose loudly. I’ve basically given up on vanity now.

‘You,’ says Tadhg, ‘have absolutely nothing to apologise for. I’m the one who has to keep apologising. If it weren’t for me, you and your family wouldn’t have to deal with all this shit. I wish I could … I wish I could stop it hurting you.’

‘The stuff on social media,’ I say. ‘It’s bad. I mean, it’s so bad. And there’s just so much of it.’

‘It’ll pass,’ he says. ‘I know that’s not much consolation right now, but believe me, Lol, it will pass.’

‘Have you seen what people are saying about me?’ I say. ‘Actually, no, I don’t want to know if you’ve seen it. If you haven’t, don’t look at it.’

‘It’s all meaningless,’ he says, ‘whatever they’re saying.’

‘But it’s relentless,’ I say. ‘And it’s not just strangers. It’s people I sort of know, all messaging me, asking questions … I even got a text from Caroline.’

Tadhg looks startled. ‘Brian’s ex Caroline?’

I nod. ‘She runs a lifestyle brand. Called Moon. She wants to give me some ‘pieces’ if I do any events with you.’

We stare at each other for a second, and then his mouth twitches, and I let out a very undignified snort of laughter, and we both crack up until Tadhg is doubled over with mirth and I’m gasping for air.

When the laughter finally subsides, Tadhg says, ‘Obviously you said yes to Caroline.’

‘Well of course,’ I say. ‘I’ll be wearing nothing but Moon from now on. Though actually she only offered to lend the pieces so I’ll have to give them all back.’ I flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling again, but this time I’m almost smiling.

Tadhg looks down at me and suddenly I’m aware of the physical intimacy. Me lying, limp from laughing, him sitting next to me, the two of us on my bed.

‘You know,’ he says, ‘if you want to stop working with me, I totally understand. If you never want to do it again, I don’t blame you.’

I sit up and think of all those commenters calling me a grifter, calling me talentless (‘If she’s so great, why hasn’t she done anything until now?

??’), feeling sorry for me, accusing me of sleeping with Tadhg (I fucking wish), accusing me of being after his money, after his studio, after his house.

I have many, many complicated feelings about working with Tadhg, but one feeling isn’t complicated at all: I am determined not to let those dickheads decide whether I do it or not.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Let’s keep going.’

I walk him downstairs and we stand in the hall where, just forty-eight hours earlier, I said goodbye to him after dinner, totally unaware of what I’d wake up to.

‘I’m sorry to rush off, but my lawyer’s coming over to the house in fifteen minutes,’ he says. ‘She’s going to sort out legally firing Hugo.’

‘Good.’ When I think of Hugo, a sort of red mist descends over my eyes. Maybe I should get Annie on a plane to take care of him right now.

‘So,’ says Tadhg, ‘do you want to come over to the studio tomorrow? We can wait a few days, if you’d rather.’

I do want to go to the studio. I’ve come to accept that I don’t actually want to stay in my room forever.

I’m about to say yes, but then I imagine making the short walk to Marino Crescent, past people who might recognise me from the pictures online.

Past the fans in the Crescent park who definitely would. I’m suddenly flooded with panic.

‘Are you okay?’ he says.

I look up at his kind hazel eyes and shake my head.

‘I really want to,’ I say. ‘But the thought of facing people outside your house …’

My heart is beating faster just at the thought.

‘I should have thought of that,’ he says. ‘How about … how about if I come here?’

The panic subsides, just a bit.

‘Yeah, okay,’ I say. ‘That sounds good.’

‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Usual time?’

‘Usual time.’

‘And I know I keep saying it,’ he says, ‘but I’m really sorry for letting you down.’

I watch from the door as he gets in his car and drives away. Katie comes out of the kitchen.

‘Were you listening in behind the door?’

‘Not really,’ she says. ‘How did that go?’

‘I cried all over him,’ I say as I follow her into the kitchen. ‘At my age. Proper snotty crying. After always swearing I’d never cry in front of him.’

‘It doesn’t count if you’re not crying about him,’ she says. ‘Are you still angry with him?’

I sigh. I mean, if I weren’t working with Tadhg, if he’d been more rigorous with Hugo, this wouldn’t have happened.

But no one forced me to work with him. Media attention was always a risk.

Even without Hugo, someone could have noticed me going into his house every day for a week and taken a photo.

Katie and Jeanne were warning me about that possibility just a few days ago.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m not still angry with him.’

When I wake up the next morning there’s a moment of blissful peace before all the events of the last week flood back into my mind.

‘On the plus side,’ I tell Jeanne when we’re sitting in the kitchen, her drinking coffee and me drinking tea, ‘at least the Cinderella stuff has stopped me thinking about Dave and his baby.’

‘That’s the spirit!’ says Jeanne.

Tadhg arrives at ten and I’ve just handed him the first cup of tea of the session when he says, ‘I had an idea I want to run by you.’

‘If it’s about Moveable Feast,’ I say, ‘I’m really not in the right headspace to think about that right now.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ he says. ‘No, I was thinking I could post something online making it clear that this bullshit story and its sources were completely unauthorised by me, and that you and I had made a mutual decision to work together for a few weeks as songwriting partners. I know it won’t make all this go away, but at least it’d make it clear that you’re not … ’

‘Your charity case.’ I think about it for a moment. He’s right that a statement wouldn’t change what’s already out there. But my wounded dignity can’t resist the opportunity to tell the world that I’m not Saint Tadhg’s latest project.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Let’s do it.’

‘Great,’ says Tadhg. ‘Um, I’ve actually written something already. I thought we could post a picture of the two of us with this as a caption. But only if you’re happy with it, obviously.’

He shows me the note on his phone. He really has been thinking about this.

This is my old friend Laura McDermott, one of the very best guitarists I’ve ever known.

[‘Is that a bit much?’ I say. ‘No,’ says Tadhg.

‘It’s just the truth.’] For the last week we’ve been writing songs together again for the first time since we were in a band in college.

I’m really happy to be working with Laura again and I’d like to take this opportunity to discuss the stories about our creative partnership that have appeared in the media this week.

These stories wildly misrepresented both Laura’s situation and our working relationship, and the statements by alleged sources from my team were absolutely not authorised by me.

[‘I’d love to publicly blame Hugo,’ says Tadhg, ‘but I legally can’t because we’re still in the process of firing him.

’] I’m asking you all to please respect Laura and her privacy and to understand how lucky I am to be working with her again.

She’s an incredible musician and songwriter.

[‘You don’t have to say that last bit,’ I say.

‘But it’s the truth,’ says Tadhg.] Thanks everyone, and I hope I’ll see some of you at my soon-to-be-announced live dates next year.

‘I hope,’ says Tadhg, ‘the news of the gigs will distract the more, um, unhinged fans from going after you.’

‘What are the live dates next year?’ I ask. ‘Are you touring?’

I’m unsurprised but a little worried by how my stomach twists at the thought of him heading off on the road, far away from me.

‘It’s not finalised yet,’ says Tadhg, ‘but yeah, the plan is another big tour in 2020. For when the new album comes out next summer.’

I glance over at him. He’s looking down at his feet, his face set.

‘You don’t look hugely excited,’ I say.

He looks up and sighs. ‘I’m not, to be honest. I love playing live, I really love it, but touring – it’s not so fun anymore.

It used to be fun, like a big working holiday, but I know that when I’m on the road next year I’ll miss home, I’ll miss my old friends, I’ll miss …

I’ll miss everything. Fuck, I know I sound like an arsehole.

Poor me, I don’t want to play some gigs for the people who paid for my house! ’

‘You don’t sound like an arsehole,’ I say. ‘I get it.’ And I do.

‘You don’t think I’m an ungrateful shit?’

‘Of course I don’t,’ I say. ‘I totally understand. And, you know, you’re not getting any younger …’

‘I’m only a month older than you!’

‘That’s what I mean! At our age … well, you don’t necessarily want to be out every night. You don’t want to be away all the time. You want the odd night out and then some, I dunno, peace and security. A home life. Wow, that sounds quite boring when I say it out loud.’

‘No,’ says Tadhg. ‘It sounds pretty good.’