Page 43 of Our Song

‘I know,’ I say. I make myself sit up straighter.

I’m having lunch in a beautiful restaurant with someone I genuinely enjoy spending time with, despite my very complicated feelings about him (they’re not that complicated, Laura, they’re just inconvenient).

‘D’you know what, I’m going to forget about all this for a while and just have a nice lunch. ’

‘That sounds,’ says Tadhg, ‘like an excellent idea.’

Still, it’s impossible to totally ignore what’s happened. While we’re eating our starters I say, ‘I know we’re not in the same boat, but how do you get used to it? Being written about as if you’re a character in a soap opera rather than a real person?’

‘I don’t know if you ever do,’ says Tadhg. ‘The first time there was anything in the news about my personal life I totally freaked out.’

‘Seriously?’ One thing about Tadhg, he’s not one of nature’s freak-outers. He’s always been pretty chill.

‘Oh, yeah. I had just started going out with Charlotte Fitzpatrick – you know her?’

I do. Everyone does. She won a BAFTA last year.

And I certainly remember their relationship.

‘Charlotte and Tadhg’ (the media tried to form a decent portmanteau word for their union but had to admit defeat – Tadhlotte sounded way too like ‘toilet’ in a strong Dublin accent and Chadhg was far too close to either ‘shite’ or ‘shag’, depending on how you pronounced it) were presented as a gorgeous Irish showbiz power couple.

The story broke four years after Tadhg and I went our separate ways, and I remember being taken aback by the strength of my visceral reaction to paparazzi photos of him and Charlotte kissing in the Jardin des Tuileries in Paris.

‘Photos of us appeared in the tabloids,’ Tadhg continues.

‘And basically, I freaked. I know it sounds na?ve – I mean, I was what, twenty-six? I wasn’t a na?ve kid.

I thought I knew what tabloids were like.

But somehow I couldn’t believe they could just do that to me , to us.

I couldn’t believe they’d spied on us when we were having what was meant to be a romantic weekend away.

I don’t think I understood that I was, you know, famous enough for anyone to bother with me, so it was a huge, huge shock.

For a few months I didn’t want to go out anywhere.

I was paranoid there’d be paparazzi snapping me everywhere I went.

I really liked Charlotte, and she liked me, but my reaction to all that bullshit basically destroyed our relationship. ’

‘What a very cheering story,’ I say.

‘I know it doesn’t sound very positive,’ says Tadhg. ‘But I did get through it. I found ways to adapt. And, no, it’s not fun, but I mean, my job is hardly going down the salt mines. I know plenty of people who have proper jobs that are much harder than anything I have to do.’

This is very sensible. For him. But he gets the good parts of fame to balance out the negative stuff.

He gets his dream career and his gorgeous house.

I still have to live in the real world. He must guess something of what I’m thinking because he says, ‘Sorry, I know that’s not hugely helpful for you right now. ’

‘Well, I did ask how you dealt with it.’

‘I suppose the most useful thing I did was … disassociation,’ says Tadhg.

‘Consciously telling myself all those stories and photos had nothing to do with me. They were about some imaginary Tadhg. But the real me … I could tell myself that was still Tim Hennessy. A different person.’ He pauses.

‘It’s actually useful, going by two names.

It can create a sort of distance between the person who plays big shows and gets photographed in the street and the person who, like, goes for Sunday dinner with his mam and dad in Clontarf. ’

On one hand, disassociation is helpful advice. On the other …

‘Do you mind me calling you Tadhg?’ I say.

‘What? Of course not!’

‘I mean …’ What do I mean? That I’m suddenly feeling really sad that I might not know the real him?

That I never did? That he was creating a distance between me and him the whole time?

I think of Jess calling him Tim and how odd that made me feel.

Like maybe she knew his real name, his real self, and I didn’t.

‘Me and Katie and Jo and Brian, us calling you Tadhg … did that make you feel like we didn’t know you? Like we just knew, I dunno, a persona, but you were always Tim to your real friends?’

‘God, no! No .’ Tadhg is literally shaking his head.

‘It wasn’t like that. You were my real friends too.

You calling me Tadhg wasn’t about a persona.

It wasn’t a stage name. It felt … it was affectionate.

’ He looks away for a moment and then turns back to me, with that old awkward smile. ‘Shit, at least I hope it was!’

I laugh, at least partly in relief. ‘Yeah, it was.’

‘You know,’ says Tadhg, ‘a few months after we … after the band split up, when I started playing solo gigs, I was initially going to bill myself as Tim Hennessy. But I stuck with Tadhg.’

‘Because Tim wasn’t rock-and-roll enough?’ I say.

‘Ha! Well, partly,’ he says. ‘But also … I wasn’t ready to stop being Tadhg just yet.’

‘Oh,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘And here we are.’

‘You’re stuck with it now,’ I say. ‘Even though no one outside Ireland can spell it. Or say it.’

‘Yep,’ he says.

But he doesn’t sound like he minds.

This entire conversation makes me feel better.

We talk about his early gigs and my brief periods in other bands after college.

I don’t tell him none of them worked out because nothing was as good as playing with him.

We talk about the new songs and how good it’ll be to try them with Sam when he’s back in the studio tomorrow.

We imagine suitable punishments for Hugo.

We finish the bottle of Fleurie and look at each other and Tadhg says, ‘Fuck it, will we get another?’ and I say ‘Yes!’ and we do.

It’s fun. It’s good. And most importantly, it’s distracting.

‘This was such a great idea,’ I say. ‘Thanks a million.’

‘Absolutely no need to thank me,’ says Tadhg. ‘It is very much the least I could do.’

‘And I really don’t think anyone’s noticed you,’ I say. I cautiously stick my head out of the alcove as if I’m looking for a sniper. ‘All clear!’

And then I see them in a booth on the other side of the room, getting their bill from a waiter.

He’s changed his hair. That’s the first, stupid thing that comes into my head when I see Dave putting his card in the machine to pay the bill.

The last time I saw him his sandy hair was short, but not exactly styled.

Now it looks carefully groomed. He’s been using product.

He never used hair products. Maybe his fiancée got him some hair wax.

Her back is to me, but I can see her glowing honey-blonde hair.

Sleek, well-behaved hair. Very unlike mine.

Why are they even here on a random weekday? How the hell did he get a table? I was just thinking earlier that you have to book this place a year in advance. And a year ago he was engaged to me. A year ago today was our seven-year anniversary.

Oh. Oh .

He must have booked it for our eight-year anniversary.

And now he’s here with his new pregnant fiancée and I’m – well, I’m here with a hot rock star.

In other circumstances that would look pretty good.

But given what the papers have been writing about me, if anyone recognises me they’ll think it’s like a Make-A-Wish foundation outing.

I look out again to make sure it’s definitely him. It is.

‘Laura, what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Sorry, seriously, I’m fine.’

‘You keep poking your head out of the alcove. Are you sure nothing’s wrong? Maybe it was a bad idea coming here after all …’

I sigh. ‘My ex Dave is over there with his new fiancée.’

‘His new what?’

‘His fiancée,’ I say. ‘His betrothed. The woman he’s going to marry.’

‘He’s engaged again already?’

‘Well, I suppose he’s more traditional than I thought,’ I say. ‘She is pregnant, after all.’

‘Sorry, she’s what ?’

The over-the-top awfulness of it all hits me and I let out a laugh despite myself. ‘It’s so cartoonishly terrible it’s kind of funny.’

‘Ah, Lol,’ says Tadhg. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘No, seriously, it is. It will be. I don’t want to be with him anymore. It’s just … we were going to get married. And now it’s like I never existed for him. He’s got a whole new life.’

‘Yeah, well,’ says Tadhg, ‘so do you.’

I roll my eyes. ‘“Tadhg’s little Cinderella: rock star’s charity case”?’ Those words are still burned into my head. Along with all the other headlines.

‘The people who matter know that bollocks isn’t true,’ says Tadhg.

I lean out and gesture over at the booth, where Dave and my replacement (Liz, I tell myself, her name is Liz) are getting up to go.

‘ They don’t know that.’ And without thinking, I say, ‘God, I genuinely wish the tabloids had said I was your new girlfriend. At least then Dave would think I’d moved on as fast as him. ’

That’s when Dave’s eyes meet mine and widen in shock. Unthinkingly, I grab Tadhg’s arm and lean back into the alcove so Dave can’t see us. But it’s too late.

‘Oh shit, he’s spotted me! No, no, no, no, no, I think he’s coming over!’

‘Lol,’ says Tadhg. ‘Did you seriously mean what you just said? Do you really want him to think you’ve moved on?’

‘Oh God, yes!’

‘Do you mind if I put my arm around you?’

‘Um, no?’

‘Then,’ Tadhg is whispering in my ear now, ‘let’s give him something to think about.’

I turn my head to look at him as he slips his arm around my shoulder. Our faces haven’t been so close in a long, long time.

‘Laura?’

I turn around to find Dave awkwardly standing beside the table. The girl from Instagram – Liz, I remind myself – is next to him, holding his hand. Could there possibly be a hint of a bump underneath her elegant floral dress?