Page 7 of Our Song

I do, and after a moment of surprised silence we both laugh out loud.

‘Well, I hope to God that’s not his new love because if so it really is a scandal,’ says Katie.

‘Wow, she hasn’t changed a bit,’ I say. ‘They still look kind of alike.’ I look at the photo of Tadhg and his sister Rosie. ‘You’d think someone would have sussed they’re related.’

We click on the other news stories. The story about ‘Saint Tadhg’ ‘slamming’ fellow celebs is less sensational than the headline suggests; it’s on a big conservative newspaper’s website that likes to present anyone who isn’t borderline fascist as some sort of sanctimonious scold.

Tadhg is a patron of an NGO called Ceol that supports young people from socially deprived and marginalised backgrounds in making music.

At one of their recent fundraising events, he’d been asked why the organisation was important and had replied, ‘Well, it shouldn’t be necessary because the state should fund programmes like this to make sure all young people have access to music, but until they do, Ceol will do the work.

’ The journalist asked where the money for that would come from and Tadhg said, ‘People like me should be paying a lot more tax than we already are. And we definitely shouldn’t be moving our businesses abroad to dodge it. ’

The story about the album is hardly a huge scoop – yes, Tadhg is working on a new album, but the last one came out less than two years ago so it’s hardly a return from the wilderness.

The story about artist Amanda Sorohan is a reminder that she deserves better than to be described merely as ‘Tadhg’s artist ex’.

‘She’s not exactly pining after him, is she?’ says Katie. ‘She won a massive art prize last year. And she’s married to someone else.’

‘It’s mad, isn’t it?’ I say, scanning the piece. ‘They went out for six years and split up, what, four years ago? And she’s done loads of cool things. But she’s still being referred to as Tadhg’s ex-girlfriend.’

I already knew about the human rights lawyer.

Well, everyone did. Aideen Harrington. A beautiful, stylish thirty-five-year-old from Coolock who stood up to injustice all over the world.

She and Tadhg had met at a protest two years earlier but had split up last year. Not that long before me and Dave.

‘You know,’ I say, ‘now that I’m probably going to see Tadhg again, I almost wish more of his girlfriends were fellow megastars.’

‘What do you mean?’ Katie sips her tea.

‘I mean, the likes of you and me can’t compare ourselves to megastars,’ I say, ‘because we were never ever going to be megastars.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ says Katie.

‘It’s like they’re another species or something,’ I continue, ignoring her. ‘But, like, being an artist or a lawyer isn’t beyond the bounds of possibility for us. I could have been a lawyer.’

‘No you couldn’t,’ says Katie firmly. ‘Neither of us could. We didn’t get the points to do Law. You have to get all As in your Leaving Cert.’

‘Hmmm, good point,’ I say.

I look down at the list of stories on my phone again and sigh.

‘He’s almost too good to be true. On paper anyway. Paying his taxes, dating age-appropriate lawyers, going to protests …’

Katie gives me a look. ‘Would you prefer he was a tax-dodging right-winger who shagged nineteen-year-old models?’

‘No!’ I say. ‘Of course not. I just keep thinking how things have changed since we last saw each other. It would almost be easier to meet him now if I felt he was a stereotypical douchebag dickhead millionaire rock star. Then I wouldn’t give a shit what he thought of me.’

‘I can’t imagine Tadhg really being a total dickhead,’ says Katie. ‘Stupid, yes. And thoughtless sometimes. But not a real prick.’

‘Yeah, well,’ I say, ‘I wouldn’t have been able to imagine Dave being a total dickhead either a year ago. But life can surprise you.’

‘I know,’ says Katie. And because she’s my best friend, and she knows when I want to talk more about something and when I don’t, she claps her hands together and says, ‘So! Have you replied to your one’s mail yet?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m going to wait until Monday morning. Business hours. To show this is all business to me. And that I’m not jumping as soon as he gets in touch.’

Katie nods in approval. ‘Quite the power move.’

I laugh. ‘I’ll take my power moves where I can find them.’

I try not to think about Tadhg and Tara Kelleher and even the song for the rest of the weekend.

On Saturday afternoon I visit my parents, who are clearly convinced my life has fallen apart at the seams now that I’ve been left by their beloved Dave (‘Are you sure you can’t patch things up, Laura?

’) and lost my job (‘It’s not too late to do the civil service exams, Laura!

’). I never told them the details of my break-up with Dave.

I never told them why he decided to leave me.

I knew it would upset them too much, and to be honest, I couldn’t deal with their distress as well as my own.

I’d been tempted to not tell them I’d been let go by Zenith, but the thought of the subsequent web of lies I’d have to weave was just too stressful.

I know they mean well, of course they do, but their fussing makes me feel worse.

So now I have to listen to their helpful career advice (‘You know, you can teach in private primary schools with just an arts degree! They don’t care if you’re properly qualified!

’). It’s so exhausting that I guiltily make my excuses and leave as soon as I reasonably can.

But before I go, I get my electric guitar and amplifier out of the wardrobe in my old bedroom and then take them back to Katie’s house.

If this were my own place I’d leave them in the sitting room, but I’m already conscious that, despite the fact that lots of my stuff is being stored in my parents’ attic, my various belongings are already taking up more than enough space in Katie and Jeanne’s home.

I bring the guitar and amp straight up to my bedroom.

The next morning, I decide to clean the kitchen windows.

Katie comes in when I’m trying to reach the top corners and says, ‘You do realise you don’t have to earn your keep here, don’t you?

This isn’t a do-our-housework-for-your-room-and-board situation.

Not that we’re supplying your board. If anything, you’re supplying board for us with all the groceries you keep buying.

Wow, “board” is a weird word when you keep saying it out loud. Anyway, you don’t have to earn it.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ I say.

‘Do you, though?’ she says. ‘When I said you could stay here as long as you liked, I meant it.’

‘I know that too,’ I say, and I do. ‘But I feel like …’ What do I feel like? A charity case? An interloper? ‘I dunno. A fifth wheel, for one.’

Katie scoffs. ‘You’re not a fifth wheel. Jeanne and I love having you here. You stop us squabbling over what colour to paint the stairs and what couch we can afford. Buying a house sends you mad, especially when you can’t really afford it, so you’re stopping us killing each other.’

‘Okay,’ I say.

‘Plus, to be perfectly honest,’ says Katie, ‘the rent really helps. We’re still paying off the credit union for these windows.’

‘I could pay more,’ I say, even though I’m not sure I can at the moment, given my employment situation. Katie and Jeanne are charging me way less than market rate.

‘This is your home,’ says Katie, ‘for as long as you want it to be.’

Katie and I became friends before teenage girls routinely said ‘I love you!’ to their platonic female friends, and so it feels too contrived for us to say those words to each other, even now.

But this – this is love.

‘Thanks, Kay,’ I say.

‘And besides,’ she says with a grin, ‘when Tadhg records your song and you’ve made millions from it, you can pay off my windows loan.’

Through supreme self-control, I manage to stop myself looking at any Tadhg-related content online for most of the weekend, but on Sunday evening I crack, open Instagram and type in @TadhgHennessyMusic.

Logic tells me he doesn’t handle his own social media, but the vibe of the account really does feel like him.

Or at least the him I remember from a long time ago.

There are no self-conscious thirst traps of him gazing thoughtfully into the distance or smouldering into the camera.

Some of the photos look like they were taken by professional photographers, but most of them don’t.

‘Our sensitive king!’ says one comment, followed by several crown emojis.

He’s not always that fucking sensitive , I think.