4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
As Kitty led him through the village, Cillian had the chance to admire charming cottages with colourful gardens until the road widened and the modest homes were replaced by grander, modern structures full of glass and chrome and with striking sea views.
In another life, he might have lived somewhere like this, waking up to the sun on a calm sea, taking his coffee out onto a balcony to welcome the day.
‘So,’ said Cillian, shaking the fantasy from his head. ‘I get to meet the famous Nick, do I?’
‘You do.’ Kitty mock-sighed. ‘And it’s about time, we’ve been together for three years!’
‘I know.’ Cillian adopted an apologetic expression. ‘I’m so sorry. My schedule’s been mental, but I should have found time to visit you sooner.’
His sorry expression must have worked, for Kitty placed an arm around him as they walked along. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘We’re all so proud of you. And you’ve made it back to see Mum and Dad a few times, which is what really matters.’
Cillian smiled, wishing her words could ease his guilt. How many family birthdays had he missed in the past five years? Birthdays, marriages, christenings … he’d even missed his uncle’s funeral. And much as his family told him it was all right, he couldn’t shake the terrible sense of wrong.
‘I wish I’d been around more,’ he murmured.
‘It’s your job,’ said Kitty. ‘You have to be on the road. We all understand that. If you hadn’t put in the hard graft, you wouldn’t have got where you are today.’
‘I appreciate you being so understanding,’ said Cillian. ‘Sometimes I wonder, though …’
He paused, and Kitty frowned at him. ‘You wonder what?’
‘Nothing.’ He gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Ignore me. I’m feeling sentimental now I’m about to meet my big sister’s fiancé for the first time. Let’s hope I approve, hey?’
‘Bit late if you don’t.’ Kitty grinned.
The road wound up a gentle hill where the houses became even grander the higher they went. These substantial homes stood in big gardens, with neatly mown lawns, tall trees and shrubbery, often laid out in stone terraces.
‘Is this guy posh?’ Cillian asked.
‘His parents are,’ said Kitty. ‘Nick isn’t, and he likes the thought of living in my tiny cottage. His parents’ house is … well, we’re going to need our own space.’
‘Yeah,’ said Cillian. ‘I’m guessing as newlyweds you don’t want to be living with the in-laws. Wouldn’t be the best recipe for romance.’
‘Oi,’ Kitty laughed. ‘I’m not talking to you about things like that.’
Cillian laughed along with his sister. ‘Seriously though,’ he said, ‘how do you know he’s the right one?
Are you sure you want to get married? If he’s still living at home, you can’t have had much time together.
’ He realised his question might be a good one to ask himself.
No. His sister was different, and for now, he needn’t think further than that.
‘We do all right,’ said Kitty, her eyes twinkling.
Cillian felt a rush of love for his sister, followed by another pang of guilt that he’d left it so long to spend time with her.
Given the trauma she’d been through with her ex, he should have been around more.
Instead, he’d concentrated on being the man the industry insisted he be, prioritising touring and presenting the expected image to cement his career and keep some distance between him and the younger, up-and-coming artists forever snapping at his heels.
And now, Cillian wondered if he’d given in too easily.
Yes, his career was important, and he was prepared to do a lot to make sure it stayed on track.
Yet, so was his family. And somewhere, in the blur of bright lights and adoring crowds, he’d muddled his priorities.
‘Here we are,’ said Kitty.
Cillian’s mouth dropped open as they approached a large modern bungalow with glimpses of sea views afforded from its position on top of the cliff. ‘Wow, this guy’s minted.’
‘His parents are minted,’ Kitty reminded him with a sigh. ‘Anyway, you must be used to places posher than this.’
‘You’d think,’ said Cillian. ‘Except hotel rooms aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.’
Kitty rang the bell and waited. The wide door swung open, and Cillian immediately knew one thing that would have attracted his sister to Nick – the guy was gorgeous with his strong, stubble-covered jaw, bright eyes, and figure earned from manual labour.
The casualness of the shorts and T-shirt combination Nick had gone for was betrayed by the creases left by an iron, and the slight beading of sweat on his forehead.
Nick held out a hand, and Cillian shook it.
‘So you’re the man who wants to make an honest woman of my sister, are you?’ Cillian said, straight-faced.
Nick flushed. ‘That’s me.’
‘Come on, then, let’s start the interview.’
Nick’s eyes widened, and Cillian laughed. He clapped Nick on the back. ‘I’m messing with you,’ he said.
Nick gave a nervous laugh, and Cillian watched him and Kitty exchange a look.
He followed his sister and her fiancé into an open-plan living room, his eye immediately drawn to the view of the sea lapping against rocks on this perfect summer’s day.
‘Wow, this is quite something,’ he said. ‘You know, I’ve travelled all around the world, and I reckon Cornwall has some of the best views. And Ireland, of course.’
‘I think you’re probably right,’ said Nick. ‘Not that I’ve travelled much.’
‘Trust me,’ said Cillian. ‘Travelling’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’ Even he could hear the bitterness in his voice, and he cursed his own candour. He fixed a smile on his face. ‘What is it you do for work, Nick?’
He knew, of course. Kitty had given him a full debrief, but the poor guy looked uncomfortable, and Cillian wanted to put him at his ease.
He hated how his newfound fame had that effect on people.
He longed for the days when he’d been treated as a normal human being because, despite the fame, the money, the adoring fans, that’s all he really was.
A normal Irish bloke from a small terrace in Dublin, trying to make his way in the world.
‘I’m a labourer,’ said Nick. ‘Nothing fancy, but it keeps me out of trouble. Beer?’
Cillian nodded enthusiastically.
They settled on the veranda with their drinks, and Nick took the conversational initiative this time, as a good host should.
‘What’s it like being an international superstar?’ he said.
Cillian laughed. ‘Ask me in a year or two. I’m still getting used to it. So far, it’s not as interesting as you probably think. Anyway, I want to know more about you. Kitty tells me you sing.’
‘He does,’ Kitty interjected with pride.
‘No, no.’ Nick turned his eyes to the floor. ‘Only local karaoke.’
‘You got a guitar?’ asked Cillian.
Nick nodded, visibly paling.
‘Play us something.’
‘I don’t think so.’ The man’s eyes were wide with horror.
‘Why not?’ said Cillian.
‘Because you’re Cillian McDonaugh, that’s why not!’ Nick puffed out his cheeks. ‘Besides, I’m not great at the guitar.’ It was a plea for mercy.
Cillian waved Nick’s concerns away with a flap of his hand. ‘Don’t be daft, man. I want to hear some proper music, not that pop shite I spout out every night. Know any Irish songs?’
Nick grinned. ‘A few.’
‘Why don’t you two have a jam?’ suggested Kitty, looking delighted to find something the two men could bond over.
‘I never say no to a jam,’ said Cillian. ‘I’m Irish, after all. Come on. Kitty’s got a great voice too.’
‘She has?’ Nick stared at Kitty. ‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing.’
‘Cillian’s joking,’ said Kitty. ‘I can hold a tune alright, but the voice of an angel genes all went to my brother. I’ll be your percussion section.’ She gave a demonstration by hitting her palms against the table.
Nick disappeared inside, shaking his head, and when he returned, he was carrying two guitars. ‘How do you feel about starting with a Scottish song?’
Cillian screwed up his face. ‘Oof, starting across the water. I don’t know about that. Depends on how good the song is. It had better be good.’
‘Do you know “Black is the Colour”?’ asked Nick. ‘I mean, I’ve been playing it a bit lately, but I’m not too good at it yet. And if there’s something you’d rather do, no problem. Whatever you want, really, you’re the expert, man.’
Kitty placed a hand on Nick’s arm. ‘Stop doing yourself down,’ she said. ‘And if my memory serves me correctly, “Black is the Colour” is one of the repertoire you used to sing on a loop in your bedroom as a teenager, Cillian?’
Cillian smiled and accepted the guitar Nick handed him. ‘You start, and I’ll join in once I’ve got a feel for how you like to play. What key are we in?’
‘Is A minor OK?’
‘Perfect.’
Nick’s fingers began plucking the guitar strings. His muscles tensed, and it was only when Kitty sat beside him and rubbed his back that Cillian saw him relax. He wondered what it would feel like to have what Kitty and Nick had. He doubted he’d ever have the luxury of finding out.
Nick closed his eyes and started to sing. Cillian looked up in surprise. He had believed Kitty when she said Nick had a good voice. He hadn’t been expecting it to be that good. It reminded Cillian how lucky he’d been getting a record deal. There were so many musicians more deserving than he was.
Taking a deep breath, Cillian let the hardened pads of his fingers meet the strings of the guitar. As his voice joined Nick’s in a harmony, he had to choke back tears. It was as though he was being taken back to the true version of himself – a self lost so long ago it was painful to look at.