8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Cillian padded down the stairs, yawning. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so late. The cottage was quiet with Kitty at school for the day, and he had seven hours stretching in front of him before she returned.
It was such an unusual luxury, having empty hours, and despite how much he’d longed for them, Cillian was restless.
He wandered through to the kitchen and filled the kettle to make coffee.
It probably wasn’t the best choice, given how active his brain had been half the night, but he felt sluggish and needed something to kick him into gear.
Sluggishness didn’t slow down the whirl of thoughts that had plagued him in the dark hours. Right now, he was on the verge of throwing away everything he’d worked so hard for. He needed to stop avoiding reality and think things through like a grown-up.
As the kettle bubbled away, Cillian switched on his phone.
He held it at arm’s length, mentally preparing for the barrage of messages and missed calls that would be waiting.
Sure enough, the phone leapt into five solid minutes of relentless beeping.
He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing the anxiety constricting his throat.
He made a pot of coffee, poured milk into a mug, and carried both outside.
The garden was small but perfectly formed.
Beds of wildflowers in a rainbow of colours bordered a neat lawn that sloped down to the small patio area directly outside the kitchen.
Cillian placed his coffee on the table and leaned back in a chair, tilting his face to the sun and enjoying the distant sound of waves.
It was so quiet in Saffron Bay, so different from the endless city soundscapes he’d grown used to.
Saffron Bay reminded him of Ireland, and he smiled at the thought of how desperate he’d once been to escape what he had considered a backwater.
Now, the thought of his home city caused tears to sting the back of his eyes.
In some ways the success he’d achieved since walking out of his small terraced house, with only a rucksack on one shoulder and a guitar on the other, was more than he’d ever dared dream possible.
In other ways, though, he felt he’d let himself down.
Somewhere between his quiet suburban Dublin street and reaching London, his true self had gone missing.
He’d forgotten his real passions, his background, his culture, happy to be fawned over for his looks. And his talent. He snorted. As Nick had shown, his voice was only as good as plenty of other musicians.
‘Don’t be so ungrateful,’ he said out loud, pouring coffee from the cafetière.
He winced at the strength of the liquid that met his tongue, swallowed, and enjoyed the buzz, whether real or imagined, as it slid down his throat.
The past six years could only be described as a whirlwind.
In those early days in London, when he’d slept in squats and cheap B&Bs, he’d met musicians who’d been grinding away for decades, chasing that elusive moment of success.
They’d give anything to be where he was now.
And he couldn’t count the number of so-called friends he’d lost when his own success came in the form of one televised competition win.
Cillian huffed out a breath. Looking back, the friendships that had burned so bright in the early days had been nothing more than a flash in the pan.
He tried to think of anyone he could now describe as a friend, and drew a blank.
Which was unsettling for more reasons than he wanted to think about.
The lads from back home considered him too big for his boots, and it wasn’t as though he could meet up for a pint with them, knowing whichever pub he chose would be inundated with screaming fans.
And although he’d met some interesting people on the road, those meetings were fleeting. There was never a chance of growing any meaningful sort of friendship.
Cillian thought about the evening he’d spent with Nick and Kitty, jamming, chatting, having a drink.
It had been like the old days, being his real self, for the first time in years.
He could, of course, choose to pursue something resembling a normal life.
Yet he’d be giving up so much, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to let go of his dreams right now.
With an entire mug of coffee downed, Cillian picked up his phone, summoning the strength to deal with what was about to confront him. There were twenty-nine messages from Brian, ranging from conciliatory to desperate to downright angry. With a long sigh, Cillian clicked Brian’s number and dialled.
‘Finally,’ said the voice on the other end.
‘Have you any idea how long I’ve been trying to get hold of you?
You disappeared off the face of the earth.
We’ve had to cancel your Southampton gig, which has caused no end of problems – not least financial.
I hope you’ve got a good explanation for where you are and what you’ve been up to.
If you’re not lying in a hospital bed, I’m not going to be happy. ’
‘I told you,’ said Cillian, trying to stay calm. ‘My sister’s getting married.’
‘Not for another six weeks!’ shouted Brian. ‘Six weeks, Cillian. Six weeks when you’re supposed to be on tour, playing sold-out dates around the UK. You realise at this precise moment, you’re supposed to be promoting your new tour, which is scheduled to begin in a fortnight?’
‘Shit. Sorry,’ said Cillian. ‘I totally forgot.’
‘What is this?’ said Brian. ‘Are you having some sort of breakdown? Is that it?’
‘Can’t I just be normal for a few days?’
‘No.’ Brian’s curt tone sent a clear message.
‘You can’t, not if you want the success you’re trying to achieve.
’ A sigh came through the phone, and Brian’s tone softened a little.
‘You’re letting us all down, Cillian, and it can’t go on.
I need you back on the road ASAP. We have to capitalise on the buzz Pop Superstars created, otherwise you’ll just be another nobody flash-in-the-pan.
Take a couple of days, sure, we can pass that off as illness.
’ A brief pause, and the curtness returned.
‘I need you back at work and firing on all cylinders.’
Cillian steeled himself. ‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘What do you mean?’ Brian spluttered into Cillian’s ear. ‘You can’t go back on your commitments!’
‘You said it yourself.’ Cillian forced his voice to stay steady. ‘The tour doesn’t start for another fortnight, and Kitty needs me here helping plan her wedding.’
‘She may well do. And I’ve got interviews and promo lined up for you over the next couple of weeks, not to mention the fact you’re meant to be in rehearsals with your backing dancers.’
‘They know the score by now. They can practise without me.’
‘The studio is booked—’
‘So use it,’ he said. ‘It’s not like I deviate from the recorded tracks, is it? You could get a monkey standing up in front of them and it would do the same job I would.’
‘This isn’t on. You can’t do this to me.’ Now Brian was in pleading mode. ‘Besides, what about our other plan? The Big One?’
‘Five days,’ said Cillian, choosing to gloss over the discomfort the mention of the other plan caused him.
‘Give me five days’ breathing space. Cancel the interviews and say I’ve got the flu.
Flu lasts at least a week, so that will buy us some time.
Call me at the end of the week and we can speak about this again. ’
‘Speak again?’ Cillian held the phone away from his ear as Brian’s voice rose to a shout. ‘In five days’ time we’ll be speaking again in person. You will be back in the studio preparing for your first gig in Manchester, and don’t you dare think about pulling out!’
‘I’ve got to go.’ Cillian hung up before Brian could utter another word.
He put the phone on the table, clasped his hands behind his head, bent forward, and groaned.
There was no way he was going back to rehearsals and promo in five days’ time, but quite how he was going to get himself out of it, he couldn’t say.
All he knew was that he needed some time away.
He needed to figure out what it was he really wanted.
And he needed to be there for Kitty, for once.
He’d let her down so much over the past few years, he wasn’t about to do it again.