48. Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Eight
‘How are you feeling after your mum’s visit, love?’ asked Jack. He set a cup of hot chocolate in front of May and lowered himself into his armchair with a satisfied sigh.
May didn’t need to think for long. ‘Good,’ she said, and was surprised to find that she meant it.
‘And what about your walk with her today? Did that go well?’
‘Yes, it did.’ May reached for the chocolate and sniffed it appreciatively.
‘I think it’ll take me a long time before I trust her, and I still can’t see her in the way most people probably see their mothers.
’ She smiled over the mug. ‘At least I like her a little more than I did, and I also feel I understand her better.’
‘And what about yourself?’ Jack gave May a questioning look.
‘What do you mean?’ May’s defences sprang into place.
‘I mean, has it changed the way you see yourself?’ His gaze was gentle. ‘I’ve always had the impression you’ve likened yourself to your mother, usually unfavourably.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ May brushed off his comment before she could think too hard about it, and changed the subject. ‘Anyway, how was your day?’
‘Good,’ said Jack. ‘I’m aching like nobody’s business, but between Daniel, Luke, Nick and me, we’ve got most of that woodchip laid. And the path’s looking good. Provided there’s no more rain, it’s fit for two brides to stroll down.’
‘Excellent news, and great work.’
Jack stretched back his shoulders. ‘I must admit all that manual labour has left me exhausted.’
‘Why don’t you go to bed?’
‘Because I’m not tired yet.’ He gestured at the television. ‘Why don’t we pop the news on and watch half an hour of the ten o’clock bulletin, then we can both hit the sack?’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said May. ‘I’ve told Margot I’ll help again in the café tomorrow.
It’s not a proper job, but until I figure out what on earth I’m going to do with myself once the summer’s over, it’s better than nothing.
’ She paused and added with a self-deprecating twitch of her lips, ‘And it keeps me out of trouble.’
‘And I’m sure she’s glad of the help,’ said Jack. ‘She’s been run off her feet with all those extras Cillian McDonaugh brought to the village in his wake.’
‘Don’t mention that man in this house.’ May managed a smile, although the sentiment was real.
She picked up the remote and flicked on the TV.
The usual depressing headlines of war, famine, and disputing politicians did nothing for her low mood.
The walk with her mother had perked her up, but the pressure of organising the wedding, despite all the helpers with practical matters, was a weight on her shoulders.
And with her relationship with Alice so newly back on track, she was on tenterhooks about doing anything which might jeopardise that again.
They sat through a lengthy report on a brutal war, wincing at the interviews with mothers whose children were hiding underground, then swore at the TV as some buffoon of a politician tried to justify the latest scandal he’d become embroiled in.
At ten-thirty, as they were contemplating giving up on the miserable news and going to bed, the doorbell rang.
May frowned at Jack. ‘Who on earth could that be at this time of night?’
‘The most likely candidate would be your mother,’ said Jack. ‘She always was rather a night owl.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said May.
‘No, no, you stay there and finish your hot chocolate. I’ll go.’
Jack left the room and May returned to the news.
‘And now to our entertainment reporter,’ said the newsreader, ‘for what turned out to be a very dramatic concert by one of the nation’s favourite young pop singers.’
‘Yes, that’s right, Jane,’ said the reporter. ‘Fans at the Palace Theatre in London tonight were shocked by a surprise announcement from Irish singer Cillian McDonaugh.’
May sat up straighter.
‘Most viewers will know him for his chart-topping songwriter style and army of loyal teenage fans, but tonight’s gig was not what his followers had paid for.
‘When he took to the stage, Mr McDonaugh stunned his audience by abandoning his usual material and instead performing a traditional Irish folk song. He then delivered a heartfelt speech, in which he admitted his high-profile engagement to model Kia Critchlow was a publicity stunt. He announced that he was, in his words, “done with the fake life” and was quitting the music industry altogether.’
May stared at the screen, as mesmerised as a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
‘There were gasps and tears from fans, and anger from organisers. Kia Critchlow and McDonaugh’s manager, Brian Fraser, left the venue without comment, but our sources say they are furious with his decision.
Social media is already alight with debate – some criticising his timing, others praising his honesty.
One thing is certain, Cillian McDonaugh has walked away at the very height of his fame, and no one knows what he plans to do next. ’
May’s heart hammered. She hardly noticed the sound of footsteps returning along the corridor until Jack appeared in the doorway.
‘May.’ Jack coughed. ‘There’s someone here to see you.’ He slipped away, leaving the someone to enter.
She turned, and her breath caught in her throat. Standing in the doorway, travel-worn and with an intensity in his eyes she had never seen before, was Cillian.