The Last Love Song

Chapter 40 #2

When Helen had heard that Sorcha had not boarded her plane to New York, she’d immediately assumed Sorcha had discovered Lulu’s affair with Con. The notion had sent her racing over to Hampstead. Helen had hoped to smooth things over (after all, she knew what it was like to be played by Con).

But now, Helen was sure Sorcha didn’t know. She’d been quite happy to let her telephone Con’s hotel. It was just a coincidence that she’d been too sick to make the flight to New York.

Nonetheless, Helen felt unsettled. Columns of figures were controllable. People’s emotions, however, were totally unpredictable.

Con’s suite at the Sherry Netherland was full of people he hardly knew. Representatives from the American record company, PR bods, journalists and photographers lounged around smoking, drinking and talking. It was an impromptu party with Con the forgotten host.

This was the usual scene when the band hit town, but tonight, Con was not interested.

He wanted to have a relatively early night and try to get his head together for the concert tomorrow.

The band had done a tech run that afternoon in Central Park.

Considering the lack of preparation, it had not gone badly.

But there was no doubting the tension between the four of them: Derek was hardly acknowledging him, still sulking because of the rejection of his song; Ian was on Planet Gaga as per, but it seemed at least that Todd had enough professionalism to put aside their differences and get on with the job in hand.

Con felt a hand sweep across his back.

‘Hello, Con.’

‘Lulu.’

He turned around and forced a smile. Con hadn’t felt comfortable in her presence since he had woken with her in his bed the other morning. He still had no memory of the occasion, and whenever he tried to establish the facts from Lulu, she simply giggled.

‘Where’s Todd?’ he enquired.

‘Gone to our suite.’ The hand snaked under his shirt. ‘Get rid of everybody.’

‘Lulu, Jesus Christ! We’ve got a room full of journos and paparazzi.’

‘As I said, get rid of them. You look tense. I’ll help relax you.’

‘Shh, please!’

‘As long as you promise.’

‘Okay, okay.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Ladies and gents, the party’s over. I want some peace.’

There was a disappointed silence for a few seconds, then the conversation resumed its former volume.

‘They’re leeches, these people,’ sighed Con. ‘They grab hold, then hang on for dear life.’

‘Get your heavies to start removing people. That’s what they’re paid for,’ said Lulu, glancing across to the two muscular men who stood by the door.

‘Ivan!’ Con shouted over the top of a couple of heads.

Ivan acknowledged Con’s call and pushed his way through the crowd. ‘Yes, Mr Daly, what can I do for you?’

‘Empty this room, will you? I want to hit the sack.’

He nodded. ‘Leave it with me.’

Ten minutes later, the last straggler had been evicted, leaving only Lulu, Con and Freddy in the sitting room.

‘Bit early for you, isn’t it?’ Freddy remarked.

‘I’m fair exhausted.’

‘Well, go and get your beauty sleep. I’ll leave you in peace. Come on, Lulu, I’ll escort you back to your suite.’

‘I think I can manage to find it all by myself, thanks, Freddy,’ she replied tartly.

‘Okay,’ he shrugged. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Con.’

The door closed behind him. Lulu wasted no time in winding her arms around Con and kissing him full on the lips. He quickly extricated himself from her grasp.

‘Come on, Lulu. We’re both married, for God’s sake.’

‘Don’t be silly. No one ever needs to know . . .’

‘That’s not the point, Lulu.’

She frowned at him. ‘Come on, Con. We both know how unhappy you are. You hardly spend any time with Sorcha. Every free moment you get, you’re out with me.’

‘No, I’m out at rallies, which you happen to like attending.

And I might be unhappy, but it’s not Sorcha’s fault.

She’s done nothing apart from try to love me well.

’ Con ran his hands through his hair as he crossed the room to plant himself on the edge of the king-size bed.

‘It’s the fact that The Fishermen have the power to do some good in this shit-show of a world, but instead we just pump out soppy ballads for teenagers to snog along to. ’

Lulu skipped over and sat next to him on the bed. ‘Oh, don’t be so down on yourself. It’s not just teenagers . . .’ She grabbed Con’s face and planted another deep kiss on him. He pushed her away with a little force.

‘No, Lulu. I’m serious.’ He stood up and crossed the room to the minibar, where he fixed himself a whiskey.

Now she was perturbed. ‘I don’t understand you, Con Daly. You’ve got just about everything that a human being could wish for, but you’re so bloody grumpy. Of course it’s your marriage that’s getting you so down.’

Con downed his drink. ‘You’re wrong. It’s nothing to do with my marriage.

’ He shook his head. ‘Actually, no. It’s all to do with my marriage.

I’ve been so caught up in trying to fix the world’s problems that I haven’t spent enough time on Sorcha.

’ He refilled his glass. ‘I’ve had my priorities all wrong. ’

Lulu parted her legs. ‘You can say that again. Come here. I’ll make you feel better.’

Con sighed. ‘Please leave me alone, Lulu. Being here without Sorcha has made me see things clearly. Jesus,’ he continued. ‘I should have been there for her this weekend.’

Lulu straightened up from her insouciant position. ‘Sorcha’s boring. She doesn’t understand your world. Unlike me.’

‘She might not understand my world, but she understands me,’ Con snapped. ‘I love her more than anything. I’ve got a lot of work to do to fix things.’

Lulu narrowed her eyes. ‘You love her more than anything, do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why, all those years ago, did you steal her away from her family?’

Con hung his head in shame. ‘I couldn’t stand to be without her,’ he whispered.

‘But you didn’t respect her enough to stay, and you weren’t brave enough to sort things out yourself. You used Helen McCarthy to do your dirty work.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

‘Oh, I will remind you,’ she said. ‘You were very selfish, Con.’ She stood up and began to walk slowly over to him, like a lion approaching a wounded gazelle. ‘But now you have a chance to do something unselfish. We’re meant for one another, Con. Don’t fight it.’

Con stood still as Lulu placed her hands on his chest and looked up into his eyes. He chose his words carefully.

‘Lulu. I am very sorry if I’ve given you the wrong idea.

Yes, we’ve spent a lot of time together.

But we were using our joint fame to promote peace in the world.

And that’s it.’ He removed Lulu’s hands from his chest. ‘As for the other night . . .’ He shook his head.

‘I can only put it down to getting langers. It won’t be happening again. ’

Lulu’s face twisted into a sneer. ‘It didn’t happen in the first place.’

Con furrowed his brow. ‘What?’

‘We got back to yours, and after about two minutes of kissing – which was feeble, by the way – you just kept mumbling about Sorcha. So I left you to pass out on your bed.’

Con was filled with rage. ‘You let me think we slept together!’

Lulu shrugged. ‘You missed out. I’m very good.’

Con grabbed her arm. ‘Get out.’

‘Ouch! Let me get my bag at least.’ Con led her towards the door, before throwing her out into the corridor. A few seconds later, Lulu’s pink Chanel clutch was launched at her, and the door slammed in her face.

Just what the hell did he see in his wife anyway?

She was a simple girl from an Irish backwater.

And she was the Lulu Bradley – a movie star who would have men queuing around the block for hours just to spend five minutes alone with her.

Con could have had it all. Who did he think he was to treat her like that?

Lulu resolved that if she couldn’t have Con Daly, then Sorcha couldn’t either.

If she did this in the right way, she’d get some decent press too.

Even though it grated on her to admit it, Sorcha had to concede that Helen had been very good to her over the past forty-eight hours. Without her help, she dreaded to think what she would have done.

By the end of the week, Sorcha was sitting up and feeling like she might just live to see her twenty-second birthday after all.

There was a brief knock and Helen appeared with a breakfast tray. As always, she was perfectly made up and dressed in an expensive trouser suit.

‘How are we this morning?’ Helen studied her as she placed the tray on Sorcha’s lap. ‘Looking better. Good.’ She walked to the window and drew back the curtains. ‘Another beautiful day. Eat up your breakfast and I’ll run you a bath. A soak in the tub’ll make you feel a hundred per cent better.’

Sorcha nodded and Helen left the room. She wondered if the director of Metropolitan Records had missed her true calling – she’d have made the most wonderful matron.

Sorcha drank her orange juice, then pushed the cornflakes round the bowl.

Her appetite had not really returned – in fact, the sight of food still made her feel queasy.

‘Well, that was a pathetic effort, Sorcha.’ Helen declared as she re-entered. ‘How are you ever going to regain your strength if you don’t eat?’

‘I’m sorry, I just can’t, Helen. I feel sick.’

‘Go on wid ya,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll let you off. Have your bath and maybe afterwards you could come downstairs and sit in the sunshine.’

Sorcha slowly padded into the bathroom, where Helen had filled up the tub with sweet-smelling bubbles. She gazed at her face in the mirror and sighed. Sorcha was pale and haggard, with big dark rings under her eyes. It was hardly the way she wanted to look as she attempted to patch up her marriage.

She stepped into the water and slid down, her entire body submerged under foam.

In a few hours’ time, Con would be getting up and going through his usual pre-concert routine, something she had once been a part of.

She fondly recalled the times she’d stood on the side of the stage as he played to his thousands of fans, then smiled as he dashed off to towel down, give her a hug and tell her how much he loved her . . .

Half an hour later, Sorcha sat on the terrace, the hot sun calming her nerves. Helen had gone to Hampstead Village for supplies, insisting she tuck a rug over Sorcha’s knees before she left. She closed her eyes and dozed.

Sorcha was woken by sounds from the kitchen. She stood up and walked inside. Helen was unpacking the shopping.

‘Have a nice rest?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Good. You look much better today. I don’t know what you like to eat, so I bought lots to tempt your appetite.’

‘Helen, I just wanted to thank you for looking after me. You’ve been very kind and I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

‘Oh, it was nothing,’ she replied brusquely, stowing cans of soup away in the larder. ‘I’m sure you’d have done the same for me.’

‘Actually, Helen, I don’t know that I would have. Look, what I’m trying to say is that of all people, I didn’t expect you to care what happened to me. Can we put the past behind us and start again?’

Helen stopped with a tin of baked beans in her hand. She turned and looked at Sorcha, an expression of mild surprise on her face.

‘Oh, Sorcha, the thing I did to you . . . I . . .’ Sorcha was surprised to see Helen looking a little emotional. ‘That was a long time ago. What happened before . . . well, we were kids. It was another life. I can’t even reconcile who I am now with the girl I was then.’

‘Agreed, you have changed a fair bit.’ Sorcha grinned, relaxing a little.

‘I’m quite upset to think that you felt I was harbouring some kind of childish grudge against you. We’re adults now, it was in the past and very much forgotten.’

‘I’m glad. And I really am sorry for the way I behaved towards you.’

‘Sorcha – I mean this when I say it – there really is no need for you to apologise.’ Helen gave her a curt nod. ‘Well, that’s that then.’ She continued to stow away food.

‘I’ll be fine by myself now, you know. I’m feeling lots better. Why don’t you go home? You must have lots of things to do.’

‘Are you sure, Sorcha?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Okay. I might just pop into the office for a few hours this afternoon. I hate to think Metropolitan might have got on fine without me. I can come back and make you some supper.’

‘There’s really no need.’

‘Well, I’ll ring you before I leave the office and we can decide then.’

Helen insisted she make Sorcha some beans on toast before she left. Sorcha dutifully swallowed them down, thinking Helen would never go if she didn’t. Helen went to fetch her things from the spare room and Sorcha saw her to the front door.

‘You know where I am if you need me.’

‘Yes, but I’m sure I won’t.

‘Okay then. Bye, Sorcha.’

‘Bye, Helen.’ Sorcha reached forward and pecked her on the cheek.

A blush spread across Helen’s face. She picked up her briefcase and walked to her Porsche. She dumped her things on the passenger seat and started the engine, and with a toot of her horn she was off.

Sorcha spent the afternoon on the terrace reading a book. Later, she left a message at Con’s hotel asking him to ring her, then spoke to her mother just to reassure her she was on the mend. At five, Helen called to check in on her.

The moment she put the telephone down, it rang once more. She picked it up, hoping it was Con.

‘Hello?’

‘Mrs Daly?’

‘Yes?’ The voice sounded muffled.

‘I thought you’d want to know that your husband has been lying to you for many years.’

‘What? I . . . Who is this?’

‘Let’s just say that Helen McCarthy isn’t the reason that you had to leave Ireland.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Ask him, ask her. Goodbye.’

The telephone clicked down. Sorcha stared at the receiver in disbelief.

She grabbed the back of the chair. Could it have been a crank call?

Possibly. But what crazed fan could have known about her reason for following Con to London?

And Helen McCarthy’s connection to it all?

To stop her mind racing, she went into the living room and switched on the six o’clock news.

She would not, could not think about it, or the fact that her husband was thousands of miles away and hadn’t, so far, bothered to return her call.

In a couple of days’ time, he’d be home. Then they could sit down and sort things out.

Whatever her good intentions, Sorcha lay wide awake till the early hours, the voice and its poisonous tidings ringing in her head.