Chapter 43
CON DALY IN SPLIT WITH WIFE
Steeling herself, Sorcha read the story underneath the page-two headline.
In a sensational split, Con Daly’s wife Sorcha has left the family home in Hampstead.
Our inside source says Sorcha Daly stormed out over Con’s growing relationship with Lulu Bradley – actress, peace campaigner and wife of Todd Bradley.
The pair have regularly been seen together at marches over the past few months.
Neither Con Daly nor Todd Bradley were available for comment, but their manager, Freddy Martin, said that the situation was dealt with amicably by both sides and won’t affect the future of The Fishermen.
However, an insider at Metropolitan Records said there were fisticuffs in a recording suite recently.
A glance at the admissions records in accident and emergency at the Royal Free Hospital, Hampstead, tells us that a Mr C.
Daly was admitted with a broken nose and cuts to his face in the early hours of last Friday morning.
He was later released and has been lying low in his sumptuous mansion on the edge of Hampstead Heath.
It remains to be seen whether this delicate situation will affect one of the most successful songwriting partnerships of the decade; both Mr and Mrs Daly and Mr and Mrs Bradley have enjoyed a close friendship over the years.
Sorcha Daly’s whereabouts are unknown. A record company spokesman refused to comment other than to suggest that Mrs Daly might have gone to stay with relations abroad.
Sorcha reread the article and wondered who had leaked their split to the press.
She suspected that it was someone at Metropolitan – news of discord within the band might drive sales.
Was there anything going on between Con and Lulu?
Who knew. She hoped that whoever had wanted their payday from the tabloids had provided it as a convenient reason for the split.
She hoped the fight with Todd had truth in it, though.
A broken nose was little less than Con deserved.
The telephone rang. Without thinking, Sorcha picked it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Reception here. We have a call for you, Mrs Daly.’
‘Okay.’ She waited.
‘Mrs Daly?’
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Sorcha Daly?’
‘Yes?’
‘Glad we’ve found you, Mrs Daly. The Mirror newspaper here.
We’d like to ask you for an exclusive interview on the situation with your husband and Lulu Bradley.
We’d be prepared to pay you a lot of money, or donate the same amount to a charity of your choice.
Obviously, the interview would be extremely sympathetic towards yourself. How do you feel about—’
Sorcha slammed the telephone down. Why, oh why had she not thought to book in under an assumed name? Fingers trembling, she dialled reception. ‘Please, no more calls are to be put through to my room. If anyone else rings for me, can you tell them I’ve checked out?’
‘We’ll do our best, Mrs Daly, of course.’
‘Thank you.’ Sorcha put the telephone down. The Hampstead Post House had hardly been the most discreet or distant place to go to, but she’d felt so incapable of driving when she’d left Con. It had seemed a comfortingly anonymous place to stay for a few days while she decided on a course of action.
Sorcha sat down on the edge of the unmade bed and tried to think. The media were on to her. In a matter of an hour she knew there would be a pack of reporters waiting for her outside. She had to move fast, but where should she go?
Home, to Ireland? With the media brouhaha that was about to take place, she thought it unfair to put that burden on her newly bereaved mother, in addition to the prying eyes and wagging tongues of Ballymore.
‘Help,’ she murmured. She’d never felt so totally alone.
Should she move to another hotel? Sorcha shook her head. She’d feel so vulnerable. It only took one receptionist or porter to tip off the press.
There was only one person she could think of that might be able to help.
She reached for the receiver and dialled the number she knew by heart.
‘Metropolitan Records.’
‘Helen McCarthy, please.’
‘I’m sorry, but Miss McCarthy is in a meeting and cannot be disturbed.’
‘This is urgent. Tell her it’s Sorcha Daly. I have to speak to her now.’
‘Okay, Mrs Daly, hold on and I’ll see what I can do.’
Sorcha waited in an agony of frustration.
‘Sorcha, it’s Helen. Where are you?’
‘I’m at the Post House in Hampstead. Oh, Helen . . .’ Sorcha swallowed a sob. ‘Did you see the Daily Express?’
‘Yes, I saw it.’
‘I’m sorry to call you, but the Daily Mirror have just phoned me. The press know where I am and they’ll be swarming all over the place soon. I . . . I don’t know what to do.’
‘Okay. First, stop panicking. We’ll get you out of there.
Pack your things and I’ll send a car to you now.
You can go to my house in Holland Park. No one will find you there.
Katie, the maid, will let you in. Stay there until I get home, then we can discuss it further.
There must be a back door you can use at the hotel? ’
‘I don’t know, I really don’t.’
‘Come on, Sorcha, hold it together. I’m going to put the telephone down now and call the hotel manager. I’ll have him escort you to a rendezvous with the car. Okay?’
‘Yes. Thanks, Helen. Sorry. It’s just all so . . . sordid.’
‘I know. I’ll call you in an hour. You should have arrived in Holland Park by then. Bye, Sorcha.’
Sorcha put the telephone down and reached for her case, flinging the bits and pieces she’d brought with her back inside. Then she dressed and searched for her sunglasses to hide her pale, drawn face from the possible intrusion of a camera lens.
‘Dammit!’ They were in her car, parked outside. They might as well have been on Mars.
Sorcha closed her case and sat on the bed to wait. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Mr Adams, the hotel manager. I’ve just talked to Miss McCarthy.’
‘Okay.’ Sorcha unlocked the door.
The manager smiled at her. ‘She’s asked me to escort you to your car. I sent it round the back.’
‘Thank you.’
‘If you’d like to follow me.’ He picked up her case and set off down the corridor towards the lift.
‘I’m afraid there’s a pack of newshounds and photographers at the front waiting for you to emerge.
There’s only one exit for cars from the back, so the cab will have to run the gauntlet. It’s the best we can do.’
They took the lift to the ground floor and Sorcha followed him through a maze of corridors.
‘Here we are.’ The manager stopped in front of an emergency exit and pushed the mechanism.
A car was waiting by the pavement. Sorcha hurried over to it, pulled open the back door and got inside as the manager placed her case in the boot.
He tapped on the window and motioned for Sorcha to wind it down.
‘It’s been a pleasure having you, Mrs Daly. I hope you’ll recommend us to your friends. Here’s our bill.’ He handed her a white envelope.
‘Thank you. I’m very grateful for your hel—’
‘Hey! There she is! Sorcha’s round here!’ a voice screamed.
Sorcha wound up the window and the driver pulled forward. As the car turned the corner, an onrush of reporters and photographers came running towards the car.
‘Don’t worry, love. We’ll get through. Won’t take a minute. I’ll run the buggers over if needs be.’ The elderly driver pressed on his horn and continued to drive forward determinedly into the mass of people.
Flashbulbs popped and reporters knocked on the window, mouthing words Sorcha couldn’t hear. She looked straight ahead and willed herself not to cry. Eventually, they reached the car-park exit and Sorcha watched the reporters scatter and head for their vehicles.
‘Now, miss, hold on to your hat and we’ll lose the little rats.’
The car suddenly lurched forward into the traffic, eliciting a cacophony of horns.
Ten minutes later, after driving down backstreets that even Sorcha had no idea existed in Hampstead, the car joined the main flow of vehicles around Swiss Cottage.
Swerving in and out of lanes, the driver headed for St John’s Wood and central London.
He looked in his mirror and smiled at her.
‘We’ve lost ’em, love. You’re okay now.’
‘There’s your case, Mrs Daly.’ The taxi driver put Sorcha’s belongings in the hall of Helen’s mews house.
Sorcha smiled gratefully. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Any time. Adds a bit of variety to my day. You take care now. Goodbye.’
‘I’ll show you to your room, Mrs Daly.’
Sorcha followed Katie, Helen’s maid, up the narrow stairs.
‘I have some bread and paté downstairs when you’re ready.’
‘Thank you. I’ll be down shortly.’
She sat down on the bed and wept with relief.
After lunch, Katie announced that she had to go and do a little shopping and pick up Helen’s dry cleaning.
Just as Katie left, the telephone rang. Uncertainly, Sorcha walked towards the receiver and tentatively picked it up.
‘Hello?’ she whispered.
‘Helen here. In future, we’ll have a code. I’ll ring three times, hang up and then call straight back. Are you okay?’
‘Fine now I’m here. The driver was brilliant.’
‘I’ve used Dan for years. He’s completely trustworthy. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’ve got a meeting now but I should be home by six. Make yourself comfortable. Watch an old film on TV or something.’
‘Thanks, Helen. I’ll see you later.’
‘Bye, Sorcha.’
She put the telephone down and, for the first time, took proper notice of her surroundings.