Chapter 51
Derek straightened his tie. Looking in the mirror, he studied the beige suit, ten years old but stamped with the mark of expensive tailoring. It was important that appearances be kept up this afternoon.
To all the world he was still Derek Longthorne, ex-member of The Fishermen, now a successful businessman and entrepreneur.
He’d dyed his hair last night and thought it might have been a mistake. Maybe he’d used too much peroxide. His hair shone like a halo of bright yellow sunshine, highlighting his grey eyebrows and the skin that was beginning to sag around his jowls. He sighed. It was too late to do a repair job.
Derek looked around the bedroom to check that everything was neat and orderly, then walked into the sitting room.
The sofa, a good fifteen years old, was threadbare.
He’d taken a needle and cotton and tried to patch up the bits where the material had given way completely, but there was no denying its tattiness.
The room, once so bright and welcoming, needed redecoration.
He hated the place. It was symbolic of the demise of his fortunes.
Derek walked into the kitchen and turned the kettle on. His hand shook as he reached in the cupboard for the jar of coffee.
The meeting this afternoon might just save him.
It had been only six weeks ago, when he was poring over the heap of accumulating bills and wondering how the hell he was going to pay them, that the telephone had rung.
It was Freddy Martin. He asked how Derek felt about The Fishermen getting together for a big charity concert at Wembley Stadium this coming July.
There was no pressure, Freddy had said. The others hadn’t decided and, as Derek knew, Con was at present listed as missing.
He’d suggested Derek think about it and contact him in a couple of weeks.
Derek had put the telephone down and was tempted to get down on his knees and give thanks to the God he didn’t believe in.
Album sales for The Fishermen had been huge after the tragedy of Sorcha’s death and Con’s disappearance.
‘Losing You’, the song Con had written and recorded for Sorcha, had stayed at number one for twelve consecutive weeks.
After all this time, the band’s albums still sold steadily across the world.
Derek should still be a wealthy man. And he could have been, if he hadn’t decided to sink all his money into Morgan Electronics, a company making computer chips. The company had sucked almost every penny out of him before finally going into receivership a year ago.
Derek was now completely reliant on his twice-yearly royalty cheque, most of which had to go to paying off debts.
His Chelsea flat was worth a considerable sum, but as a last-ditch attempt to keep Morgan Electronics afloat he’d had to put it up as collateral.
Then when the company went under, he’d needed to remortgage the place to seventy-five per cent of its value to hold on to it.
Derek had thought of approaching a couple of labels with the idea of recording a single then maybe an album, but his one attempt to go solo had flopped so disastrously that it was doubtful he’d find any interest.
He still thought ‘Peggy’ was a great song.
Derek stared off into space. Rarely a day went by when he didn’t think about her and wonder where she was. Her parents had moved away, her flat was occupied by a cheerful West Indian family and it was as if all trace of her had vanished.
Probably holed up with Con in the Bermuda Triangle, he thought as he added a sweetener to his coffee.
The diet he’d started a couple of weeks ago was proving unsuccessful.
The scales announced gleefully each morning that he’d lost nothing.
At this rate he’d have to bite the bullet and go to a gym.
He did not fancy a worldwide estimated audience of two billion commenting on his middle-aged spread.
Especially as Todd still looked so young.
The years had treated him well. He’d managed a smooth progression from pop star to producer and had recently started his own independent record label.
He’d never remarried after divorcing Lulu, but he was rarely without a female companion.
They met up occasionally, to chat, but it always ended in painful reminiscences.
As much as Todd sneered at Derek’s obsession with Peggy, Derek knew Todd was still in love with Lulu.
Lulu: now a huge Hollywood star, all shoulder pads and big lips in her prime-time American soap. Derek smiled when he remembered that smelly combat jacket she’d always worn and the anti-war demonstrations she’d marched on.
They’d all changed in those seventeen years, but perhaps the biggest surprise was Ian.
He lived in a rambling house near Windsor with his wife, Virginia, and their three children.
He ran a successful garden centre and was the epitome of a happy family man.
No drink, no drugs, no smokes . . . Christ, Derek had endured some boring evenings at his house.
This afternoon, the three of them plus Freddy were getting together to discuss the forthcoming concert.
The idea had been agreed in principle; after all, as Derek had said to Freddy when he’d called to arrange the meeting, if it was going to help poor starving kids in Africa, what was giving up a few afternoons in his busy schedule?
Derek downed the coffee, then put the cup under the tap, rinsed it and placed it upside down on the draining board.
A single maybe, launched especially for the concert, with some of the proceeds going to the charity, then maybe an album . . . a worldwide comeback tour . . .
Of course, anything beyond the concert was not really viable unless the absent pop star appeared. Con had been an egotistical bastard, but he’d been severely and justifiably punished. Derek was prepared to forgive and forget if only he’d come back. Then . . .
Derek trembled at the thought of the wealth glittering before his eyes as he locked the door behind him. It would be back to the good old days.
I love you, we love you . . .
The continuous tone sounded in his ear, signalling that her last breath had been taken . . .
I’m so very, very sorry . . . There really was nothing more we could do . . . Are you telling me you didn’t know your wife was pregnant, Mr Daly? . . . Yes, ask Helen . . . I sentence you to life imprisonment for the murder of Sorcha Daly . . .
He screamed and sat up, sweat pouring down his face as it had done night after night for seventeen long years.
He lay there, watching the dawn peep through the gaps of the slowly crumbling roof.
Already, at six in the morning, he was stiflingly hot despite the wet weather outside.
He got out of bed, walked down the grand but very dusty staircase, and pulled open the front door.
Beyond the mossy gravelled drive lay a carpet of soft green grass, and further still, undulating fields.
Paradise, for some. Home for him.
Con walked along the pathway and then ran across the unkempt lawn, forcing himself to expel his breath, before collapsing on the damp grass.
He turned over and looked up to the sky, wondering if she was watching him, or whether the body that had been laid in the ground – and now had surely turned to dust – was all that remained.
How could there be a God?
There was no God.
The stirring was inside him again.
He’d thought he might finally have found the place in which he could live out his life.
He had returned across the Irish Sea to feel close to her.
The empty McCarthy mansion proved to be a perfect hideaway from the world.
After all, there was no Helen to maintain it, and it had remained totally uncared for ever since the aunt had died.
Better still, due to unpaid bills, there was no electricity, no telephones and, what was more, no televisions.
Nobody bothered him here. Any time he had to go into town for milk or bog roll, he’d layer himself in hats, sunglasses and enormous jumpers.
Even without any of the paraphernalia, Con doubted that he’d be recognised.
His prodigious beard and long hair rendered his reflection a stranger.
Yesterday, on such a trip out for sustenance, he’d spotted a newspaper. The front page reported that there was to be an enormous charity concert in aid of the starving children in Africa. It was the first good thing he’d seen the music industry do in a long, long time. The idea was inspired.
Con sat upright. What was he thinking of? Why would he leave his safe, secure corner of earth to go back to civilisation and bad memories? Still, he’d been away long enough to know he’d never find peace. Maybe the only option was to return and face the past.
Two days later, Con left the house and hitchhiked to Cork airport, rucksack over one shoulder, guitar over the other.
Lulu watched the new hairdresser backcomb her hair into the trademark bouffant that millions of women across the world had tried to emulate.
‘Ouch, you’re scalping me,’ she snapped.
‘Sorry, Ms Bradley, only trying to do my job.’
Lulu raised an eyebrow. ‘When’s Trish coming back?’
‘When she’s had her baby, Ms Bradley.’
‘The sooner the better from what I can see.’
The hairdresser said nothing. The door opened and Jeff, the floor manager, came in.
‘Ready, Lulu, honey?’
‘If I’m not, it ain’t my fault.’ She indicated the hairdresser still struggling to tease her hair into the right shape.
‘Give Marcie a break, Lulu. It is her first day.’
‘No room for amateurs on this show, Jeff.’
‘There you go, Ms Bradley, all done.’
Marcie showered her in a fug of spray. Lulu got up from the chair and followed Jeff out along the corridor.
‘Hey, what’s up with you? If you don’t watch out, your reputation as “bitch on the screen but an angel off it” will go up in a puff of smoke.’
‘Sorry, Jeff.’ Lulu sighed. ‘I’ll apologise to Marcie later. I’m not myself today, that’s all.’
‘Well, get your teeth into being a grump over there. We’re in the kitchen for scene two.’ They’d arrived in the studio. Lulu followed Jeff to the sumptuous kitchen set where even a lettuce drier could be found in the fourth drawer of the solid-oak cabinets.
‘Hi, Lulu. Looking gorgeous as always.’ The director’s voice came through the speakers from the gallery above. ‘Okay, go over to Paige. We’ll take it from the top. It’s a Friday afternoon and I know we all want out for the weekend so let’s try and catch it in one take.’
Lulu walked over to the willowy blonde who last year had been Miss Wisconsin and was now set for superstardom as the new young beauty of the most successful soap on American television.
Paige smiled at her shyly. ‘Hi, Lulu.’
‘Yeah, right. Let’s get on with it.’
‘Okay, studio. We’re ready for a take.’
Silence fell.
The clapperboard opened and shut. ‘Flamingo Grove, episode forty-six, scene twelve, take one. And action.’
On the way home in her limousine, Lulu dialled her PR’s number.
‘Chas, I’m thinking of going to the UK for a couple of weeks during the summer recess. Want to line me up something to convince the studio to fly me over on Concorde? I’m dying to try it. All my friends say it’s fabulous.’
‘I’ll do what I can, honey. You know how huge your UK audience is. The only problem is that most of the chat shows are on summer recess too. But leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks. Oh, and also, can you organise me two tickets for the Music for Life concert at Wembley. If I’m over there anyway, it seems a shame to miss it.’
‘I’ll try, but they’re like gold dust both in London and New York.’
‘Pay what you have to, okay?’
‘Okay, honey, will do. Be in touch.’
Lulu put the telephone down.
Her analyst would say she was mad to go back, but there was not a Jungian quote or a Freudian reference that could possibly stop her.