Chapter Forty-Seven Mo
Chapter Forty-Seven
MO
‘What do you mean you’re not coming?’ Rhona’s tone suggested Mo had just told her he was planning to join a monastery instead of coming over for dinner. ‘It’s Thursday. You always come for dinner on Thursday.’
Mo shifted the phone to his other hand and dropped heavily into the couch in a haze of incense smoke and relentless fatigue. ‘I’m just not up for it.’
‘Seems to me you haven’t really been up for anything since Netta left,’ said Rhona. ‘Seems to me that could be worth spending some time thinking about.’
Mo had no response to that. She was right—surprise, sur-fucking-prise.
But it was more than that, too. Telling Netta his story had been like opening a floodgate, and now he was consumed by torrents of emotion at the most inopportune times.
He couldn’t trust himself to be anywhere, or around anyone, until he could be sure the urge to punch a wall or burst into tears wasn’t going to turn up uninvited.
‘Have you heard from her?’ asked Rhona, undeterred by his silence.
‘No.’
‘Has she heard from you?’
‘Also no.’
‘Mo, you know I love you,’ said Rhona, ‘but I feel compelled to tell you that you’re behaving like an absolute chimp.
You know as well as I do how often people like her come along, and if you don’t, I’ll tell you right now: not very often.
You’re letting something slip away that you might never find again. It’s stupid.’
‘Fuck, Rhona. Why don’t you just say what you really think?
’ Mo dug his fingernails into his palm until deep crescent grooves appeared.
‘I know, okay? You don’t have to tell me.
It’s just not that simple. This whole thing has messed me right up; the diary and opening up to her and remembering everything.
I’m a fucking ruin.’ Mo looked at the lounge room’s potted plants, all drooping in some bizarre botanical reflection of his mental state. ‘My head’s everywhere.’
‘You can talk to me, you know,’ Rhona said, her voice softer. ‘I’m all ears, whenever you need me. I could even send Don and the kids out for dinner tonight if you just want to come over and talk?’
Mo shifted uncomfortably, his body unable to find peace even within the embrace of the green couch.
He was so lucky to have a friend like Rhona, but he couldn’t talk about it again.
Not now, while it was still so raw. ‘Thanks, Rhones, but if it’s okay with you, I think I just need to keep myself to myself for a while.
I’m not much fun to be around at the moment. ’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But there’s something I was going to discuss with you tonight, Mo. It’s not great, to be honest. And I know the timing couldn’t be worse, but it’s time sensitive, so it can’t really wait.’
Mo knew instantly what she was going to tell him. He was now officially late with the new record. He’d written one song, and it was shit. That, on top of the photos of him standing over Mitch Carlton, stacked on top of all the other stuff … ‘They’re dropping me, aren’t they? The record deal’s off.’
Rhona paused. ‘Not yet, but they’re going to, Mo. Basically, this is it. They’ve agreed to a time extension, but if you don’t get them a complete album of songs by the end of next week, you’re out.’
Mo closed his eyes and assessed his feelings, only to find he had none.
Nada. Zilch. He was numb. Five years ago, if he’d been threatened with an end to his recording career, he’d have moved mountains to stop it from happening.
But now, it seemed, he couldn’t muster even half a shit to give.
He’d lost so much already that this addition to the list felt almost inconsequential. He didn’t deserve any of it anyway.
‘It’s not going to happen,’ he said.
‘That’s what I told them! I said you’d have the songs to them pronto and that they’d be great. They’ve just forgotten who they’re dealing with.’
‘No.’ Mo stood stiffly and crossed the room to the window.
‘I mean, getting the songs to them by the end of next week isn’t going to happen.
I’ve been trying to write but it’s like it’s dried up.
It’s gone, Rhona. I think I’m done.’ He drew the curtain back to find the weather matched the inside of his head.
Bleak. Uninviting. ‘I’ll look after you until you find some new little punk to manage, but I think I’m out.
I’m tired of it all. I’ve got nothing left to give. ’
There was a long silence at the end of the phone. ‘What about Play On? You can’t expand without the new album.’
‘I’ll work something out.’ Mo’s gut clenched.
The last thing he wanted was to let Play On shrivel.
He’d have to find another way to float the expansion—it meant so much to him, and the guilt of knowing he couldn’t be the one to shoulder it anymore sliced through him.
He let the curtain fall back and, out of habit, stood in front of the fireplace, despite its cold, fireless grate.
‘I’m so sorry, Rhona. I know I’m letting everyone down. Especially you.’
Rhona snorted. ‘Don’t be daft! I’ll be fine. But Mo? If even half of this state you’re in is because of Netta leaving, then promise me you’ll do something about it. Reach out to her. She’s probably feeling like a notch on your bedpost, and I get the feeling she was a lot more than that.’
Mo leaned against the mantel. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Good boy,’ said Rhona. ‘Will we see you next week for dinner?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll let you know.’
‘I’m going to take that as a yes. I’ll speak to the record company and we’ll announce it as a hiatus for now. You don’t have to do anything, but you’ll probably have press buzzing around once I send the release out.’
‘I know the deal,’ he said. ‘I’m not planning on leaving the house any time soon anyway.’
‘I’m going to send you something.’ Rhona’s voice had changed again. Softer, but still not to be fucked with. ‘The number of my therapist. Just in case.’
Mo groaned. ‘Righto.’
‘Bye, darling. I’ll check in soon.’
‘Bye.’ Mo barely got the word out before a stealthy wave of grief crashed down on him, folding him into a crouch, his elbows digging into his knees.
Tears came, slowly at first, and his body relented, sagging to the floor.
He wept for his mum, for the little boy he’d once been, for the guilt that never seemed to lessen, no matter how many years passed.
He wept for his walled-up childhood and his unknown future.
For Rhona. For Mav. And for Netta, too. He had nothing left but guilt and emptiness and a long list of too-lates.
It had finally happened. The illusion had been worked out, and now the world would see him for what he really was.
A useless fucking fraud.