Chapter 5
When he got home that night, Roly flopped on the sofa and took out his phone to check out Twitter and Instagram – just a quick look, he told himself.
He’d mostly managed to stay away from social media lately.
He knew no good ever came of it. But every so often he couldn’t resist and went back to scrolling through his feed, looking for mentions of him or the band, checking to see if anyone was talking about him and what they were saying.
He also had a bad habit of hate-stalking Zack, even though everything the twat posted only enraged him.
He jumped on every trending hashtag and espoused every topical cause going.
He was a self-styled hero of feminism one week, a staunch critic of racism in the music industry the next, an ally to the dispossessed and disadvantaged.
He was always pontificating sanctimoniously about one thing or another, though his ‘activism’ seemed to mainly consist in wearing T-shirts printed with various trite slogans.
Roly doubted the dickhead could even spell ‘feminism’.
When he started typing:
Oh Boy
into the search bar on Twitter, it immediately autofilled with a list of hashtags – alongside the usual and unsurprising
#Ohboy
there was:
#Ohboyreunion
There was nothing particularly significant about the fact that that was trending.
The fans had been speculating about one practically from the moment the band broke up, constantly sending their baseless longings out into the ether, and every so often a rumour would surface that seemed to have more substance to it.
Fans would pick up on something one of the band had tweeted or said in an interview, and they’d be off, reading meaning into every glance or sound bite, weaving together a story from a random collection of social media posts and interview comments, forensically examining every statement and photograph for evidence to back up their theory.
That seemed to be what was happening now, and he spent the next couple of hours following the thread of the story.
The fans were avidly piecing together clues, working themselves up into a fever about it.
It all seemed to have been sparked by a casual throwaway remark of Zack’s on some chat show about ‘all the lads’ having been in touch again recently.
Yeah, not all the lads, Zack. But the other band members themselves seemed to be at it now, too, dropping coy hints on their Instas and Twitter, posting cryptic messages to each other on their public platforms. He was tempted to post a few bitter subtweets aimed at them, and to make some cryptic posts of his own.
At least the fans hadn’t forgotten him. There was plenty of chatter about whether he’d rejoin the band for any potential comeback, lots of them fervently wishing and hoping for his return and saying it wouldn’t be the same without him.
He was touched by how often his name came up, showered with heart emojis and kisses.
God, he loved his fans – well, maybe not the ones who’d written fan fiction about him and Zack getting it on (eww!), which Zack had insisted on reading out sometimes when they were all stoned.
It was excruciating. Not even the drugs could dull the toe-curling horror of the images that story had planted in his brain.
Eventually he managed to tear himself away from his obsessive scrolling, tossing his phone on the sofa in disgust. But then he turned on the TV and started looking through YouTube.
It had been years since he’d gone down this particular rabbit hole.
It made him melancholy and nostalgic, but, once he started, he couldn’t seem to tear himself away, watching old music videos, interviews, snippets of live performances…
It had been years since he’d seen the video for their first single ‘Cool Like You’.
Objectively, he knew it was corny and clichéd, the five of them horsing around on the beach, dancing in the waves.
But he had no detachment from it now. Watching it wasn’t like remembering; it was as if he was there, living it again.
He could feel the sting of the icy water on his legs, taste the salty ozone of the air, and his heart raced once more with the heady mixture of nerves and excitement that they were actually doing this – they were making a video for their single.
It had been so much fun – five young guys, just goofing off.
It had been hard work too, but, at the same time, it had seemed laughable to call it work when they were having such a fucking blast.
There was Zack, lying down on the sand, letting the waves wash over him.
Prick! He always had to go one better than the rest of them, push things further, incessantly pulling focus and hogging the limelight.
But he was just a kid, Roly thought, feeling a strange wave of tenderness towards him – just a skinny young kid like the rest of them, five teenagers who’d lucked out and couldn’t believe that this was their life.
They looked like utter gobshites, and it was so beautiful he wanted to cry.
Even though it made him ache with longing and loss, he couldn’t tear his eyes away, and he watched video after video – live shows, interviews, TV appearances, awards ceremonies.
The songs were mostly crap, the melodies so simple and catchy that they were irritating by the second listen, and the choreography was embarrassing.
They looked like twats doing the ridiculous dance routines, or clutching their hearts as they powered through schmaltzy ballads, their faces contorted into earnest pantomimes of devotion and heartache that they’d never actually experienced.
Yet somehow the energy was beautiful, and it touched him as he watched and watched, wallowing in the nostalgia, tears rolling down his face.
His eyes started to droop over footage of a concert at the Aviva.
It had been a brilliant gig, a triumphant homecoming at the end of a hugely successful European tour, and they were all on a high.
But there was a nauseating lurch in the pit of his stomach as other memories crept in.
It was just before Christmas, so he’d been staying in Dublin for a few days, and he’d met up with Ella the following night.
It was the first time in ages they’d been out together, just the two of them.
She’d worn a sparkly silver dress, and those thick black tights she was so fond of.
She’d looked amazing, and he’d been a total prick to her.
He’d been at the height of his asshat phase.
He’d taken her to some pretentious bar on the quays, and spent all night snorting coke in the loos and boasting about the band to her.
It was all a bit hazy, but he knew he’d been off his head, all pumped up on chemically induced arrogance and free-floating spite.
He’d been full of his own importance, showing off about his money and fame, trying to impress her with what a big deal he was.
She was at Trinity and she was seeing some guy, he recalled.
She’d seemed really excited about it all.
But he’d hardly listened when she tried to tell him about it.
He couldn’t even remember what she was studying.
Philosophy, maybe? As he thought about it now, he realised he’d felt resentful of her that night.
He couldn’t for the life of him fathom why, because he’d been on top of the world then – he’d been in the biggest boy band on the planet, rolling in cash, travelling the world, living in five-star hotels…
Everything he could have wished for was on offer.
The world had been one giant buffet of money, sex and drugs, all his for the taking. His life had been amazing.
But he hadn’t felt it, he realised now. He’d had this incredible life, but it didn’t touch him.
He’d felt remote from it, jaded, empty and joyless.
It was like fireworks were going off all around him, but he couldn’t catch a spark.
Whereas Ella… she’d positively glowed when she spoke about her studies, her new boyfriend, her part-time job in some crummy cafe…
He saw now that he’d envied her. Because he’d had it all, but she was the one who was happy.
She was enjoying her life, and he wasn’t.
So he’d tried to shit all over it and make her feel small.
He couldn’t recall exactly what he’d said, but he was sure it would have been mean, belittling and thoroughly nasty, because that was him, back then.
It was no wonder she’d given up on him and cut him out of her life.
He’d never really understood why they’d kept in touch since school in the first place – just that sometimes he felt the need to talk to her and only she would do.
They’d only seen each other a handful of times over the years, and their friendship had always seemed tenuous at best – not built to last. So it hadn’t been a surprise when they’d finally drifted apart.
It had seemed inevitable, just a matter of time, and he knew it was his fault when it finally ended.
That night was the last time he’d seen her.
He had a vague recollection of inviting her to the concert at Croke Park the night that everything fell apart.
But as far as he could remember, she’d made some excuse and didn’t come.
He was glad now that even if she remembered him at his most obnoxious, at least she hadn’t seen him at his absolute lowest, most abjectly pathetic.
Then again, she probably had – the whole world had seen that.
He cringed at the thought of her looking at that photograph, the image that had gone viral and brought his whole world crashing down.
He hadn’t thought about Ella in a long time.
He wondered what she was doing now. Last he’d heard she’d been about to start her PhD.
She was probably a professor or something by now.
He’d considered calling her sometimes in the intervening years, apologising for how he’d been that night.
In ‘group’ they’d talked about going back to people you’d hurt in the past and apologising for the pain you’d caused them.
He’d mostly thought about his mum and nan, of course, and he’d done all his apologising to them at first. Then he’d gone on to Charlie, Alex and Liam.
He’d even tried with Zack, but it hadn’t gone down well.
And occasionally, Ella had nudged at the edges of his mind and he’d wondered if he should call her too.
He didn’t flatter himself that he was a big part of her life and that his apology would mean anything to her.
She’d probably long forgotten that night by now, and she’d find it odd that it still preyed on his mind.
But he hated that he’d been such a shit to her the last time they’d met when she’d never been anything but kind and caring with him, and it bothered him that she didn’t know how sorry he was.
He’d never had the nerve to call her in the end.
It seemed too weird to apologise to her after so long – too little, way too late.
But he still regretted it and it niggled at his conscience whenever he thought of her.
Maybe he should still do it, he thought, as his eyes drifted closed.
On the TV, Oh Boy! strode onto the stage of the Aviva, waving to a crowd of screaming fans as they took their home town by storm.
* * *
The next morning Roly woke up exhausted and bleary-eyed, but with a new sense of purpose.
He had a goal now. He’d spent last night steeped in nostalgia, longing for a past that was out of reach.
But now it was all happening again, and maybe he could have a second chance.
He could get that life back, but this time he’d do it right.
He wouldn’t waste one second of it, and he’d enjoy the hell out of every moment.
He knew he had some fences to mend. He had Charlie on side, and he still spoke to Liam occasionally.
He’d never openly fallen out with any of them, not even Zack, but there was still a lot of resentment bubbling beneath the surface – and you didn’t have to dig too far down either.
It wouldn’t be easy, but he could get it all back – everything he’d loved, everything that had been great about his life then.
Including Ella, he thought, suddenly overwhelmed by that old urge to talk to her and only her.
He’d definitely call her this time. Maybe…