Page 81 of Heart Strings
Aidan
I sling anarm around the warm body in the bed next to me, before I remember that it can’t be Cielo. My eyes spring open.
“Rise and shine, princess.”
“Martin!” He wasn’t in my room when I fell asleep, but now he’s lying fully dressed beside me on top of the duvet. With a cursory glance around, I confirm that he’s the only uninvited guest. “How did you get in here?”
“I always keep an extra hotel key for my clients in case of emergency.”
Dragging the covers over myself, I mutter, “Go away.”
“Next time, I’ll pour an ice bucket down your balls. We have twenty minutes before you need to be onstage for sound check.”
Is he taking the piss? I tear the duvet off my face and study him.
“I’m here because you weren’t answering the phone.” Martin rises to his feet. “Now sober up and put some trousers on. I just ordered us a cab.”
“I’m jet-lagged, not drunk.” He knows better than that; he’s the one who called me “minus craic” at the afterparty when I declined shots with an indie rock quartet.
Unwinding never comes easy after the adrenaline rush of a live set, especially one as high-pressure as Harvest in the Park. Time zones weren’t much of a concern on a tour that only spanned Europe and the UK, but this was five hours’ difference on top of the exhaustion of an emotional performance to such a large audience.
“Your stylist sent a few wardrobe options for tonight’s show. They’re already in the dressing room at the venue,” Martin informs me, distracted by his mobile. “I told you to wear what they provided yesterday…”
Although I’d packed what they curated, I’d decided to wear my own clothes at the last minute. Martin had chewed my ear about it, but I’m more comfortable onstage when I feel like myself.
He holds his screen up triumphantly. “Look at this. Now that’s the kind of publicity that gets you noticed!”
Whatever was in the write-up for the festival performance, it must be flattering. Did they like the new song? The sensual beat and personal lyrics made it the most charged piece of music in the set.
“ ‘Irish singer-songwriter Aidan O’Toole and English rose Emma Kinnane turn up the heat backstage after his Harvest in the Park set,’ ” he reads aloud.
My smile drops. I snatch the device away. “Wait, what is this?”
A candid photo of Emma and I backstage fills the screen. She’s on her tiptoes with her arms around my neck. And the caption says she’s “in love.”
Oh fuck.
My voice sharpens. “Did you do this?”
“She honestly wanted to meet you! Aidan, she’s a huge fan and she’s wonderful for your brand. Young women aged twenty-one to twenty-nine are her show’s biggest demographic, exactly the audience that will lose their minds over you.” Martin lifts his palms in placation. “But I didn’t set it up. I did monitor her feed, though. When she posted about attending the festival and her selfie with you, I might’ve forwarded that to a few websites to give it a little boost.”
“Come on. We talked about this—she seems like a lovely person, but I don’t need that.”
“My Google Alerts for you have been dinging all morning.”
“Are they even talking about the music, though?”
“The song is fine,” he says. That’s not very enthusiastic for my strongest piece of work since “Come Here to Me.” “It’ll be a lot better if you can get Nigel on board.”
Gee, thanks.
The comments on the post are a mess. Objectifying me. Comparing me to other people Emma has been romantically linked with and to the fictional love interest on her show. Asking, “Who?” Only two comments on the post mention the festival performance or my music. Shaking my head, I hand the mobile back to Martin.
“People are buzzing about you. Which is exactly what we want,” he asserts. “You have the attention of Nigel Culpepper right now, just like you wanted. Do you know how many artists would kill for a chance to work with him?”
“You’re messing with my personal life here. I’m in a relationship now.”
“With your ex! Moving back to Galway is a bad move and you know it. You’re on the brink and you need to get your head in the game.”
