Page 85 of Heart Strings
I lean forward at the change in her tone and she hides her pink face behind her glass. “Oh my god, tell me.”
“He was a right bollix.”
“He was hot,” I translate.
Saoirse laughs. “Long hair. Big brown eyes. Very…sturdy. Just my type, really. Until he insulted me and my work.”
“Who was he? Was he a guest?”
“At first, I thought he worked for the castle, but he’s an event planner. Gabriel something.”
“Point me to him and I’ll kick his sturdy ass.”
“I think someone beat you to it. He was using crutches.”
“You think I won’t beat someone with their own crutches for trash-talking my friend?”
Chapter 33
Aidan
Today has beena blur, from nearly missing sound check to the increased attention during the second night of the festival thanks to Emma Kinnane’s post. At least a dozen people have asked if we’re dating. I’ve explained that we’re fans of each other’s work; nothing more than that, but most of them probably just think I’m being discreet.
Lo and I haven’t talked beyond that one prematurely ended conversation since that photo of me and Emma started making the rounds. I’m not sure I convinced her that there’s nothing to worry about. The conversation was rushed, with Lo stealing a few minutes between patients while I was herded between festival events. Something in her tone felt distant. After she’d hung up in a hurry, I realized neither one of us had saidI love you. I feel awful; I’ll make it up to her with a special—distraction-free—date when I return to Galway on Tuesday.
Martin pulled some strings and secured us a late-night session in a recording studio in Brooklyn where the touring band and I have rehearsed and recorded three tracks for a demo to giveto Nigel. It’s far from perfect, but there’s a rawness that lends itself well to the lyrics. At least it gives him an idea of what I’m going for with this album.
The clock above the recording booth reads twoa.m. I set my mandolin down. “All right, everyone. We’ve got what we need. Thanks so much for all your hard work tonight. Our plane back to London leaves tomorrow night, so get some rest.”
These aren’t finished versions of the songs, but they’re strong. Lyrically, musically, emotionally. This is on track to be a solid album and I couldn’t have done it without Lo. I’ll try to convince the label to let me record it—with or without Nigel’s help—but now I know for certain that I can’t release some inauthentic garbage in its place.
Lo had said I can’t control how well the album will do, only how well I make it and how much I fight for it. She’d said that my parents wouldn’t want me to perform shite music so they can retire. But if the label and I reach an impasse and I go into debt for breach of contract, we’ll all be without the safety net I built and my professional reputation might be irrevocably harmed in the process. This risk feels selfish, but I don’t know if I can continue to respect myself if I don’t take it.
Should I send Lo files of the demo tracks? I want her to hear what we have, but I also want to be with her when she hears them for the first time. Lo’s days are packed and I’ve been keeping strange hours, so our text responses are on a delay thanks to the time difference. It’s difficult for our conversations to maintain their momentum, but I want her to share in the excitement of this moment.
Martin’s been watching from the mixing board with a canned cold brew and an unimpressed scowl. “Your meeting isat noon at a place in SoHo called Garnish. You get one chance with a guy like Nigel. That means no sleeping in, no running late. If he feels disrespected, he walks.”
“Nothing could stop me from being there, with bells on,” I tell him. “Thanks again for setting that up.”
My phone lights up with a call from Saoirse. I don’t think she’s ever called me; we tend to communicate through text and memes. And it’s early morning back home. Excusing myself, I step into the hallway of the recording booth as the rest of the band gathers their instruments and caffeinated drinks of choice.
“Hello?”
“Aidan, d’you have a minute?” My stomach drops at the urgency in her voice.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
A beat passes and I hear her draw in a deep breath. Is Fionn in trouble? He might’ve asked her to bail him out, rather than get family involved.
“Saoirse, what is going on?”
“Look, you need to talk to Cielo. Today. This morning.”
My internal alarms are blaring. “Is this about the rumors about me and that actress? Because it’s not what it looks like,” I say and internally kick myself. I sound straight out of the cheater’s handbook.
“It’s not just that,” Saoirse answers.
Goddamn it.
