Page 37 of Rewrite the Stars
‘Nice to see they showed up,’ Jack whispers in my ear in reference to his own parents. His only sister, Caroline, is on her way but so far my family are well outnumbering the Malones when it comes to the turn-out at our party. Mam, Dad, Matthew and Martin were first to arrive, with Matthew thrilled to bits that there were no accessibility issues to access our first-floor apartment and delighting in telling everyone so.
‘It really shows the difference in city life and rural life,’ I hear him say to one of Jack’s friends. ‘I keep saying to Martin we’ll have to move back to Dublin very soon, but I think he’s too well settled now in Loughisland, isn’t that right, Martin? You’re a country boy, now, aren’t you?’
They both share a look and a laugh, which makes my heart swell when I think of all the years my brother wasted pretending to be someone he wasn’t.
Martin, who has the patience of all the saints not to mention the heart of a lion, has been the best thing that ever happened to Matthew, and we tell him so as much as we can. With his love and support, Matthew is gradually learning to adapt to his brand-new life on so many levels, and a lot of that has to do with Martin who has stood by him every step of the way.
‘You’re in for a treat tonight,’ Martin whispers to me when he gets the chance. ‘Matthew would like to sing a song or two later if that’s OK with you?’
I put my hand to my chest. ‘Really?’ I gasp. ‘But he hasn’t played music in public in years. Wow, that’s really special, Martin. Thank you.’
‘All I did was a little bit of coaxing here and there,’ he says. ‘I also didn’t want to land it on you without some warning as I know how much it will mean to you to hear him sing again. It’s an emotional evening for all of you. We’re thrilled to bits for you, Charlotte. Matthew adores you. We all do.’
I get a lump in my throat even thinking about hearing Matthew sing and the memories it will bring back from our childhood and from more recent years as I watched him work so hard with the band. In fact, I’m dreading hearing him again, but so proud of him at the same time as it really does mark another step in the right direction for him.
‘That’s going to be a very special moment,’ I say to Martin, giving him a hug in appreciation. ‘Thanks for the heads-up though. I will probably bawl my eyes out, I won’t lie, but what’s an engagement party without a few sentimental tears from the bride-to-be!’
All in all, in fact, it’s shaping up to be a great party. Emily, Kevin and Kirsty, along with her latest squeeze, a ‘man child’ called Bryan ‘with a y’ from Cork, are mingling and making everyone feel welcome. Each of the girls are quietly battling it out for a role as chief bridesmaid while Sophie and Harry are already getting into the swing of things, having created a mini dance floor to test-run tunes from the iPod I bought Jack for his birthday.
A cluster of my colleagues from St Patrick’s, some of Jack’s friends from the hospital, two of my aunts, Bridie and Bernie who I haven’t seen in years but who Mam insisted on inviting (no doubt, just so she could brag about her new doctor son-in-law), and my dad of course, who is taking in the view of the park from the window and talking all things Oscar Wilde to anyone who will listen, make up the rest of the party.
‘Did you know that Oscar Wilde died in Paris? Now there’s a link, seeing you two got engaged there,’ he says to me on my way past. ‘What a marvellous view you have here, my girl. Imagine looking out at Oscar Wilde every day. That’s culture. It sure makes a change from sheep and cows.’
Canapés are being served, the drinks are flowing and, by the time Jack’s sister Caroline and her husband Daniel arrive with ten-year-old twins Joseph and Sarah, things are really warming up. Caroline is an angel, a female version of her gorgeous brother, and I welcome her with open arms.
‘I’m so bloody over the moon for you both!’ she coos, when we break out of our embrace. ‘I bet you can’t wait to start planning the big day. Come on, tell me everything you have in mind so far!’
We find a quiet corner and get stuck into all things ‘wedding’ orientated as I explain the type of day Jack and I are planning. A handful of carefully selected guests, an outdoor ceremony perhaps (weather permitting of course, given our unruly climate) and an evening of dancing at a luxury hotel near the spectacular Inchydoney Island in County Cork, one of Ireland’s most southern points. I feel nerves in my tummy as other party guests join us to swoon over the diamond on my finger and talk about cakes, flowers and dresses.
‘Did you know that Oscar Wilde might never have even said those famous words about being yourself?’ I later hear my father say to my mother, who has thankfully changed her wine to water, having realized how much the Merlot was messing with her lipstick.
‘Where on earth do you find these facts, Paddy?’ Mam replies, rolling her eyes. ‘You must have more time on your hands than I think you do.’
‘The one about how it’s good to be yourself since everyone else is already taken,’ Dad tells her. ‘Turns out he might never have even said that at all, you know! See, I’m not all just about manure and silage. I do have a brain. Now, put that in your pipe and smoke it!’
I ignore the banter between my parents, instead choosing to think of the famous quote and how much it always resonates with me. Every time I look out onto that statue I question if I’m really being myself, or if I’m putting on a mask and being an easier version of myself – a version that my parents love, my brother loves, that Jack loves, but that I sometimes don’t even recognize. It’s a strange feeling and one I mostly try to ignore when it creeps up on me. I keep telling myself it won’t last forever.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I hear Martin announce on Jack’s instruction, with the polite tap of a glass. He has put so much effort into this and he catches my eye, letting me know that this is the big moment. ‘We’ve a very special treat in store for you now, but mostly for the bride-to-be.’
The noise in the room drops to a hush and I feel all eyes and smiles on me before attention shifts back to Martin and Matthew who sit on the sofa, each with guitars on their laps. Even though I knew this was coming, I’m so not prepared.
‘Please put your hands together for Matthew Taylor, former lead singer in the band once tipped to be even bigger than Bono’s ego, Dublin’s finest, Déjà Vu!’ says Martin, as proud as a peacock of my brother’s ‘semi-famous’ status.
A sea of ‘wows’ filters through our audience, with excited whispers and stories quickly circulating as to how they remember the band on the local circuit when, according toHot Pressmagazine, they were destined to be ‘the most exciting Irish export since Guinness’. The media had been crawling over them at the time, with Matthew’s face almost becoming recognizable on the streets amongst women of a certain age.
‘No way! I can’t believe your brother was the lead singer of Déjà Vu!’ says Caroline into my ear. ‘Don’t tell my husband, but I’d have eloped with their drummer in a heartbeat, given the chance! He was something else!’
She throws her head back in a rapturous fit of laughter, nudging me for effect, but to me her voice is miles away. All I can do is stare at Matthew as he plays the accustomed opening of a song that brings me right back to where I used to stand on my own, at the back of music venues, longing and yearning to talk to Tom Farley, settling only for a brief glimpse from afar or a quick hello before they were rushed away at the end of the night.
Matthew plays those oh so familiar notes and speaks over the music to introduce the song, just like he used to when the band was on the rise.
‘Before I sing, I’d just like to say that about sixteen months ago,’ he announces to his audience in our living room, who hang on every word he speaks with bated breath, ‘about sixteen months ago I made a very stupid decision to drive my car on one of the most treacherous nights of the year. Not a wise decision on any account, but an even lesser one when I’d had a few drinks and was in possession of a very tortured mind. I’m not proud of myself and I’ve paid the price since, as have my family.’
Everyone gathered in our apartment goes totally silent now.
‘I haven’t played my guitar in public for many years and, after the accident that almost killed me, I vowed I never would again,’ he says, looking directly at me, his eyes etched in pain. ‘I didn’t think I deserved the joy of playing music any more. But as tonight approached, I realized that being true to yourself is always much more important than punishing yourself. It’s always better to be yourself.’
I swallow, feeling my eyes sting.
