Page 54 of Rewrite the Stars
‘You look hot, missis!’
Sophie greets me as usual with a compliment, just like she does every time we meet up for our monthly night out together. She hands me a cocktail and whoops with excitement as the crowds build up in the bar next to the arena where Blind Generation will take to the stage very soon. The sound system blares out their new album, which includes the number one song ‘Move Into Me’, and I try and distance myself from any connection to the voice that everyone sings along to.
‘It’s so good to be dressed up and get out of the house instead of skulking around in my jammies!’ I say to Sophie, admiring her efforts also. I opted for all black in a bid to blend into the background (not that I think I could be spotted amongst almost ten thousand fans) and I’ve scrunched up my hair into messy curls which actually make me feel a bit like my old self again.
‘You’re a bit like Sandra Dee,’ jokes Harry. ‘The nice-looking version at the end of the movie, I mean. Not the boring, frigid version.’
‘Well, thank goodness for that!’ jokes Sophie. ‘I’m sure you’re delighted, Char! And since we’re all being so complimentary: Jack, you look delicious as always, you big ride.’
I put my arms around my husband’s waist and swoon at the feel of his touch when he does the same back. It’s not often Jack dresses down as he’s mostly in a suit for work, but tonight he looks super sexy in his black jeans and T-shirt. I suppose together we do have a bit of a Danny and Sandy look about us.
‘Er, what about me?’ asks Harry, pointing at himself. He looks, as always, just like Harry. ‘I don’t hear any compliments coming my way.’
He rubs his chin, dropping hints to what might be a bit different about him.
‘The beard! It’s gone!’ I exclaim, patting his arm as I finally notice. ‘What on earth made you shave it off? I have to say you look ten years younger without it, Harry boy, but you did look good with it too. Now,that’sa double compliment.’
Harry looks pleased and goes back to sipping his pint.
‘It was just aphrasehe was going through,’ whispers Sophie, imitating my aunt Bridie and we laugh while our husbands look baffled. ‘Now I can put him back up on his peddle stool!’
I go into stitches laughing and enjoy my drink and the music, not to mention the company I’m so lucky to share. By the time it comes to take our seats for the concert, I’ve distanced myself as well as I can from any connection to the man who will be on stage tonight.
Maybe thisisstep one to letting go of the ball of guilt that has sat within me for far too long. I feel quite upbeat and positive; much better than I have since I left my job. So far, it’s looking like itwasa good idea to come here tonight after all.
The lights go down in the large arena and the crowd’s applause builds into a deafening crescendo as Blind Generation take to the stage with the rousing opening chords of one of their mounting collection of hits. I can feel my heart beat in my chest with anticipation to the beat of the bass drum, as everyone waits for the main man to take to the stage with the opening lyrics of their big hit.
‘You don’t fool me any more.’
His voice … it’s his voice.
‘Wow fucking wow!’ says Sophie, almost spilling her beer from her plastic cup as Tom Farley’s lyrics echo through the giant speakers and fills the vast space of the arena over wild screams and applause. The audience jump from their seats. I take a gulp of my beer too as the most surreal moment I’ve ever experienced unfolds before me. There he is before me in three versions – in real life beating on a guitar and twice more as giant images of his face fill two huge screens at each side of the stage. My heart beats faster. He hasn’t changed a bit to look at. Still the same touchable, tousled hair, still the dimples, still the same turquoise, almond-shaped eyes, still the indescribable sex appeal, still the same man I—
‘Jesus Christ, he is something else!’ says Sophie, interrupting my train of thought.
‘I heard that!’ says Harry from beside her. ‘But I get what you’re saying. He’s a cool dude for sure.’
Jack stands to the other side of me, his hands drumming a beat on his legs to the rhythm of the song, and I link his arm, wanting the feelings of betrayal I have within me to go away.
I’m not doing anything wrong by being here, am I? Tom doesn’t even know I’m here. If he’d cared to, he could have emailed me and invited us all along, but he didn’t. I’m very much a part of his past as he is mine. It would be different if I’d planned it, or if I’d set this up as an excuse to see him again, but it was all Sophie’s idea. It’s just a night out and it’s what we need before Jack goes away tomorrow. I’ve nothing to feel bad about. Jack is enjoying himself. We all are.
But no one is enjoying themselves as much as Tom Farley is on stage and when we take our seats again for a slower number, my heart rate finally settles and the rush of excitement that rippled throughout the whole crowd seems to simmer a bit.
Now I get to look at him properly and inhale this moment. I think of the day we said goodbye in Howth, how we used to talk on the phone for hours from my little flat in north Dublin where me and Kirsty lived. I think of how I watched him for years on smaller stages with Déjà Vu and of how proud I am of him right now, even though our lives are worlds apart. I feel a tiny tug of regret, that old feeling of ‘what if’ again, but mostly I feel happy for him. This is what he wanted. This is what I wanted for him too and now he’s living it.
‘How’s it going out there, Dublin?!!!’ his raspy voice calls into his microphone and it’s enough to put the crowd into hysterics again. The audience is a mixture of men and women, of young and old, and Tom Farley has every single one of them eating out of his hand. He wears a faded, grey, low V-neck T-shirt, ripped at the neck, which says ‘Dublin, Ireland’ written in white. His arms sport leather wristbands and are more tattooed than I remember them ever being, and his shiny red electric guitar is slung over the front of his pale blue jeans. He looks like he has been sent from above. Being the front man of a band suits him so much more than being hidden behind a drum kit, never mind bluffing his way in a real estate office. He was born to do this. He’s a true star.
‘You might not know this,’ he announces, and again everyone goes wild before they even hear what’s coming next, ‘but I used to live here in this place known as the “Fair City”.’
‘Wow!’ says Sophie. ‘How the hell did we not know that!’
‘I came here when I was seventeen,’ he continues over the cheering crowd, ‘and I left only a few years ago to follow my dream. I was one of the lucky ones. I followed my dream and I caught it big time, but it was a bit of a bumpy ride to get this far.’
He strums on his guitar as he speaks and I notice his accent has changed just ever so slightly. The Irish twang that once put such a lilt on his native American tone has mellowed, but his voice still sounds like he’s smoked too many cigarettes with its husky, deep mood that could make any woman faint at his feet.
‘I had a band when I was here,’ he says, rubbing his forehead like he used to when he was in deep thought. ‘They were a bloody great bunch of guys.’
Oh God. Oh God, what’s he going to say next? Don’t name the band. Don’t name the band, please, Tom.
