Page 67 of Rewrite the Stars
The thought of that makes me panic. What on earth am I doing here? This is madness. I get back into the car and turn on the ignition. I need to go home.
No, I need to see this through!
I get out of the car again and lock the door, and then I take a deep breath, bless myself just in case it helps in any way, and make my way towards the stone-clad pub and Tom Farley.
The wind from the coast blows loose strands of hair around my eyes as I make my way towards the bar with one hand clutching my handbag and the other holding onto my phone like it’s my lifeline and minder. Tom didn’t say to text him when I’d arrived, and he didn’t tell me to wait for him in a particular place. He just said he’d meet me here around seven. All very casual, but enough to make me get my ass into gear and make this journey for my own sake, if not his. I feel like a teenager on a first date, or like I’m meeting my boyfriend’s parents for the first time. Butterflies eat at my tummy but the rush of adrenaline pumping through me makes this all even more exciting and I know it’s going to be worth waiting on.
A tall, willowy brunette who looks like she hasn’t eaten in a fortnight stands outside the bar chugging on a rolled-up cigarette and she speaks in a foreign tongue in rapid bursts that tells she isn’t a happy camper. She looks through me like I’m invisible, even when I say hello to her. A tourist, I’m guessing. Once you hit the coast of Ireland, no matter what part of the island, it’s always packed with European and American tourists, trying to find the various sites and shores as they travel their way round in hired cars and camper vans.
I make my way to the door of the bar and once again get cold feet, but I can’t and won’t turn back now. This is the moment I’ve waited on forever. It’s time I put my past to bed and realized exactly where I’m going in my future.
I push open the heavy door and step inside. This is it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It’s dark inside the bar and it takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the new lighting, a stark contrast to the bright, blustery evening outside in the harbour town of Howth.
The feel of the cold, cobbled floor beneath my shoes takes me back in time, as do the smell of beer and the noise of the TV in the background. I remember how we giggled as I manoeuvred across it in my heels from the night before, wearing Tom’s Guns N’ Roses sweatshirt and his jeans that just about stayed up round my waist.
Memories. This place is just bursting with memories of us. It’s where we spent the most wonderful beginnings that December and it’s where we tore each other apart with the most painful goodbye when he left for London just some months later.
I glance at the barman, convinced he’s the same one as before, as are some of the customers who sit along the bar on stools, sipping frothy Guinness after work or taking time out from life fishing on the sea. It’s a welcoming place, that’s for sure, and I’m reminded of how I fell in love with it almost as much as I fell in love with Tom.
‘Ah, you made it! Charlie, come and join us! The party’s over here!’
The familiarity of Tom’s voice makes me jump and I follow the sound to the same booth where we once sat huddled up by the fire on that cold December day, the day we made plans to run away together and live on love and music.
But, theparty?
The fire in the hearth is out today, just a mass of grey and white ashes, and Tom isn’t alone as I’d expected, which throws me. I thought it was going to be just the two of us. I must look like a rabbit caught in headlights as I stand clutching my handbag with about twenty pairs of eyes staring at me. Tom waves me over and I approach his table, the same one we sat at before.
‘So this is your Dublin girl! Wow, I can see why she broke your heart, Tommy boy!’ says one of his friends in a very strong and distinctive New York accent. I recognize him as the bass player in Blind Generation. If Sophie could only see me now … she’d probably murder me actually. As would my entire family, not to mention my husband.
I get dizzy looking around me, totally flummoxed at the gathering of people who I assume to be band and crew members, all merry and loud. It’s hard to even find Tom amongst them. So much for our dinner and drinks … so much for our coffee and catch-up and moonlit walks on the pier.
I think I’m going to cry. I feel like such a fool.
Another two men, who I recognize as fellow band members, shuffle round to make room for me and I sit down quietly, unable to find my voice, which is lost in surprise that Tom has such vivacious company. I honestly thought I was meeting him alone, which makes me feel stupid and presumptuous, and maybe even regretful and silly that I made the trip this far. But I’m not doing this for him, I remind myself. I’m doing it for me and I’ll just have to take from it as much as I can get.
I can feel his eyes on me now, smiling brightly. I manage to catch his eye and I smile briefly back. Itisgood to see him up close again even if this big reunion is absolutely nothing like I’d imagined it to be.
‘Charlie Taylor, I can’t believe you actually came all the way here! What a lovely surprise!’
A surprise? So he didn’t think I’d turn up even though I thought it was what he’d planned? Or I’d planned? I’m confused now. I’m confusing myself to try and think of how I got this so wrong.
I can tell from the slur in his voice and the glassy look in his eyes that he’s also very drunk. How wonderful.
‘Charlie, meet Bosco, Lou and Steve,’ he says a little too loudly, extending his arm dramatically as he points out each of the men around the table. By now they are more interested in their drinks and whatever conversation I just interrupted than they are in me, but they politely shake my hand and then get on with their own company. ‘The rest of them can introduce themselves,’ Tom adds. ‘I’m too tired and pissed to even remember their names.’
He laughs, which means the others laugh too, and another group in the corner nod and wave my direction. I do the same back. They look as keen to see me as I am to see them. I feel like I’ve gatecrashed a wedding and everyone is too far gone to even be bothered I’m here at all.
I fidget, feeling my palms sweat as I grip my phone. I put it into my bag to stop holding it so tightly.
‘It’s good … it’s good to see you,’ I say to Tom, fixing my hair now. I have to say something and even if I’m working on a cringe factor that’s off the scale, I’m here now and I need to make the most of it.
‘You still do that to your hair when you’re nervous,’ he says, his eyes twinkling as they stare into mine. He really is drunk. ‘You know, I used to think that was the cutest thing in the whole wide world. Man, you still are the most beautiful creature, Charlie Taylor, aren’t you?’
Oh God help me. I can’t deny it, but there’s something about his voice. He may be drunk and amongst a heap of friends who don’t give a shit that I’m here, but his voice could tame lions.
