Page 63 of Rewrite the Stars
The taxi driver opens the boot of the car and Jack puts his case in, then goes to the back seat and takes out his phone, using that as his focus until the car drives off and our cottage here in Ardara is far out of sight.
I close the front door and scream into the silence.
Damn you, Tom Farley. And damn my weakness for you too.
What on earth am I meant to do now?
Chapter Twenty-One
Iignore several phone calls from Sophie as I lie in bed later that evening, contemplating the stretch of ten days ahead with no Jack, no job and no clue of where I’m going in my life.
I haven’t eaten all day, I haven’t showered and, in true self-destruction mode, I make the mistake of going on social media where I come across photos of last night’s gig, multiple shares of the song ‘You’ and thousands of comments from fans drooling over Tom, still wondering who his mysterious Dublin girl once was.
If only they knew the very unglamorous truth. If only they could see me now, lying here alone with my tear-stained face and my relationship in tatters.
Pictures of Tom and his fiancée Ana are everywhere I look so I throw my phone to the side and don’t bother charging it when I hear the battery dying. Ana is as beautiful as her status as a supermodel suggests. Tall, willowy, blonde and with cheekbones like razors, she’s almost too beautiful to be true. And she’s young. I’d guess about twenty-three to Tom’s, what … thirty-five? Not that bad, I guess, considering the world he lives in. It’s hardly a stereotypical rock-star age difference.
I think of Jack, making his way to his hotel in Montreal, his head mangled with all sorts of theories as to why I’ve chosen to keep this all from him for so long. Does he really think I’m still in contact with Tom? Does he think I’d planned to go there last night in some sick, sneaky way to feel close to him again? Why the helldidI go to the concert? What’s happening to me? I can’t understand why I’d even contemplate it when all of my life, well, most of it, is going quite smoothly – apart from the big issue of being unemployed, of course.
I hate how I do this to myself. Why can’t I ever feel complete with my lot? Why am I always the one wanting what I don’t have? It’s like a disease and it’s eating me up. Maybe I do need to talk to Tom. Seeing him on stage just made me worse, but if I spoke to him? Oh my God, why am I still thinking of him?
I need to clear my head. I just don’t know how.
I get up at seven, having barely slept a wink, and I stand under the shower for as long as I can, trying to focus on how I can sort my life out. I call Jack as I sit on the edge of our bed twenty minutes later, wrapped in a towel, but he doesn’t answer, then I realize he is five hours behind and he’s either still travelling or sleeping.
‘Jack, it’s me,’ I tell his voicemail. ‘I wanted to say … well, I don’t know what I wanted to say. I suppose I just needed to hear your voice. I miss you.’
I hang up and rub my face with my hands. Then I get dressed, go downstairs and put on a warm coat and hat, and set off for a walk hoping that some fresh air might help me get focused. I walk down past the pub which is preparing to open for another busy day when tourists and locals will avail themselves of the finest food and hospitality. Peter, the barman and co-owner, greets me as he puts out his chalkboard with today’s offers and specials: ‘Traditional roast of the day – seafood chowder – fresh cod and chunky chips’. The very thought of food makes me nauseous.
‘Jack off to Canada, then?’ says Peter in his usual smiley, cheery way. ‘You’ll be missing him, so.’
‘I sure will,’ I reply, pretending everything is as it should be. Pretending … how much of my life have I spent pretending?
‘It will go in fast, wait and see,’ says Peter. ‘And sure we’ll all keep an eye on you – if you need anything, even a chat, you know there’s always a welcome in here for you. Don’t be a stranger now, Charlotte.’
I go further but can’t resist stopping by the window of the art gallery with the little yellow door and thatched roof. I never can seem to pass this place. A rather odd-looking still life of the poet, Oscar Wilde, is Mary’s ‘painting of the week’ and just seeing him raises a smile from within me as I remember my engagement party and how my father became obsessed with him after seeing the statue in Merrion Square where we used to live. Strangely, I really like the painting and I make a mental note to tell my dad about it the next time I see him, since we are both now super fans of the man who wrote about the importance of being yourself.
Jack and I really have come so far since our time in Merrion Square. Never in my dreams did I think I’d find a place I loved more than Dublin city, but here I am, mesmerized by every little corner of the new place I now call home.
I wave solemnly through the window at Mary, the jolly owner of the art gallery, who sets down her coffee cup and comes out to say a quick hello.
‘So, have you painted me a picture yet with those lovely materials you bought last time?’ she asks me, folding her arms under her generous bosom. Her cheeks always have such a weather-beaten, rosy glow and just looking at her makes me smile. I know nothing about Mary, only that she always uplifts me and that she makes a mean cup of tea, but she always seems to be able to read my mood like a book.
‘I’m going to make a point of it now that Jack is away on business,’ I say to her, trying my best to echo her cheery disposition. It obviously doesn’t cut the mustard with Mary.
‘You look sad, girleen,’ she says to me, using the old Irish endearment that reminds me of my grandmother’s generation. Mary is nowhere near that age, but her sentiments are so old-school and gentle that she never fails to give me comfort. ‘Is there something bothering you? It’s not good to bottle it up, but tell me to mind my own business at the same time if I’m prying. You just don’t look yourself at all.’
Mary is in her early sixties, I’d guess, and though her views are often simple and straightforward, she runs a gallery that people travel to from miles and miles away, so I’ve learned to take her humble words to heart when she says something that she believes in.
‘I’m grand,’ I reply to her, using another familiar Irish term that can mean one thing or another depending on how you say it. My deep sigh, in this instance, gives my game away.
‘You know the door is always open here if you ever need a chat,’ she tells me, seeing right through to the depths of my pain. ‘We love having the two of you here in Ardara, but I know it can’t be easy settling somewhere so far from home. You’ll mind yourself, now, won’t you, Charlotte.’
This time I do smile sincerely in response.
‘I will, Mary,’ I tell her, ‘and I’ll get painting very soon too.’
Mind yourself,meaning ‘take care’, is one of my favourite everyday Irish sayings and hearing it reminds me once again of how much I love living here, and how much I love to bump into people like Peter and Mary. Yes, I know I’m an independent, educated, fully grown woman who is more than capable of looking after myself while my husband is away on a brief work trip, but I do think it’s nice that the people around us care enough to look out for each other. I’ve never experienced community spirit like it and probably won’t ever find it anywhere else.
