Page 65 of Rewrite the Stars
I immediately delete that line. It wouldnotbe lovely to meet his fiancée Ana. Not one bit. In fact right now I can’t think of anything worse than meeting her. I couldn’t give a monkey’s about his fiancée, no harm to her. I’m sure, being a supermodel, she’s drop-dead gorgeous and a lovely person all round, but that’s not what I need to be faced with now. Call me insecure, it’s just not.
I’ve put my number below – no pressure, but if you’re about, give me a call or text and I’ll do my best to come see you before you head off on your travels again.
I’m so proud of you, Tom. I think I’ve said that before, but I am.
All the best,
Charlie x
I press send. And then I wait. And then I wait more.
The hours tick by and I finally realize that staring at my phone while horizontal on the sofa is not going to make him reply any quicker, if at all.
So I make tea. I watch some trashy daytime television. I have a bath. I scour the internet for jobs. I even apply for a job that is too geographically far away for me to contemplate, but anything to keep my mind busy and my fingers from checking my phone or refreshing my emails.
In the evening I watch back-to-back soap operas. I haven’t watched soap operas since I was living at home in Loughisland where it was like some sort of religion to keep up to date with all in soap-land, but I find myself catching on to the storylines and characters like it was yesterday. My aunt Bridie would be proud of me.
I binge-watch Netflix. I go to the shops and stock up on food I don’t want and will probably never get round to eating, and that I’m not even sure I like. The early evening turns into night and I eventually lie in bed, wondering what exactly I’m hoping to gain from this meeting, should it ever miraculously happen.
Closure, I decide. And answers. Yes, answers to all the questions in my mind so I can finally let him go. But what if I do actually meet him and he’s still all I ever dreamed him to be? What if those feelings I’ve buried inside of me rise to the surface and what if … what if he still feels the same about me, too? Then what would I do? Would I actually leave Jack for him?
Can I even compare him to Jack? No I can’t. They are totally different people, who move me in totally different ways. With Jack I feel comfort, laughter, friendship, a deep and meaningful love that I know will last forever, yet there’s this itch I just cannot scratch. With Tom all I feel is an empty hole inside me that I’m convinced only he can fill. But what if this all backfires and I’m left broken-hearted over Tom all over again while he moves on with his gazelle-like fiancée? I’d be left licking my wounds while Jack sails off into the sunset telling me to, quite rightly, stuff our marriage and all our plans for the future.
I toss and turn all night, and reach for my phone the minute I wake up the next morning. Still nothing.
I go for a walk around the village. I have tea with Mary and pretend that I’m fine, even though she repeatedly tells me that I don’t look one bit fine. I admire Oscar in the window to try and divert the conversation. It doesn’t work.
‘You’ve bags beneath your eyes that would carry a Kardashian’s luggage, and every time I see you, you resemble a ghost with your pasty white face. You’re not fine, but all I can do is look out for you. That’s all.’
On Mary’s advice, and in a bid to ‘rest my head and heart’, I sit out on the deck at the back of our house and paint a picture. It’s meant to be some horses in a field but it more closely resembles two Womble-type figures with noses that are way too pointy to be any animal I’ve ever seen in real life. I should stick to teaching and singing, I decide.
I even pick up my guitar, hoping the angst I’m feeling right now might spur on some magical melodies and words of wisdom, but it doesn’t. Instead I find myself once again playing songs that even my brother is probably tired of singing to students and tourists in Galway, just for the sake of playing something.
Sophie rings to see if I’m OK and if I want some company. I tell her I’m tired and going to have an early night. Emily rings to tell me she did a pregnancy test and it was negative again. She’s broken-hearted so I forget about my own troubles for half an hour and console my grieving sister.
I call my mother. I just need to hear her soothing voice, even if I know she will only want to talk about the latest teaching jobs she has found in the newspaper, or give me detailed updates on Matthew’s medical progress when I’m already up to speed with how my brother is doing. He is so close to fulfilling his dream of learning to walk again. Even the thought of him standing tall once more makes my eyes almost spill over. I think that would be the happiest day of my life if it ever comes to pass.
Jack messages me from Canada. He’s had a liquid lunch and is enjoying a tour of Montreal with some of the other delegates on the trip. Thinking of him enjoying himself makes me happy but also makes me miss him more, and when he says he’s met up with an visiting group of Irish doctors my mind races wondering if his ex, Ursula, is one of them. He mentioned bumping into her one day at one of his clinics and my stomach turned at the thought.
I ask him directly if she is there. He tells me she is. I go to the bathroom to be sick.
I need to get my life back on track. I need to see Tom and settle my racing mind, but I’m running out of ideas of how to get in touch without sounding like the raving lunatic I fear I’m becoming.
Later that night, I Google Tom’s record company and contemplate writing them an email. But when I type the address into my phone I realize I’ve no idea what to say.Hi there multi-national record company people, I’m one of Tom Farley’s thousand or so ex-girlfriends and I’d really like to get in touch?They’d probably file my name under ‘stalker types’ in their office, tell me to join the queue of super fans and block me from getting in touch again.
I look up his management and ring their office in London but chicken out when their answerphone asks me to leave a voicemail.
What the hell am I doing?
My fingers hover over Twitter and Facebook, knowing that the person on the other side of the social networks probably is someone employed to be, not the band, and certainly not Tom himself.
I go to bed and lie awake again, staring at the ceiling feeling empty and lonely inside at all I have to lose if I don’t get my act together. I’d be nothing without Jack, as much as it’s not cool to admit it. Yes, I’ve a career to pursue and I know I’m a great teacher, and yes I will probably find the courage someday to write down some songs that actually make sense to others and that they might even like to hear, but I love my life and I love my husband. I don’t need to find myself or love from within, thank you very much self-help books. I want my husband but I need to prove to myself and to him that I can do this, and then walk away guilt free and lock the door of Tom Farley in my mind forever.
I close my eyes, roll over and put my hand on Jack’s cool empty pillow, feeling a raw grip of fear in my stomach as the thought of losing him becomes real.
And then my phone bleeps, making me turn over in the bed to reach out for it. I check the time. It’s after midnight so I know it can be only one of two people – either it’s Matthew wanting me to hear one of his latest compositions that just can’t wait until morning, or it’s Tom Farley in some last-minute miracle.
Charlie! Here’s my number, gorgeous. Call me.
