Page 64 of Rewrite the Stars
I walk further into the village, not knowing where I’m going but only that I need to keep moving and keep my mind busy. ‘We are hiring’ says a sign outside the grocery shop, which makes me think of Matthew and how he was so happy that day in Sullivan’s corner shop back in Loughisland in his little apron and with his regular customers popping in and out, enjoying his easy come, easy go arrangement with Angela in the bar.
I wish I could go back in time and change everything about that day. I wish I’d just listened to him instead of divulging all about Tom to him. I should have just waited to hear him out, let him have his moment of glory with his revelation about his sexuality and his idea of a family holiday to raise my mother’s spirits that Christmas. If I hadn’t been so quick to jump in with my information, how different would all our lives be now today? Matthew had been doing so well after his battle with depression but that was all ruined by me and my big mouth.
Maybe if I’d waited … if I’d approached it in another way? If I’d let him settle into his relationship with Martin, get his confidence back fully, knowing everyone loved and accepted him for who he really was, I could have introduced the whole Tom thing in a different, softer and more appropriate way.
And where would I be now had I done that? Would I be with Tom still? Would I have met Jack? Probably not. It’s crazy to think the whole path of my life, and of Matthew’s, Tom’s and Jack’s was determined that day with that one conversation. It was all shaped by that one decision to go home to Loughisland, just all in that one moment.
And I still can’t stop thinking of the alternative, of the other, parallel version of me – would I be happier? More content? More successful? Would I be surer of who I am? I’m torturing my already troubled mind by even thinking that way.
I need to eat something before I collapse.
Jack calls me when I get home and the sound of his voice is enough to ground my nervous energy just a little. I lie down on the sofa and close my eyes as we chat about our day, each skirting around the tension in his voice that still exists over how we left things between us. He’s a decent man. He loves me, but I’ve hurt him deeply.
‘Jack, I’m missing you like crazy here,’ I say to him, wondering what on earth else I can do to make him feel better. ‘But you know, I think you’re right. I need to really get my head around everything and all the changes that have come with leaving my job and not being able to find another one so far. I think this space will be good for us both and if it’s all too much for you to trust me again, I’ll totally understand. I just hope I can prove to you that I’m worth it.’
He seems relieved to have bypassed any more awkward small talk about weather, flights, time differences, hotel room décor and what the food is like in Canada. I waffled a bit about bumping into the village gossip, a fuzzy-haired, eccentric lady called Monica who locals call ‘The Town Crier’ as she always has her finger on the pulse when it comes to the latest beat on the street, and he laughed when I told him I’d fed her a load of exaggerated lies just to get her tongue wagging. But now it’s down to the serious stuff, and there’s no way I’m letting it roll into an uncontrollable snowball. I have to talk this through with him.
‘I just want you to be honest with me,’ he tells me, which I think is very fair of him. ‘I need you to be honest with yourself and with me. That’s all I’m asking, Charlotte. Please don’t live a lie. Life’s too short and you know it.’
I feel pins and needles set in as the pinch of anxiety looms within me.
‘I promise I’ll be honest,’ I say to him. ‘Thanks for giving me the chance to prove it to you. I know I probably don’t deserve it.’
He laughs a little and I imagine his face, his pin-up looks and come-to-bed eyes that have everyone he meets mesmerized.
‘You’re my wife,’ he reminds me softly. ‘I won’t give up on us that easily, but I don’t want to be with someone who isn’t sure if she’s in the right place in her life. Or with the right person. Only you can decide that, Charlotte. I’ll respect whatever it is you want to do or where you want to be. It’s kind of out of my hands.’
I want to hold him, to feel his warmth against me. I want him to be back here in our cosy home, making dinner, chatting about a box set we’ve been watching together and guessing the plotline. I want to be going to the dry cleaners or ironing his shirt when he’s in a hurry to get to an appointment. I want him to pour me a glass of wine, or surprise me with my favourite wild flowers he gathered when out on a walk to the shop. I want to be in the pub with him on a Sunday afternoon, sipping our beer and planning our next night out with Sophie and Harry. I want to listen to his worries and fears about his patients, swearing me to secrecy as he opens up his heart to me. I want to pretend we’ve no chocolate in the house when he gets a craving and then surprise him with a secret stash I bought just for him. I want to lie on the sofa and catch him looking at me, his blue eyes smiling, as I cry at something silly on the TV.
But most of all I want to know that by the time he gets home from this trip, I’ll never give him reason to doubt our marriage or how much he means to me again.
And to do that, I need to put some old ghosts to rest.
I need to find Tom Farley.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Trying to track down someone you used to know who is now a famous rock star isn’t as easy as I thought it might be. Despite several attempts to get in touch with Tom Farley, I find myself hitting brick wall after brick wall.
Firstly I send a message to the email address I used to use regularly to communicate with him. I’m guessing that since I didn’t get a response the last time when I sent my hearty congratulations, I might be going down the wrong path once again, but it’s worth a try and my most obvious first port of call.
I cuddle up on the sofa, take a deep breath and decide to take the bull by the horns.
Dear Tom,I type into my phone then quickly delete it.Waytoo formal. I’m obviously becoming much too used to writing job applications.
Hi Tom.
That’s better.
Congrats on a great gig in Dublin at the weekend! I was there with my husband and my friends who are big fans of your music
Always nice to set the pace – I’ve got a husband. We’re cool. We like your music … a compliment, yes. That’s a good way to start.
Oh Tom, I’m so, so happy for you on so many levels and it was really cool to hear the song you wrote called ‘You’.
I’m getting a bit gushy and personal but it’s not like I’m talking to a complete stranger, even if he has been catapulted into the stratosphere of fame since I last spoke to him. I contemplate writing ‘the song you wrote for me’ but I get a last-minute panic in case it wasn’t even about me in the first place. I know it was. I’m just nervous. Anyhow …
I was hoping maybe, if you’re still in Dublin, we could have a quick catch-up just to say hello? It would be lovely to meet you and your fiancée Ana.
