Page 115 of The Last Love Song
‘I’d say today has not been the best, Helen.’
‘No. I’m sure it hasn’t. Can I drop by tomorrow morning at about nine? I realise it’s early, but as you know, Metropolitan are moving offices at present and everything is totally chaotic. And I’d really like to speak to you before you fly to New York.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Sorry, but we do need to talk. About all sorts of things. Okay?’
‘Okay. Bye, Helen.’
He put the telephone down. He and Helen had maintained a distant but professional relationship over the years. Of course, that first night he’d seen her in London, he had been filled with dread. The last thing he needed was his past catching up with him. But, as days had turned into weeks, and weeks into months, Helen had remained tight-lipped and out of the way.
But now, she wanted to talk.
Con sighed. If Helen’s manner was less than warm, she made up for it with her cool efficiency. And with Brad hitting the bottle so regularly, he was glad there was someone at the helm of Metropolitan who knew what day it was – because Brad certainly didn’t. That was a further problem. The man simply wasn’t up to producing their new album – if one actually ever got written.
‘Shit!’ Con’s frustration at the complications of his existence prompted him to chuck his beer bottle across the room. It hit the door but did not break, bouncing noisily and then rolling to and fro across the tiled floor.
The door opened.
‘Okay, I surrender, please lay down your arms.’
Lulu appeared in the kitchen, her hands up, a look of mock fear on her face.
‘It wasn’t meant for you, Lulu. I’ve just had a rough old day and Heil Helen phoned to cap it all and...’ Con shrugged sheepishly. ‘Yeah. Sorry.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Lulu leant against the door. ‘I saw Todd before I left. He looked as happy as you do. What is going on at the moment?’
‘Got all night?’
‘I might have.’ Lulu’s eyes twinkled.
‘Then I’ll tell you. But before I do, I have to get some food inside me. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.’
‘Really? Where’s Sorcha? I thought she’d be serving one of her stomach-bloating casseroles on the dot of seven as she usually does.’
‘Now now, Lulu. As a matter of fact, she’s in Ireland. Her father died and she’s gone home for the funeral.’
‘I see. When’s she back?’
‘Dunno.’ He shrugged.
‘Like that, is it?’
‘Possibly.’
‘I also need to eat. The trouble is, unlike your lovely wife, I can’t even boil an egg. We’ll have to go out.’
‘There’s the French place in the village. Let’s go there.’
‘Fine. Do you think escargots are counted as meat? I adore snails soaked in butter and garlic.’ Lulu followed Con towards the door.
‘You’d be doing the local gardeners a favour. There’s been a plague of the buggers this year.’ Con smiled as they strolled towards his car.
They drove out of the gates, Con unusually failing to waveto his loyal groupies sitting on the pavement outside. He checked his rear mirror and saw a Rover move from its parking space opposite his home. It followed them down the hill towards Hampstead Village.
‘See that car?’ Con nodded to the mirror.
‘Yes?’
