Page 133 of The Last Love Song
‘Are you sure, Sorcha?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Okay. I might just pop into the office for a few hours this afternoon. I hate to think Metropolitan might have got on fine without me. I can come back and make you some supper.’
‘There’s really no need.’
‘Well, I’ll ring you before I leave the office and we can decide then.’
Helen insisted she make Sorcha some beans on toast before she left. Sorcha dutifully swallowed them down, thinking Helen would never go if she didn’t. Helen went to fetch her things from the spare room and Sorcha saw her to the front door.
‘You know where I am if you need me.’
‘Yes, but I’m sure I won’t.
‘Okay then. Bye, Sorcha.’
‘Bye, Helen.’ Sorcha reached forward and pecked her on the cheek.
A blush spread across Helen’s face. She picked up her briefcase and walked to her Porsche. She dumped her things on the passenger seat and started the engine, and with a toot of her horn she was off.
Sorcha spent the afternoon on the terrace reading a book. Later, she left a message at Con’s hotel asking him to ring her,then spoke to her mother just to reassure her she was on the mend. At five, Helen called to check in on her.
The moment she put the telephone down, it rang once more. She picked it up, hoping it was Con.
‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Daly?’
‘Yes?’ The voice sounded muffled.
‘I thought you’d want to know that your husband has been lying to you for many years.’
‘What? I...Who is this?’
‘Let’s just say that Helen McCarthy isn’t the reason that you had to leave Ireland.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Ask him, ask her. Goodbye.’
The telephone clicked down. Sorcha stared at the receiver in disbelief. She grabbed the back of the chair. Could it have been a crank call? Possibly. But what crazed fan could have known about her reason for following Con to London? And Helen McCarthy’s connection to it all? To stop her mind racing, she went into the living room and switched on the six o’clock news. Shewouldnot,couldnot think about it, or the fact that her husband was thousands of miles away and hadn’t, so far, bothered to return her call.
In a couple of days’ time, he’d be home. Then they could sit down and sort things out.
Whatever her good intentions, Sorcha lay wide awake till the early hours, the voice and its poisonous tidings ringing in her head.
41
The welcoming committee that greeted The Fishermen at Heathrow on their return from New York was, as always, raucous. The viewing galleries were packed with screaming fans. Airport security had the group, plus Freddy, bundled into a car by a back door, but the crowd were like bloodhounds. Once one was on their scent, the rest would follow.
‘Jesus, I hate this,’ moaned Con as faces pressed against the windows and hands tried unsuccessfully to open the locked back door.
‘You’d hate it more if they weren’t there to greet us,’ commented Todd.
At last, the limousine freed itself of the mass of fans and the driver headed for central London.
Con looked behind him and saw the police car tailing them.
