Page 142 of The Last Love Song
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘Good. Did Katie make you welcome?’
‘Very. Your dry cleaning’s hanging in the wardrobe and there’s lobster and salad in the fridge for supper.’
‘That woman is a gem,’ smiled Helen. ‘Listen, I’ll just pop upstairs and take a shower. It’s really sticky out there. I think it might thunder tonight. Why don’t you set the table on the patio and we can eat the lobster outside? It might be the last chance we get this summer. And don’t worry, it’s totally private. There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge. Open that and have a glass. I sure need one and I should think you do too.’
Sorcha went into the kitchen, opened the wine and collected two glasses, cutlery and plates. She unlocked the patio doors, relieved to see that there was a high brick wall surrounding the flagstones.
Helen was back downstairs within fifteen minutes, looking cool in a blouse and a pair of linen slacks. Sorcha studied her as she placed dinner on the table and sat down. She certainly knew how to make the best of herself.
‘Cheers.’ Helen raised her wine glass. ‘You probably don’tfeel like you’ve got much to celebrate at the moment. To be honest, nor do I. So let’s drink to things getting better.’
Sorcha raised her glass and took a sip of wine. ‘It really is very kind of you to let me come here, Helen. It was my own stupid fault. I should have thought that word would leak out.’
‘Well, next time you leave your husband, can you hole up somewhere a bit more glamorous than the Hampstead Post House?’ Helen smiled as she picked up her cutlery.
‘It was the first place I came to, that’s all.’ Sorcha attempted to spear a piece of lobster with her fork.
‘Listen, nobody’s looking. Let’s use our fingers.’ Helen tore apart a claw. ‘So, any thoughts on the future, Sorcha? Is this separation permanent?’
‘No, none at all. To be honest, I’ve been a bit of a coward. I haven’t wanted to think. I’m not sure whether it’s the remnants of that awful flu I had last week, but I’m still feeling pretty rough. When I was at the Post House I slept for hours.’
‘It’s shock, I’m sure.’ Helen wiped her hands and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. ‘Look, Sorcha, it’s no good me treading on eggshells. Do you want to talk about what’s happened with you and Con or not?’
‘I...’ Sorcha shrugged and shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I mean, even if I’m not talking about it, in my head I’m thinking about it all the time so, yes, maybe it’s better I do. He told me about what he asked you to do.’ Sorcha cast her eyes to the floor. ‘Back in Ballymore.’
Helen looked a little shocked. ‘God, Sorcha – I can’t apologise enough. I was a different person back then, I...’
Sorcha held her hands up. ‘Really, Helen, you don’t have to apologise. I don’t blame you for anything.’
Helen swallowed hard. ‘That’s very generous.’
‘Con has always been very good at getting what he wants. Do you know if anything’s been going on with Lulu?’
Helen shrugged. ‘No. But for what it’s worth, I wouldn’t believe a word the papers say. Knowing that woman, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lulu leaked the story herself. Apparently she’s told Todd that Con’s been trying it on with her for weeks.’ Helen sniffed. ‘But I don’t buy it. She’s seen an opportunity to place herself as the woman that came between the songwriting partnership of the decade. She wants her star to rise, no matter the cost to anyone else.’
Sorcha managed a sad chuckle. ‘Maybe so. Lulu did seem to permanently be at our house, but I really thought it was because of their shared interests. I believed Con loved me.’ Sorcha tried to hold back her tears. ‘He’s changed so much in the past few months, Helen. I feel like I hardly know him any more.’
‘Yes, he has changed.’ Helen sighed. ‘And this situation really is causing me almighty problems.’ Helen caught herself. ‘Nothing compared to how you’re feeling, of course.’
Sorcha waved her hand. ‘It’s all right, Helen. I know how badly this affects your business.’ She shook her head. ‘In some ways I wish The Fishermen hadn’t become so successful so quickly. It would have given us more time to adjust. I might not be Con’s biggest fan at the moment, but I do realise that pressure was...and still is enormous.’
Helen placed her fork neatly by the side of her plate.
‘Do you want to know what I think, Sorcha?’
‘What?’
‘I think Con’s heading for some kind of breakdown. He’s lost it, feels that he can’t cope any more. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t think you should completely give up on him. The man totally screwed up all those years ago, yes. But then so did I.’ Helen gave Sorcha her warmest smile. ‘I suppose you have to remember that it was all because he couldn’t bear the thought of a life without you.’
Sorcha rubbed her eyes. ‘That’s one way of looking at it. Another is that he stopped me from having a relationship with my father, and consequently the rest of my family. Not to mention my friends. Seamus O’Donovan was hardly Santa Claus, but the choice to cut him out of my life should have been mine alone. What a selfish thing to have done.’
Helen took a sip of her wine. ‘I should have never agreed to any of it. I’m as much to blame.’ She chose her next words carefully. ‘Con needs you, Sorcha. He always has. You’re the one link he has to his past.’
Sorcha picked at her cuticles. ‘In between sleeping, I’ve had some time to think about myself for once. I’ve given up everything for him, Helen. Right since the beginning, what he wanted came first. I left Ballymore, I supported him when he came to London...I even gave up my career just as I was offered a major modelling contract. I did it because I loved him, and because I really believed he loved me. Now I feel like everything’s built on a foundation of dishonesty. He’s trodden all over me and as good as thrown me away when he thought he didn’t need me any more. I may still love Con, but I don’t think I like him.’
Sorcha reached for her wine and took a big gulp. ‘The Lulu thing hurts, too. I thought we were friends. Clearly she was using me as a way to get closer to Con.’ She massaged her temples. ‘And this media interest is awful, like rubbing salt into the wound. How long do you reckon I have to hide myself away?’
