Page 92 of The Last Love Song
‘Your chapisdoing well, isn’t he? Even as a devotee of Beethoven, The Fishermen have managed to enter my consciousness. Married to your very own pop star, no less.’
‘If I ever see him again,’ murmured Sorcha. ‘He’s out from morning till night being famous.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t worry about that. I have plenty to keep you busy, dear. See you later.’
‘Yes, bye-bye, Audrey.’
‘Bye, darling.’
Sorcha put the telephone down and went back to the kitchen sink. The December day was freezing and her skin had turned goose-pimply in her bra and knickers. Hurriedly she washed her hair, pulled on Con’s thick terry-towelling robe and put the kettle on to boil. She made herself a cup of coffee, then settled in an armchair by the gas fire to warm herself up.
The past two months had flown. Sorcha could hardly believe it was Christmas in three days’ time. Since the start of Brad’s marketing campaign and the release of ‘Can Someone Tell Me Where She’s Gone?’, Sorcha had hardly seen Con. The band had spent three weeks on the road doing a whistle-stop tour of the country, performing their new single in as many clubs as Freddy could book them into. Once back in London, and with the track rising up the charts, it seemed every music publication, radio station and TV chat show host wanted to interview The Fishermen.
Even though Con was exhausted, he looked happier than Sorcha had ever seen him. She was thrilled for him and the rest of the band, although she’d be glad when tonight was over and they could settle down to the quiet Christmas they’d planned.
‘No parties, no people, just you and me, my darling,’ Con had whispered to her last night after they’d made love.
‘I can’t wait. I miss you,’ she’d whispered.
If Audrey had good news for her, then they might have a lot to celebrate.
Sorcha turned around and saw the condensation dripping down the window. She stuck her finger in it and drew a small heart with her initial on one end of an arrow and Con’s on the other.
‘How far we’ve come, Con, how far we’ve come.’
Helen arrived home at half past four. Tonight was very important and she wanted plenty of time to get ready.
She ran a bath and put her plastic cap on to protect her freshly styled hair. Submersed in the hot water, Helen lay staring at the ceiling, trying to relax. Just the thought of tonight sent her pulse racing.
She had made sure that her presence at the party would come as a total surprise to Con. On the couple of occasions he and The Fishermen had been in Metropolitan’s offices, she had made herself scarce. It was only last week that she’d ordered the new headed business stationery with her name in print in the bottom right-hand corner: ‘Helen McCarthy, Director.’
She yawned as the water began to calm her. Beneath the nervous energy, Helen knew she was physically and mentally drained. For the past twelve weeks she’d been putting in sixteen-hour days. Work was a balm. It stopped her from dwelling on Tony and the terrible thing that had happened to him.
The story of his murder had been in all the newspapers. Detective Inspector Garratt had appeared on television appealing for anyone to come forward with information about the killing. She’d called Samantha, her friend from college, to find out when the funeral was taking place. Samantha had told her that it was to be a quiet, family-only affair. Nevertheless, she’d sent flowers to the church and later visited his grave to say her own private goodbye.
As far as Helen knew, the crime was as yet unsolved. She’d spent night after night lying awake pondering on who could have done such a thing. She wondered how the other lady in Tony’s life was feeling and was almost comforted by the thought that there was someone else who was probably missing Tony as much as she was.
‘Oh, Tony, Tony,’ she murmured as she began to soap herself.If she hadn’t been so busy at Metropolitan, Helen honestly thought she may have gone mad.
During the day, she’d worked away quietly in the small upstairs cubbyhole that she proudly called her office. Nick Rogers, Brad’s accountant friend, had been a great help in showing her the financial ropes. Together, they had paid off the outstanding bills, brought the accounts up to date and put the company back on track.
In the evenings, Helen had concentrated on getting to know the music business. When she was not attending gigs, she was at home listening to records and reading every publication she could get her hands on.
Helen towelled herself dry. Still in her plastic cap, she sat down in front of the dressing-table mirror and began to apply her make-up. She had put a lot of thought into what she should wear for The Fishermen’s party. In the end, she had found a wonderful trouser suit in blue lurex that suited her colouring and showed off her cleavage.
Forty-five minutes later, she was ready to leave. She checked her reflection in the mirror and gave a satisfied smile.
A power in the music business, someone to be reckoned with. That was what she wanted. If she couldn’t have love, power made a suitable substitute.
29
Sorcha left Audrey’s office and hailed a taxi.
‘The Waldorf Hotel, please.’
‘Right you are, miss.’
The taxi drove off and Sorcha sat in the back, her head spinning. Audrey had just told her that she’d been offered a year’s contract as the ‘Mighty Malt’ girl. They were going to pay her a fortune and Audrey had said it was likely that her face would soon be as famous as Con’s.
