Rewrite the Stars, page 23
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. Way too 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.
I immediately delete that line. It would not be lovely to meet his fiancée Ana. Not one bit. In fact right now I can’t think of anything worse than meeting her. I couldn’t give a monkey’s about his fiancée, no harm to her. I’m sure, being a supermodel, she’s drop-dead gorgeous and a lovely person all round, but that’s not what I need to be faced with now. Call me insecure, it’s just not.
I’ve put my number below – no pressure, but if you’re about, give me a call or text and I’ll do my best to come see you before you head off on your travels again.
I’m so proud of you, Tom. I think I’ve said that before, but I am.
All the best,
Charlie x
I press send. And then I wait. And then I wait more.
The hours tick by and I finally realize that staring at my phone while horizontal on the sofa is not going to make him reply any quicker, if at all.
So I make tea. I watch some trashy daytime television. I have a bath. I scour the internet for jobs. I even apply for a job that is too geographically far away for me to contemplate, but anything to keep my mind busy and my fingers from checking my phone or refreshing my emails.
In the evening I watch back-to-back soap operas. I haven’t watched soap operas since I was living at home in Loughisland where it was like some sort of religion to keep up to date with all in soap-land, but I find myself catching on to the storylines and characters like it was yesterday. My aunt Bridie would be proud of me.
I binge-watch Netflix. I go to the shops and stock up on food I don’t want and will probably never get round to eating, and that I’m not even sure I like. The early evening turns into night and I eventually lie in bed, wondering what exactly I’m hoping to gain from this meeting, should it ever miraculously happen.
Closure, I decide. And answers. Yes, answers to all the questions in my mind so I can finally let him go. But what if I do actually meet him and he’s still all I ever dreamed him to be? What if those feelings I’ve buried inside of me rise to the surface and what if … what if he still feels the same about me, too? Then what would I do? Would I actually leave Jack for him?
Can I even compare him to Jack? No I can’t. They are totally different people, who move me in totally different ways. With Jack I feel comfort, laughter, friendship, a deep and meaningful love that I know will last forever, yet there’s this itch I just cannot scratch. With Tom all I feel is an empty hole inside me that I’m convinced only he can fill. But what if this all backfires and I’m left broken-hearted over Tom all over again while he moves on with his gazelle-like fiancée? I’d be left licking my wounds while Jack sails off into the sunset telling me to, quite rightly, stuff our marriage and all our plans for the future.
I toss and turn all night, and reach for my phone the minute I wake up the next morning. Still nothing.
I go for a walk around the village. I have tea with Mary and pretend that I’m fine, even though she repeatedly tells me that I don’t look one bit fine. I admire Oscar in the window to try and divert the conversation. It doesn’t work.
‘You’ve bags beneath your eyes that would carry a Kardashian’s luggage, and every time I see you, you resemble a ghost with your pasty white face. You’re not fine, but all I can do is look out for you. That’s all.’
On Mary’s advice, and in a bid to ‘rest my head and heart’, I sit out on the deck at the back of our house and paint a picture. It’s meant to be some horses in a field but it more closely resembles two Womble-type figures with noses that are way too pointy to be any animal I’ve ever seen in real life. I should stick to teaching and singing, I decide.
I even pick up my guitar, hoping the angst I’m feeling right now might spur on some magical melodies and words of wisdom, but it doesn’t. Instead I find myself once again playing songs that even my brother is probably tired of singing to students and tourists in Galway, just for the sake of playing something.
Sophie rings to see if I’m OK and if I want some company. I tell her I’m tired and going to have an early night. Emily rings to tell me she did a pregnancy test and it was negative again. She’s broken-hearted so I forget about my own troubles for half an hour and console my grieving sister.
I call my mother. I just need to hear her soothing voice, even if I know she will only want to talk about the latest teaching jobs she has found in the newspaper, or give me detailed updates on Matthew’s medical progress when I’m already up to speed with how my brother is doing. He is so close to fulfilling his dream of learning to walk again. Even the thought of him standing tall once more makes my eyes almost spill over. I think that would be the happiest day of my life if it ever comes to pass.
Jack messages me from Canada. He’s had a liquid lunch and is enjoying a tour of Montreal with some of the other delegates on the trip. Thinking of him enjoying himself makes me happy but also makes me miss him more, and when he says he’s met up with an visiting group of Irish doctors my mind races wondering if his ex, Ursula, is one of them. He mentioned bumping into her one day at one of his clinics and my stomach turned at the thought.
I ask him directly if she is there. He tells me she is. I go to the bathroom to be sick.
I need to get my life back on track. I need to see Tom and settle my racing mind, but I’m running out of ideas of how to get in touch without sounding like the raving lunatic I fear I’m becoming.
Later that night, I Google Tom’s record company and contemplate writing them an email. But when I type the address into my phone I realize I’ve no idea what to say. Hi there multi-national record company people, I’m one of Tom Farley’s thousand or so ex-girlfriends and I’d really like to get in touch? They’d probably file my name under ‘stalker types’ in their office, tell me to join the queue of super fans and block me from getting in touch again.
I look up his management and ring their office in London but chicken out when their answerphone asks me to leave a voicemail.
What the hell am I doing?
My fingers hover over Twitter and Facebook, knowing that the person on the other side of the social networks probably is someone employed to be, not the band, and certainly not Tom himself.
I go to bed and lie awake again, staring at the ceiling feeling empty and lonely inside at all I have to lose if I don’t get my act together. I’d be nothing without Jack, as much as it’s not cool to admit it. Yes, I’ve a career to pursue and I know I’m a great teacher, and yes I will probably find the courage someday to write down some songs that actually make sense to others and that they might even like to hear, but I love my life and I love my husband. I don’t need to find myself or love from within, thank you very much self-help books. I want my husband but I need to prove to myself and to him that I can do this, and then walk away guilt free and lock the door of Tom Farley in my mind forever.
I close my eyes, roll over and put my hand on Jack’s cool empty pillow, feeling a raw grip of fear in my stomach as the thought of losing him becomes real.
And then my phone bleeps, making me turn over in the bed to reach out for it. I check the time. It’s after midnight so I know it can be only one of two people – either it’s Matthew wanting me to hear one of his latest compositions that just can’t wait until morning, or it’s Tom Farley in some last-minute miracle.
Charlie! Here’s my number, gorgeous. Call me.
Oh Jesus.
My whole insides leap and I sit up on the bed, staring at the seven simple words on my phone screen.
Charlie! Here’s my number, gorgeous. Call me.
I can hear him say it as I read his words. There’s no signature, no telling who it is, but of course there is no need to. It’s him. He called me Charlie.
This is it then. I feel weak.
I lie back and hold my phone to my chest, wondering if I can pick up the courage to actually go ahead with what I’d planned. This is what I’ve been waiting on for two whole days. Hell, no, make that years and years. I can’t pull out now. I need to see if being face to face with the man I used to love will shake off the cobwebs of the past once and for all.
I press call on my phone and I wait to hear his voice with my eyes closed and my heart thumping. I’m going to speak to him at long last. This is what I’ve been waiting on, isn’t it? I can’t back out now.
The phone rings, and rings and then I hear his voicemail.
‘Tom here. Shoot me a message and I’ll get back to you. Cheers!’
I gulp. I try to speak. My voice squeaks.
‘Hi Tom, it’s me, Charlotte. I mean Charlie. It’s Charlie Taylor. I just got your message so I’m giving you a call to see about, um, maybe meeting up? Anyhow, this is my number. Oh, you already know that. Um, it’s late. Maybe chat tomorrow, yeah? Bye.’
I hang up the phone and plunge down onto my pillow, cringing and without a clue of what I just said or if I made any sense. I put Jack’s pillow over my head and will myself to sleep. It’s going to be a long night.
It’s five p.m and two days after my message to Tom Farley.
I’m in my car after torturous waiting for a reply which finally came my way, but not in the form of a phone call as I’d been expecting from him. He didn’t call me back, but instead sent a message to meet him in the bar in Howth at ‘7ish?’ today which was enough for me to go full steam ahead with my plan to get him out of my system.
I drive towards the city with my head full of memories and scenarios of what the future might bring. I head out a little bit further east, making my way towards the little peninsula of Howth where Tom and I spent so many magical moments, and my mind is racing overtime. Did he choose to meet me there for old times’ sake? Is he trying to be all nostalgic by bringing me here again? Why is he still here? Was he hoping I might get in touch? Was the song like a smoke signal to me? He knows I’m married so it’s not like he could blatantly reach out, but is this fate giving us a third and final chance at testing our destiny?
I turn the radio up, and then I turn it down, then I turn it off and then on again. I can’t concentrate when I’ve music playing, yet I feel panicky and alone if I don’t have some noise to distract my troubled mind as I see through the last minutes of the two-hour journey up to Howth. My fondest memories of my brief time spent with Tom are from this area of Dublin and I well up thinking of how emotional our reunion is going to be. The sights and smells fill me up and bring me back to those days of hopes and dreams. I feel excited inside. I’ve waited a long time for this.
But what will happen when we finally come face to face again?
Do I hug him when I see him? Is he planning dinner and drinks or just a coffee and a catch-up? Will our conversation flow like it used to or will it be stilted and distant like the years between us?
I wonder what he’s wearing. I imagine he’ll wear jeans and a T-shirt, dark grey or black to show off his bulky arms and manly chest that makes all the ladies swoon.
Whatever it is he has planned, I hope I look OK for the occasion too. I scooped my hair into a messy bun before I left, carefully applied some mascara and blush and a sweep of pale pink lipstick to match the muted tones of the maxi dress and pale blue denim jacket I’m wearing in hope that the rain stays away, which is always a gamble in Ireland at this time of year.
I chose comfortable shoes, thinking how we might take the famous Cliff Walk together again beneath the moonlight, reminiscing about how much we’d planned when we last met up in the same place. We’d talk about how time and fate wasn’t on our side, but how we’ve found each other again for the third time in our lives. Third time lucky, he’ll joke to me, and we’ll share a moment knowing that this time, destiny is on our side.
My mind is running away with itself, I know it is, but this is the type of fantasy I’ve had for years and years, and now I’m about to face it head on to see if it all comes true.
