Once Upon a Forbidden Desire, page 56
AISLING STOOD MANNEQUIN still and barely felt the stylist adjusting the dress she wore. She couldn’t name the designer and who the feck cared anyway? It was Fritz’s “do this” and “do that” orders that were her main focus. She glanced over at Himself. No, she corrected, “themselves.” “Himself” for Fritz had long ago morphed to the “Themselves” in her mind after one too many “we’s” from him that she realised meant him alone, though it might be his camera that joined the reference because it was clear it was his first love.
It seemed impossible that she was here, doing something she didn’t like. “No,” she’d told her father when he took her aside after she turned down Fritz and Jade’s agent, Harry. “No,” she said again when he whispered to her in Irish the promise that all would be grand. But the “no” became a “yes” when she saw the tears in his eyes and he invoked her mother and her mother’s beauty and that it would be like showing the world her mother and not herself. And her world was swept from under her, the instruments shelved beyond her reach, and she was vacuumed up into a world she didn’t know and didn’t want to know.
She pushed the thoughts aside and went further into her head. It was the only place she felt sane these days. The only place she could be alone. In her head she could meet her music, hear the tunes, the songs, the rhythms, and feel some spark of life. Even sleep gave her no refuge these days, in the few hours she managed to find it, if she bothered. Conn no longer appeared. She’d tried in the early days, winding her way along the path and through the stones. But her song wouldn’t come, swallowed in the pain of this life she now led. She didn’t try now. It hurt too much.
The door burst open and Harry strode in. “Good, you haven’t started yet.” His New York accent was pointed.
Fritz pointed to the door. “Out. We are working.”
Aisling looked at the two dispassionately, wondering who would win.
Harry waved his phone at Fritz. “You want to see this. She’s gone viral.”
Fritz frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I posted that photo from the first shoot and a clip of her singing with the band.”
“You posted one of our photographs?” Fritz’s voice was shrill.
“Chill. Your studio gave permission. You’re credited. But that’s not the point. The point is, your Ruby is already gathering a following on social media. All the platforms. She’s crossing generations.”
Aisling heard his words while the feckityfeckfeckfeck charged through her mind like a mad slip jig twirled by a reel. None of the hoppity hop of the polka in sight, just a manic wild turning that pulled the screams out of you. Her mouth formed the “no,” but nothing emerged.
THE IDEA WAS as abhorrent as the reality of becoming the #Ruby. The “no” continued to scream in her head even as she now stepped on the runway of the Paris Fashion Week show wearing godknowswhose monstrosity, prancing in a manner alien to her. She was alien, not part of it, her mind and soul gradually separating from her body as she turned, swayed, and swaggered down the runway. Until she spied them. The Tall Men. Her mind flew down, back into her body, jerking her soul with it in surprise and something else. The something else became tears paired with a raging wave of homesickness that wrapped itself around her in a smothering hold. The Tall Men smiled up at her, the hold eased and became warm and loving as she sucked up their smiles against the night of celebration to come.
“AH, COME HERE, so,” her father said when she entered the private club.
He gathered her to him and she smelled alcohol on his breath. She looked at his eyes and her heart sank, the bit that was still left in her body when the soul and mind had fled once she’d left the runway. He’d promised her when the band had reformed the year before with her in tow that he wouldn’t touch it anymore. That biteen heart left to her wept.
“Ah, Daddy, no,” she said softly.
“I’m grand, darling, so I am,” her father said.
She knew he wasn’t.
“Will we do something together, just the two of us, tomorrow? Will we have apple tart?” he asked, kissing her on the head.
“No, blackberry,” she countered and gave him a weak smile.
It was their old joke, their shared memory of her mother, who would never let her eat anything containing apples because she claimed Aisling was allergic to them. It was a claim she’d never tested because it was a way to honor her mother, even though Aisling was only seven when she’d died. She’d never even owned an iPhone, her father taking her apple allergy to an ironic extreme and refusing to allow it. And now, Aisling knew her father’s use of the memory was to distract her from his drinking and what that meant, but all it did was add more pain to her already heavy burden.
As if sensing her thoughts, her father shoved her into the crowd. “Go, now. Have some fun. You deserve it after all your hard work.”
She let him go, the biteen slice of heart well and truly smote, and she put on her #Ruby face. People closed in, wanting the association, the selfies, and all the other detritus that went with this life. The Tall Men’s moment of comfort seemed another lifetime ago.
Harry came up to her. “Rubybabe, you were fab out there. I have a special reward for you.”
Rubybabe. That habitual one-word name for her made her cringe as if it was the weight of a tirade of abuse. She gave him a disinterested look. “There’s no need, Harry. I’m grand.”
“But I can make you feel even better.”
He took her hand and began to lead her towards the back of the club. She could see Jade there with a group of people at the table. The music pounded around her, a throbbing beat that gave her none of the singing joy that her own music did. This beat punished and she was glad. She sucked it in, felt it punch her gut, her head, and the rest of her body. Punishment felt good. It made her feel alive, brought a bit of herself back into her body.
When they reached the table containing Jade, Harry leaned over and said, “It’s snow time,” laughing as if his words were the height of wit.
Her first thought was the need to share the witless humor with Conn, knowing he would understand her reaction to the remark, only to have the thought replaced by a sense of immense loss. She turned away, unwilling to have any of these people see her tears. Especially Jade, who was sending metaphorical daggers her way so strongly it was as if Aisling could feel them pierce her skin.
Ah, feck her, the witch, echoed in Aisling’s mind and she grabbed on to it. Made it a song with a rhyme and there were so many words that rushed through her head along with the melody. It gave her a moment’s pleasure, but she shoved it aside. No music. That was her self-imposed penance, who had the time with all this “pose for me babe” shite that was her world now. She glanced over her shoulder at the group and saw Harry pull small plastic bags from his pocket. His world in his pocket. Their world in his pocket. She walked away.
SLEEP CAME AFTER all, her tired body finally overcoming her busy head’s objections. The siren call that had been so inextricably attached to her bed had been silent for months. But this time sleep did bring a hint of the past and she looked for the winding path, maybe because of her earlier impulse to share a moment with Conn. She caught sight of the winding path and the joy it gave her fueled her hope. She moved towards it and was about to step on it when she felt a jab to her shoulder, followed by a severe shaking.
“Wake up, Rubybabe, wake up.”
She opened her eyes and saw Harry hovering over her, his bloodshot eyes visible even in the darkened room. Cocaine dust rimmed his nose.
“What? What is it?” she said groggily.
He sat on the bed beside her and she instinctively moved away. He was almost twice her age and hadn’t hit on her yet, but that meant nothing.
He rested a hand on her arm, her movement unnoticed. “You have to come. Something’s happened.”
“What? What’s happened?” Aisling fought to focus, her mind still in her dream, back at the path’s entrance.
“There’s been an accident. It’s your father.”
“My father?” Her mind caught up now, the alarm in her body so acute her heart was nearly beating out of her.
“He was in a car. It crashed. He’s, uh, he’s at the hospital.”
“The hospital? Where? How bad is it?”
“It’s bad, Rubybabe. Very bad. I’m afraid he’s dead.”
Dead. She couldn’t believe it. Not her father. Not that bigger than life man whose music talents knew no bounds. The man who’d become a world phenomenon in the early days of Riverdance, when everything Celt was hot and he was the hottest. So much so that even the non- musical vapid models like Jade knew who he was. He was a legend.
A dry sob escaped her. No, she told herself, he was a dead legend.
“I’ll get dressed,” she said shakily.
“I’ll wait for you down in the lobby,” he said and rose from the bed. “Jade’s already at the hospital.”
She looked up at that statement. “Jade?” Of course. A perfect opportunity to play the grieving widow. Suddenly a rage she’d never experienced rose up inside. He was her father. Her father.
THE BROKEN FINE hairs of Aisling’s bow flew around her head like willow wisps, separated as they were from their tip from the energy of her playing. She bowed the notes of her father’s favorite jig set, the music flowing out of her instrument in the purest sound, something she knew her father would have appreciated. Paddy and Cormac were right with her, filling in the sound, giving it the drive and purpose, trying to take on her father’s role. She closed her eyes and attempted to imagine him beside her, his guitar strapped around his neck, his grin full on, his fingers flying. It was no good though and so she opened her eyes. The coffin stood to the side of the stage, giving the contradiction to the lie she’d been trying to convince herself to believe since the early morning she’d awakened to three days ago.
The tapping feet, the clinking glasses, and the shouted salutes to her father also told her the truth as well as a thousand other things. The backroom of his favorite Dublin pub was crowded with more than his friends and those he called his family. There was press and other people who didn’t belong. People who couldn’t offer up real memories. People who didn’t get the jokes, the stories, and all the other things that told her father’s life and legacy. No, it was becoming a widow’s court, the black-clad Jade draped dramatically in a grieving pose beside the coffin.
“Ah for feck’s sake,” muttered Paddy when the set finished and Jade gave the second heart-wrenching sob of the night.
“Let’s take a break,” said Aisling. “I need some air.”
“I need a drink,” said Cormac.
“Make it a whiskey for me, boyo,” said Paddy. “And one for Herself,” he added, gesturing to Aisling.
“A double,” said Aisling. “Jameson’s.”
“Of course,” said Cormac. “We’ll toast Himself in the proper way.”
She gave a faint smile. “Out back. Away from this shite.”
A nod and Cormac was away and Aisling heading towards the back exit. She got no further than the door when a journalist stopped her and asked her the same questions that had been flung at the Paris hotel, the hospital, the airport, and the door to her house since her father’s death. Soon, other journalists and voyeurists were crowding close, pushing their way towards her until she was pressed in against the door. She didn’t want this, not any of this.
She spied Harry trying to shove his way through the crowd, his newly hired publicist in tow. Her publicist. A “feck me” thought that would have left her angry and cold all at once in another time. The publicist smiled, made nice, and corralled the small mob that had formed. She spoke all the right words and took the focus.
Harry came alongside Aisling. “All right, Rubybabe?”
“I don’t want this, any of this,” she said. The words took on a meaning that reached beyond the immediate, to stretch back further than her father’s death, back to the time of the gig before Fritz and the Dream Girl. Back before. BJ. She wanted BJ.
“I know, babe. It’s awful, but just be patient. We give them a few sound bites and they leave us alone. And besides, it’s good for the image. You’re the tops now, Rubybabe. You’re it. Everyone wants a piece of you.”
She looked at him and narrowed her eyes. “No. I don’t want any of this.”
He took her arm, pushed the door open, and led her outside. “Don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon. And then you can get back to what you do best.”
Jade was outside, drinking some cocktail as she leant up against the wall. She straightened when Aisling and Harry emerged.
She frowned. “There you are. Why the fuck did you let the paparazzi leave before they took photos of me without that fucking coffin?” She pointed at Aisling. “And without her? Can’t I have one fucking photo taken without her butting in?”
Aisling froze, the snappy reply stuck in her throat. “I don’t want any of this,” she said dumbly, the words echoing in her head and winding around, looking for her soul, her mind. But they’d left her body and seemed to be searching for their own place to settle that didn’t involve her.
SHE WENT INTO sleep with a determination that was now unfamiliar to her. The winding path appeared and she allowed the hope to come with its appearance. Follow it, follow it, follow it, she told herself three times. Sure, wasn’t it three’s the charm? She made it to the stones, passed through, and spread her arms at the sight of the familiar shoreline and the water that stretched beyond it. She wanted to gather up this scene, keep it part of her. Her soul and mind were here, nodding as if it was the obvious place to find safety.
She opened her mouth, so hopeful, so willing to believe it would work, while the image of the Tall Men smiling flashed up to strengthen her courage. The words of the song formed in her mind and the melody, so haunting and beautiful. She took a deep breath, uttered the first word, but it came out no more than a whisper and the melody note that should have gone with it was lost at the back of her throat. Tears formed and she blinked them back. She swallowed and tried again. But nothing came, not this time or the next. Three was not the charm, not in her attempts right now, or that it was her third attempt to follow the path to the shore and call for Conn.
“Conn,” she whispered. “Conn, please.” She turned when she realised that the whisper was only the echo in her head. She wouldn’t give that whisper a third time. She turned and walked back through the stones, up the path, this time relishing the punishing pain that was in her heart.
AISLING WATCHED HARRY’S mouth move, spilling out words, phrases, and sentences that she knew were peppered with “Rubybabe” and “hits,” “likes,” and “photo shoots,” the publicist sitting on the hotel suite couch beside him nodding and interjecting occasionally. These little “sit downs” as he liked to call them had become more frequent in the past few weeks since her father died. And Harry’s face, in paradox to her grief, had become increasingly gleeful as Aisling’s media value soared ever higher in the wave of everyone’s fascination with what the press dubbed “her tragic story.”
She could care less. Less than less. She just stood where she was told to stand, walked where she was told to walk, like a mannequin, because wasn’t that what she was? They’d even made her pose with her fiddle, but when they asked her to play a tune and Harry had said, “something mournful, Rubybabe,” her arms had stayed at her side, unable to move.
And now she sat here while he told her this and that and that and this. She closed her eyes, wishing she could just go lie on her bed. Not a hotel bed. Her bed. Under her duvet and sleep for a year. Forever. Paddy would know. He would get it. So would Cormac. But she hadn’t seen them since the funeral because Harry didn’t want her upset. Or so he’d said while Jade looked on, glaring at her. She should count herself lucky that Jade wasn’t here now, but then there were no paparazzi, no cameras, no Fritz, or any other opportunity she could steal from Aisling. Jade could have them all and more, as far as Aisling was concerned. But Harry wouldn’t hear of it even when she’d suggested it.
“I don’t want this,” Aisling said now, the words spilling out of her mouth.
Harry halted his monologue, his face filled with surprise. “What?”
“I don’t want any of this,” she said and looked at him with conviction.
He bit his lip. “Ah, now, Rubybabe. You don’t mean that.”
She frowned at him. “I do.”
He glanced at the publicist, whose eyes were rounded and filled with horror. She smoothed her neat brown hair and tugged at her sensible skirt. “You’re doing so well, Ruby. Now’s not the time for a break.”
Aisling looked away from the both of them. Is that what she wanted? A break. The word “break” rolled around inside her and she liked how it felt. Break. Broken. So very close, the words could be twins. They were part of one another, no question.
“A break, so,” she said. “That’s it.”
“Don’t go all Greta Garbo on me, Rubybabe,” said Harry, as the door opened and Jade entered the hotel suite, her face hard.
“Who’s Greta Garbo?” asked Jade. She nodded over to Aisling. “Surely, not her.”
“I don’t even know who Greta Garbo is,” muttered Aisling.
“Actress, babe,” said Harry. “From the thirties or something. Kept saying, ‘I want to be alone.’” He imitated the star’s famous phrase, his voice high-pitched and making the “w” into a “v.”
“Let her, then,” said Jade.
“What?” said Harry. “No. Jade, babe, just let me handle it.”
Jade shrugged but gave him a look filled with meaning. Aisling sighed. The subject was dropped and the monologue resumed as if it had never been halted.
