Lyrebird

by Cecelia Ahern

  ‘If Laura auditions, it would help interest and funding for the documentary,’ she says, businesslike.

  ‘I thought you didn’t need funding. I think it’s a tacky idea. I don’t see how this will help you as a serious documentary maker. I think it will undo all the good that you have done this year,’ he says coldly, hopefully his iciness comes across, wondering if he should give it more punch.

  She’s silent and he’s wondering if he’s made her cry, which would be unusual for Bo, but when she speaks again she’s as strong as before.

  ‘As producer, I am keeping all options open. So there’s a change of plan. I’m not going to Cork on Sunday, instead you’ll need to bring Laura to Dublin for the audition. Happy birthday to your mother. Good night.’

  Before he can speak, she ends the call.

  Bo stares at the phone in her hand, the screensaver illuminated, a photo of her and Solomon holding an award for The Toolin Twins. Tears of frustration prick her eyes. She feels such loathing for her boyfriend right now, but mostly hurt. Irritated, frustrated, suffocated, stuck in a box. It is so predictable. She knew that he would act like this, that he would stomp all over this opportunity, but despite knowing it, she still went to him with her enthusiasm and still was hurt by his reaction. She does the same thing over and over again and expects different results, she’s sure that’s the definition of insanity.

  She feels arms slide around her waist. She closes her eyes remembering that feeling, savouring it, then slithers away.

  ‘Jack, stop,’ she mumbles.

  He looks at her. ‘Phone call with Prince Charming didn’t go well?’

  She can’t even lie, can’t defend herself or him. She feels the weight of his stare on her. He always did that: staring at her until she said things she never planned on saying. Well, she’s not giving in now.

  Jack zips up his leather jacket and pulls down his cap as a crowd passing stare and whisper about him. ‘He’s in Galway with another woman, you’re here with me. There’s something wrong with you two.’

  ‘We trust each other, Jack,’ she says tiredly.

  ‘Come back to me,’ he says and she laughs.

  ‘So you can cheat on me again?’

  ‘I never cheated on you. I told you that. You’re the only person I never cheated on.’

  She gives him a suspicious look. She never really believed that. Her definition of cheating and his was always different. Jack in a club, surrounded by a crowd of near-naked young women fawning over him, wasn’t technically cheating, but he never stopped them brushing up, touching up. Never stopped himself either.

  ‘So what makes me so special?’ she asks, cynically, feeling like it’s a line.

  ‘You shouldn’t have to ask me that,’ he replies. ‘You should already know what makes you special. You should be told every day,’ he says gently.

  ‘He tells me all the time,’ she says, her voice flat. ‘Good night, Jack.’

  He reaches out and runs his thumb down her chin, the way he always did. She smells the cigarette smoke from his fingers.

  ‘You should quit smoking.’

  ‘Would it bring you back to me?’

  She rolls her eyes but her irritation with him disappears. ‘Would that make you stop?’

  He smiles. ‘Get home safe, Bo Peep.’

  She stands outside the pub alone, surrounded by a dozen smokers laughing and chatting, but alone. She thinks about what he said. When was the last time Sol praised her, or told her she was special? She can’t remember. But it’s been two years, that happens, doesn’t it. Things go stale, that’s natural. At least he’s loyal, that she believes, or has always believed in the past. She never worried when he went out at night, came home late; he wasn’t that kind of guy. All she can think of is the times he’s talked her down, the times he’s tried to change her mind, in that soothing voice that now feels patronising. But that’s natural too, that’s the result of working and living together. There is rarely a break from each other, things overlap, lines become blurred, they’re doing well, she thinks. Perhaps they need more rules, more help on how to maintain their relationship while working together. No more talking the director and producer down, he wouldn’t do it on any other job. But then, she knows herself that she often needs it. She runs head-first into things, Solomon helps her to see other angles. Angles that seem obvious as soon as he says them, but that weren’t there for her at the time. They’re a good team.

  But it doesn’t feel like it, sometimes, that’s all, particularly now. She’s sure that’s natural too.

  As for the StarrQuest idea, despite Solomon’s reservations, which she had too, she still thinks it’s a good idea. Like Laura said, sometimes you only need one person to trust. StarrQuest is Jack’s show and despite everything they’ve been through, Bo trusts him.

  Solomon swears and stuffs his phone in his pocket. It’s still bright outside, the sky starting to darken as the summer evening closes in. He takes a deep breath, his mind fuming over what Bo has said to him. Bringing Laura to Dublin to enter StarrQuest seems like the tackiest, cheesiest fucking thing that Bo could come up with, but he can’t flat-out refuse. All he can do is tell Laura and see what she says. It’s her life, not his. He has to stop getting so involved in other people’s issues, he has to stop being so sensitive to every little happening around him. It’s not his job to put out other people’s fires, it’s not his job to feel other people’s problems, but he is that way, always has been. He can’t help it. He was always the lad who tried to get couples back together if there was a misunderstanding and they broke up. He was always the lad to try to cool a drunken argument between mates on a night out. Any misunderstanding that has nothing to do with him, he tries to jump in and fix. The arbitrator. The counsellor. The peacekeeper. It stresses him more than the ones directly involved; he feels the anger, the hurt, the injustice those people should be feeling multiplied in himself. He knows he does it, realises now that he probably shouldn’t, but he can’t stop.

  As the anger cools, so does his body heat. The sea breeze causes goosebumps to rise on his skin. He plans on hunting for a cigarette – he only smokes when he’s highly strung, or drunk, and right now he’s feeling a little of both – but suddenly he hears a sound from inside that stops him in his tracks and sends his heart racing.

  ‘Carolan’s Dream’ is being played again, but he knows it’s not his mother playing. Marie wouldn’t play it twice on a night, never has before, can’t see why she’d do it now. It’s close to her version, but not quite. It’s somebody else attempting it, but he can’t pinpoint what’s wrong. There are no wrong strings being hit, nothing out of tune, but there is something removed, and there is nobody remotely as talented as his mother on the harp who could attempt that. Not in that room. He moves as if in slow motion, as if he’s standing on a camera as it tracks across the scene. He barely feels his feet move, his head is in the music, the music is in his head. He follows it as if it beckons him, as if it’s a beacon, drawing him in. From the kitchen, the kitchen door leading to the session is open again and all he can see is the crowd. All eyes forward, mouths agape, heads shaking, eyes wide and some filled with the beauty of what they’re hearing and seeing. He stands at the doorway and nobody notices him. He looks at the stage and there sits Laura on a stool, alone on the platform, her eyes closed, her mouth open, mimicking the sound of the Celtic harp.

  Solomon’s mother, who is standing beside the raised platform next to Finbar, turns to see Solomon. She rushes towards him, a look of what appears to be concern on her face, hands to her mouth.

  ‘Oh, Solomon,’ she whispers, wrapping her arm around his waist and pulling herself close to him. She turns to face Laura.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, confused. For a moment he’s afraid she’s going to throw a diva tantrum that Laura is playing her song on her special night. It would be completely out of character, but he can’t place her emotions.

  She ignores him for a moment, caught in Laura’s spell.
Then she turns to him. ‘I’ve never seen nor heard anyone like her in my life. She’s magical.’

  Solomon smiles, relieved. Proud. ‘Now you get to hear how beautifully you play,’ he says to her.

  ‘Oh my,’ she says, hands to her hot cheeks.

  He glances around the faces of the crowd, everybody utterly captivated, experiencing something new and astonishing for the first time in their lives.

  Perhaps he was unfair to Bo. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps Laura deserves an audience, and not just the kind that a documentary would provide. She needs a live audience, a real live reaction. Seeing her in person is visceral, it brings her and her skills alive. Perhaps, like the lyrebird, on a platform is exactly where she’s meant to be.

  15

  As soon as Laura has finished mimicking ‘Carolan’s Dream’, the crowd erupts in applause. They jump to their feet, hollering and whistling, shouting for more. Laura receives such a fright from the reception that she stands frozen on the spot, staring out at everyone.

  ‘Rescue her, Solomon.’ Marie grips his arm.

  He runs up to the platform and takes her by the hand. Flesh on flesh, she looks at him in surprise. Thinking of his argument with Bo, he quickly lets go and she follows him. He tries to leave the stage but his brothers trap him, and everybody, family and neighbours, call for him to sing. He knows there’ll be no getting off the stage until he’s sung at least one song. Rory goes to Laura’s aid and ushers her to her chair, which Solomon watches with uncertainty while he sets himself up with his guitar. Rory is in her ear, and she is leaning close to him to hear what he’s saying. This sets his blood thumping again, but there’s nothing he can do about it while he’s on stage, nothing that he could ever do about it because he has no claim over her. Rory is the baby, twenty-eight years old and closer in age to Laura than Solomon is. He’s also single, permanently single, bringing home sweet girl after sweet girl for family occasions but never staying with them for longer than a few months. Rory can have his pick of just about anybody, and he chooses well, always beautiful, nice girls, taken by his charm. Cute, sweet, is what the girls call Rory, and he laps it up.

  Solomon tightens his ponytail on the top of his head to Donal shouting ‘Get a haircut!’ to laughter, and then strums the guitar once to get their attention. Laura immediately looks up. Rory couldn’t be less interested in Solomon about to sing his song for the hundredth time and thinks of ways to get her attention again.

  ‘I wrote this song when I was seventeen years old, when a girl who shall remain nameless broke my heart.’

  ‘Sarah Maguire!’ Donal shouts, and they all laugh.

  ‘You’ve all heard this before, apart from one person, who’s very welcome here tonight, wasn’t she wonderful, lads?’

  They all cheer Laura.

  ‘It’s called “Twenty Things That Make Me Happy …”.’

  They collectively ‘ahhhh’.

  ‘“… And None of Them Are You”,’ he finishes the title and they cheer. They always do, it’s the same every time. All part of the comfort of the gathering, everyone knowing their part, getting involved, playing their role. And despite knowing its title and even the lyrics, they laugh generously.

  And he begins. It’s an up-tempo song about the simple pleasures in life, how important they are, how happy they make him. So much more than the girl who broke his heart, now belittled to nothing in his life, exactly what he wanted to do when he was seventeen and angry and hurt after she’d cheated on him with a mate. She wasn’t his first love, he’d had others, but back then Solomon fell in love easily and he was in love with being in love, a young romantic who wrote love songs for himself and rock songs for his band.

  His aim had always been to be a rock star, his first backup plan to be a recording studio sound recordist, second, to be a sound man on tour. He’d settled on sound recordist for documentaries for his soul, reality TV lately for his rent. He still writes and plays his guitar, though less now that Bo is living with him as he has less time to himself and the paper-thin walls of his city apartment don’t afford him the luxury of his awkward, often embarrassing ways of finding his way through a song.

  The crowd join in as he lists them.

  One: Fresh sheets on the bed.

  Two: A good hair day.

  Three: Finishing work when it’s bright outside.

  Four: A day off on a sunny day.

  Five: Post that isn’t bills.

  These are five things that make me happy – ooooh …

  He stops playing and the crowd fills the silence with:

  And none of them are you.

  They cheer themselves and laugh and he continues.

  Six: A bacon bap with tomato ketchup.

  Seven: The smell of freshly cut grass.

  Eight: Scarface and a pint.

  Nine: Jackie’s Army in Italia ’90.

  Ten: Finding money in my pocket.

  These are ten things that make me happy, oooh …

  He stops playing and the crowd responds with:

  And none of them are you.

  ‘SARAH!’ Donal yells, which sends everyone into hysterics.

  Eleven: A favourite song on repeat.

  Twelve: Catching the morning bus.

  Thirteen: Popping bubble-wrap.

  Fourteen: Mam’s apple tart. [This gets a cheer.]

  Fifteen: Matching socks.

  These are fifteen things that make me happy, oooh …

  AND NONE OF THEM ARE YOU.

  Sixteen: Packie Bonner’s save against Romania. [More cheers.]

  Seventeen: Breakfast in bed.

  Eighteen: A shower, shit and a shave.

  Nineteen: The first day of the holidays.

  Twenty …

  He strums the guitar speedily, drumming up the anticipation, so that everyone joins in on the final line:

  … And kissing your best friend!

  The lyrics had always been ‘fucking’ your best friend, which is what he had done to help himself at the time, but it didn’t work of course, and he kept it clean for his parents’ sake.

  The crowd erupt with joy and as he leaves the stage, Cormac, his eldest brother, gets up to say a piece from Dancing at Lughnasa by Brian Friel.

  As Solomon makes his way through the crowd, stopping to chat to people he hasn’t seen in months, he reaches his place to find Laura gone. He searches around and catches Donal’s eye. He points at the door towards the kitchen. Solomon can’t get into the kitchen quick enough.

  The kitchen holds party stragglers picking at the food during Cormac’s performance. Cormac possesses that ability to clear the room, not because he’s not good – he’s great, no one delivers it better – but because he lacks timing. When everybody is about to lift the ceiling off, he does his piece, dark and quiet and sad, which is in direct contradiction to what everybody wants. He kills the atmosphere, lets the energy dip. He does the same in conversation, brings up something sombre when they’re all laughing.

  His sister Cara has also escaped their brother’s moment. She notices Solomon looking around, senses his mood.

  ‘Out there’ – she points out the window – ‘gone to show her the cuckoos, our cuckoo-fucking-expert.’ She does Solomon the decency of not even laughing at that. Solomon controls himself, his pace, tries to control his heart rate as he makes his way through the growing crowd to the door that leads to the garden. Once at the door, he stalls, his hand on the handle.

  And what is so wrong with Laura being outside with Rory? Apart from it driving Solomon insane, she’s a twenty-six-year-old woman who can do what she likes. What’s he going to do, break them up? Declare that they can’t be together? He knows his brother well, knows exactly what he wants from Laura, what any man would want from any young beautiful woman they have a private moment with, but his brother is not a sexual predator. He won’t be on top of Laura, pinning her down to the ground; she doesn’t need rescuing.

  Or maybe Laura knows exactly what Rory wants, maybe she want
s it too. Ten years alone in a cottage without intimacy, would she want sex? Wouldn’t that be natural? Solomon knows that he would. But does he owe it to Laura to protect her? It’s not his job to mind her, or is it? Perhaps that’s a job that he’s given himself, placing himself in a position of importance for his own ego. An argument that is reminiscent of childish brotherly fights: I found her first. She’s mine! But Laura did choose him, he is the one she wanted to stay with, though not necessarily be wrapped in cotton wool by him. He’s not exactly her knight in shining armour either, thinking some of the things he’s been thinking. With a girlfriend. A girlfriend he just accused of trying to hook up with her ex. He was projecting. Bo would see right through him, if she hadn’t already. Most girlfriends would never allow their boyfriends to go away on a trip with another woman, especially to a family occasion, especially a young beautiful single woman. Was she testing him, or did she have ridiculously high reserves of trust and loyalty? Or did she want him to do what he so wanted to do? Was she egging him on, daring him to end it? Do the thing that she can’t do. Because if he didn’t, would they ever break up? Were they going to be together for ever because neither of them had the balls to break up, because there wasn’t a good enough reason to break up?

  Things were never bad between him and Bo, but he didn’t exactly know where they were headed. They were working together, tied together through that, living together more as a result of an accident than from anything deliberate or romantic. And who does he think he is, imagining he is even entitled to a chance with Laura, as if that’s something that is there for his taking. Frustrated with himself for sitting on his high horse, he knows he’s entirely to blame and has been trying to justify whatever occurred to him in the forest the day he met Laura.

  ‘Jesus,’ Cara interrupts his thoughts. ‘If you don’t go, I will.’ Cara hands him her bottle of beer, moves him aside and goes outside to the garden. The chill hits Solomon, which goes straight to his brain, a wake-up call. He downs the remainder of her bottle, follows Cara into the dark night and the security beam comes to life, illuminating the garden. There’s no sign of Rory and Laura.