“I’m not,” Conor said reflexively. “Jesus, you know I’m with Colette.”
Gavin shook his head impatiently. “Okay, whatever. For the sake of argument, then. It’s about the conscious choice to move away from the things that would otherwise destroy us. Felicity said it. She said ‘I can’t stay here’ about her mother’s house. But it’s not just the house itself. It’s the whole history, the baggage of everything that comes with it. We make these choices in life, don’t we, where we break away from what’s holding us back. And thank Christ for it.”
Conor wondered for a moment at Gavin’s intensity, at the hyper way he spoke.
“No, I’m not fucking high,” Gavin said, reading his thoughts. “I’m just on to this idea and it’s got me excited. I tasted a bit of this a couple weeks back at your house, but I didn’t fully get it like I am now.”
“What do you mean?”
“After I hit you, and you said what you did about being sorry . . . I knew there was nothing else to do with my anger with you. That’s why I’ve been doing everything I can to put it aside,” Gavin said, watching his friend. “But I see now that it’s not about placing it to the side. It’s about letting it go. I can’t stay there with that anger. It will eat me alive.”
“Okay, I see.”
“That’s the same thing that ended up happening when I saw my mother. I came to realize that I couldn’t stay with the hurt and the anger and the feelings of loss from it all. I had to accept what I could get from her—which wasn’t what I would have thought.”
“What do you mean, when you saw your mother?” Conor asked, sure he hadn’t heard correctly.
“Oh, yeah.” Gavin took a deep breath. “I haven’t told anyone about this.”
And then he did. He spent the next fifteen minutes telling Conor about tracking his mother down to a small town in County Cork and how the whole thing had unfolded.
“In the end,” Gavin said, “it was essentially like talking to a child. She’s . . . stunted.”
“Jesus, that’s rough,” Conor said.
“It wasn’t as bad as I’m making it sound, honestly. But I did get to see why it was she left. There’s something missing in her after what happened. Or maybe she had always barely been able to walk the line of normalcy to begin with and the accident sent her over.”
Conor watched his friend get lost in thought for a long moment. He knew that Gavin would have told him about this bizarre and disappointing reunion with his mother with as much detail as he could as soon as it had happened had they still had the kind of relationship they once did. This was another indicator of the way their friendship had suffered. But at least he was telling him now.
“Anyway,” Gavin said, “the thing about this song is that I don’t want it to be a fucking downer. I want it to be a revelation. A celebration. I want it to get people up on their feet and feeling a sense of release. I need this album to have some uplift amongst the heartbreak.”
“An anthem of sorts?”
“Fuck yeah. I can’t stay here because there’s something better waiting there,” he said excitedly.
“Good, good. Let’s go with that,” Conor said, putting his beer down so he could pick up his guitar.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Conor returned home from the studio to find strangers in his house. There was a gaggle of interior designers and architects meeting with Colette to go over the renovations she wanted for the home he had purchased at her insistence. It was in Gavin’s neighborhood of Dalkey, less than ten miles from downtown Dublin. While Gavin’s home was directly in front of the water, Conor’s was farther up the hill but still boasted panoramic sea views toward Dalkey Island and beyond. It was a two-story ultra-modern property with a gated drive and south-facing gardens, but Colette loathed the master bathroom and felt the main living area needed to be opened up. Hence, the plans for work on what most people would think was already a magnificent property. But she was also overseeing the installation of a studio for him in the unattached backhouse, so he thought it was wise to let her have her way with the other changes.
Of course, Colette took every opportunity to remind him that she had been the one to turn away work so that she could manage the renovations. In turn, she wanted him to commit to setting a date for the wedding. His reaction was to change the subject. He stalled on setting a date by saying they had to get the album completed before he could commit to anything, but Colette was getting anxious.
Which was why when he got home after this last day of recording and saw her in the dining room, preoccupied with the renovation crew’s drawings, fabric, and paint samples, he grabbed a beer and went straight out to the studio without telling her that the album was, in fact, complete. He simply wanted more time before the next rush of his life with Colette moved forward.
After a half hour of fiddling around at the upright piano, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Felicity.
“Hey, you,” she answered lightly.
“Fee, what are you up to?”
“Just finished up with an estate agent for my mother’s house. Now, I’m up to nothing. What about yourself?”
“Turns out that today was our last day in studio. We’ve wrapped up the album.”
“Fantastic. Congratulations!” she told him, and he could hear the genuine smile in her voice.
“Thanks.”
“What are you doing to celebrate? Big party in the works?”
“Not so much. Sort of ended quietly. Gavin recorded ‘The Sweetest Would Be’ today. It was just him on acoustic. He didn’t even know I was there. After a few takes, he packed it in and left. That song is amazing but it tears him apart.”
“I can only imagine,” she said.
“Anyway, it feels weird not to have any kind of marking of the end of this process.”
“What would you normally do?”
Conor thought for a moment. “Last time Sophie organized a party.”
“I see. And Colette isn’t the event planner type?”
“She’s working on renovations of our new house. Bit preoccupied, I guess.”
“New house? Where is this now?”
“Dalkey,” he said with a hint of embarrassment.
Felicity laughed. “Off to the ‘Irish Bay of Naples’ with the other rich and famous folks, then?”
“Well, we’ll be that much closer to Gavin, I guess.”
“Right. I hear his place is unreal.”
“Listen, do you fancy a drink?” he said, getting to the point of his call.
“Why not? Where should I meet you?”
“I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes, honey.”
Conor hurried to the main house and to the bedroom’s en suite for a quick shower. He pulled together his best “dressed up rock star” outfit of jeans with white button down shirt, black and white spotted tie loosely knotted, gray flannel vest, and black leather jacket. He added a worn brown belt to match his favorite boots and spent a few minutes playing with his hair before heading out.
“I’m away,” he told Colette, interrupting her marathon session with the crew.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Back to studio,” he said instinctively.
She stood up and went to him where he lingered at the far edge of the living room. “Why don’t you stay and take a look at the drawings.”
“Ah, you’ve got a handle on it, honey.”
She put her arm around his neck before he could make another move to leave. “When will we have time together? It’s been forever with you practically living at the studio.”
He gave her a quick kiss. “Soon, I promise. Maybe we’ll take a quick holiday after, yeah? Think about where you’d want to go.”
“Greece,” she replied immediately.
He laughed. “Greece, it is. Good excuse to get you in a bikini, honey.”
“No excuses needed, mon cher,” she said, smiling suggestively. She was in bare feet and wore low-rise jeans with a t-shirt that str
ained against her breasts. She pressed her chest against his.
“We on budget with things at the house?” he asked and she frowned. “That’s the part I do care about.”
She pouted at his change in direction from flirting to budget and disentangled herself from him. “You’re no fun anymore, Conor.”
“Honey, you know this is a big deal, right? As much money as you think I have, it’s not the case. This house is cleaning me out.” This wasn’t exactly true, but he wanted to press the point with her to be cautious.
“I know, I know,” she said dismissively. “I’m being careful, okay?”
“Good. I’ll see you later. Late, probably.” After another quick kiss he moved to leave.
“Wait,” she said and grabbed his hand. She eyed him up and down.
“What?”
“You look good. Really good.” She grabbed his backside without care of being seen.
He returned her playful smile and then discreetly pulled her to the bedroom with him for a quick romp.
~
“That was not twenty minutes, CQ,” Felicity said as she climbed into his car.
“Sorry about that,” he replied. He leaned over to give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Don’t you look gorgeous.” she said, taking in the apparent effort he had made.
“Same to you, honey,” he replied with a wink.
“Where are we going?”
“A little out of the way place.” He smiled and drove on.
They chatted easily, with her peppering him with questions about the album and him eventually confessing that there were some lyrics he wished hadn’t made it to the final cut.
“Like what?”
“Em, Jesus . . . there’s one bit that Gavin improvised that goes ‘I don’t have the right to wonder but I do/did you think of me when he touched you.’”
“Holy Christ!” she said, unable to contain her surprise.
“I know I deserve it but every time I hear that it’s like a fucking punch in the gut.”
“Does he take any blame in all this?” she asked, genuinely curious.
“Yeah, sure. He’s got another line that says ‘I didn’t lose you, I gave you away/I didn’t give you away, I pushed you.’ He has a theory that he subconsciously wanted me to take her from him because he’s never felt worthy of her. But that’s a load of bollocks.”
“Is it?”
Conor glanced over at her. “Yes, it is,” he said firmly. “You think for one second Gavin’s ever wanted anything but her?”
“Well, if the tabloids are to be believed there was someone else.”
“That was a coke-fueled mistake. Not him rejecting her.”
“Sophie.”
“What?”
“Sophie. You keep saying ‘her.’ Why won’t you say her name?”
He glanced at her again. “I dunno. No reason,” he said quickly.
She watched his profile for a moment. “How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”
Conor shrugged. “A few months.”
“How many?”
“I last saw Sophie,” he said with exaggeration, “nine months ago. Nine months and two weeks, if you care to be precise. Why?”
“Have you really dealt with letting her go?”
“I never had her, Fee. Nothing to let go.”
“How would you feel if she and Gavin got back together?”
“Fine. I told him as much. They’re meant to be together,” he said with a note of finality in his voice.
“Conor, I’m just concerned for your heart,” she said.
He was silent for a while, watching the headlights spread out on the asphalt of the northbound A1 road. “My heart is fine. She—Sophie—and I were clear the last time we saw each other where things stood,” he said.
“And where exactly is that?”
He sighed. “It’s where we’ve always been. She and I are friends. And she will always be Gavin’s.” He nodded as if to confirm this to himself. “I’m not marrying Colette on some rebound, if that’s what you’re getting to. I love her. I do.”
Felicity wondered who he was trying to convince, but decided to steer away from the topic. “Has Colette heard the album?”
“No, not yet.”
“She’s not curious?”
After a moment of contemplation, he replied, “No, she doesn’t seem to be.”
Felicity’s eyes widened in surprise but she didn’t address this directly. Instead she asked, “Would you play it for me sometime?”
He smiled. “It’s supposed to be under top secret lockdown.”
“Come on, you can trust me.” She put on an angelic smile and he laughed.
“That’s true.” He deftly manipulated the control panel and soon the car was filled with the latest offering by Rogue.
“I think this one is my favorite,” she told him as “Can’t Stay Here” faded.
“Really? Guess that makes sense.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s the only song Gav allowed me to co-write. So, it’s got our songwriting feel on it.”
She recognized an odd mixture of hurt, bitterness, and pride in his voice. His relationship with Gavin was complex and still ailing, despite the efforts to move forward. She had the urge to comfort him, to touch him tenderly.
“It was inspired by you, actually,” he said before she made a move.
“What does that mean?”
“The title. The idea of getting away from the things that hold us back—Gavin took that straight from your lips. When you said you wouldn’t be staying on at your mother’s house.”
“I don’t know what to think of that.”
He laughed. “Let this be a lesson to you. He has no shame in using whatever inspires him, whether that’s his personal life or someone else’s.”
“Clearly.”
“The detractors call him an emotional narcissist.”
Now she laughed. “And what do you call him?”
Conor was quiet for a moment. “My friend.”
She didn’t hold back from touching him this time, reaching out to squeeze his hand.
“Now, this is one of my favorites for the slide guitar bit,” he said as he pulled away to turn up the volume.
Felicity allowed him to change the topic, and quickly became so engrossed in listening to the rest of the album and watching him as he offered a running commentary on each song that she didn’t realize where the drive was taking them or how much time had passed. It was only when they slowed at a spot border check leading into Northern Ireland and saw the white police cars with the blue and yellow Garda Siochana insignia emblazoned on the doors that she took notice of her surroundings. A quick glance at the clock in the center high-tech panel of the car told her they had been on the road for over an hour.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, her brow furrowed.
“Thought a quick trip to Belfast would be good to shake things up,” he said with a grin.
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes,” he conceded and drove on as they were waved through without incident.
~
Driving toward a nook of a bar off Victoria’s Square, Conor got lucky and found a parking spot. He rushed to open Felicity’s door, and she held his arm as they entered the distinctive triangular shaped brick building. They took in the oxblood painted walls and ceiling, and the windows accented by red curtains patterned with cream leaves. The walls were covered with paintings of Irish authors, as well as political pieces celebrating the players who had brought about the Downing Street Declaration and formal peace agreements between the IRA and the British government.
The cozy pub had a mix of semi-private booths with low frosted glass walls for larger groups and bistro tables for couples. The din of lively conversation drowned out the televisions perched high up on the walls. They got the last two stools at the end of the small mahogany bar. The barkeep, an ancient and diminutive man with kewpie-
doll white hair clinging in wispy patches to the top and sides of his otherwise bald head, greeted them as if they were regulars.
“Ah, there you are. And what will it be this evening?” he asked, his accent heavy and pleasant.
Conor asked for a tutorial on the kinds of whiskey he should try, as this was the establishment’s specialty. This set the barkeep off on a long, passionate lecture on the glories of all things whiskey, during which Conor and Felicity shared a few amused smiles.
“What you’ll be wanting to taste with this one, the Titanic five-year-old I just set you there,” he said, waving his hand at the small whiskey tasting glass he placed in front of each of them, “is a blend. See, it’s malt and grain whiskies. They used them American oak barrels. Put your nose in it. Go on,” he insisted.
They both picked up their glass and gave the amber liquid a sniff.
“You’ll be finding citrus-honey along with malt, cinnamon, spicy wood, and vanilla. Now, on the palate, you’ll be tasting malty sweet notes with good body and balance. There’ll be a grain flavor coming through at the end, followed by a wee bit of honey and citrus to tickle your tongue. Keep in mind, this is a very new whiskey, distilled right here in Belfast.”
He turned from them for a moment and came up from below the bar with two glasses of water, placing them on the countertop. With another smooth wave of his hand, he encouraged them to take a drink.
“Cleanse the palate between tastes. And remember the simple rule of swirling the whiskey in your mouth one second for however old it is. Which means, of course, the Titanic should be five seconds. Now, for comparison, I’m going to let you have a real treat with something I think a man like yourself can afford. It is in fact, Jameson Rarest Vintage Reserve, distilled down there in the South where you two come from.”
Conor wasn’t surprised that the bartender recognized his Dublin accent. Being able to discern the subtleties of speech down to the county, and often even the neighborhood, was a skill most Irish were born with. The bartender continued speaking in depth on all the attributes they would find in the Jameson as well as the next whiskey he chose for them to sample, the Bushmills 21-Year-Old Single Malt.
Playing At Love: A Rogue Series Novel Page 9
