Cecelia Ahern - Lyrebird

She squeals down the phone, her absolute fury and disgust at being accused, but he talks over her, neither of them listening to one another but catching the occasional insulting word and jumping on that. They go in circles. And finally they go silent.

‘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.