Emma Heatherington - Rewrite the Stars

‘He’s living back at home with my parents,’ I tell him, feeling my brow break into a frown at the thought of what has become of Matthew. ‘They’re looking after him as well as they can, but it’s been hard on everyone. It’s been so hard on us all watching him lose interest in everything he worked so hard for.’

Tom lets out a deep sigh that sounds a lot like regret.

‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ he says.

It’s not Tom’s fault. It’s no one’s fault that this darkness has got such a grasp of my once so flamboyant big brother who was always bursting with life and energy, convinced that the sky was the limit when it came to chasing his dreams.

‘He’s got a job in the little corner shop, which takes his mind off his troubles a little,’ I continue. ‘Not exactly the architect or big star he dreamed of becoming, but it gives him a purpose and that’s what we all need, isn’t it? We need something to get out of bed for in the morning.’

I draw imaginary circles on his arm as I speak.

‘Are your parents still living further up north?’ Tom’s face reflects mine as he looks back at me with such a sense of pity. I remember hearing how he visited my home once with Matthew, and of how my mother had rolled out the red carpet as if it was The Beatles coming to visit.

Their band, Déjà Vu, had been offered a record deal at the time with a small label in Belfast and had popped by to see our folks en route to a meeting, which to Mam and Dad was like winning the lottery.

‘Yes, they’re still up in the little village we grew up in, which suits him, away from the city and all his reasons for giving up on everything,’ I tell Tom. Whatever happened between you guys, it shook him. I don’t think he ever got over it.’

Tom wears a deep frown and pinches his eyes.

‘How much do you know, Charlie?’ he asks me. ‘What did Tom tell you about why we all broke up?

They’d been going so well. Marketing plans were being discussed, recording studios lined up, even a fairly decent local tour all backed up by a label who believed in them and were just about to sign them up, but suddenly it was all over. It all went pear-shaped so quickly.

I lean up on one elbow now, mirroring him and take his hand from his face, holding it for reassurance.

‘He told us nothing more than the band broke up and it broke his heart,’ I say to Tom. ‘He wouldn’t say why, but I’m sure it wasn’t anyone’s fault in particular, was it?’

I say I’m sure, but then what would I know? Tom, on the other hand, doesn’t look so sure.

‘He just told me that bands break up, people break up. It happens,’ I continue. ‘He never wanted to tell me anything more than that, so I respected that. He’d put so much time and energy into the band and the break-up just rocked his whole world.’

Tom looks like he wants to say so much more but I put my finger on his lips.

‘Listen, Tom. My brother, as much as I adore him,’ I say, ‘can be very stubborn when he doesn’t get his own way, so you don’t need to tell me any more if you don’t want to. In fact, can we please talk about anything other than Matthew, just for now? We’ve had such a wonderful time. Let’s not ruin it.’

Tom looks relieved. We’ve had so much fun since we met up last night, laughing, singing and catching up. I really don’t want to dampen the mood.

‘OK,’ he sighs. ‘But I really hope that he finds his way again, Charlie, I really do. He’s one hell of a singer and a seriously good guy. He deserves so much more than how we all left things. He really did have big plans but it all just—’

‘Come on now, your turn,’ I interrupt him deliberately. There are tears in his eyes, which frighten me a little, but I don’t want to face up to this or question why just now. ‘You have to tell me more about you, something that doesn’t have anything to do with Matthew and Déjà Vu. How did a talented, gorgeous American boy like you end up in Ireland? I’m intrigued.’

He welcomes such a straightforward question, a timely diversion from the heavy cloud of memories that just triggered such emotion. Matthew’s depression has rocked our family, shaking us to the very core, and I’m not ready to confront Tom any more on the subject, not yet anyhow.

‘My mum is Irish, from Dublin originally,’ he says, tracing his finger along my cheek. ‘My dad is American but his people are English, hence the name Farley, so I’m a bit of a mixture.’

He takes a deep breath.

‘I grew up in Ohio, we moved here when I was seventeen and soon after that my dad disappeared with my mum’s cousin, so she went back Stateside and I just stayed here.’ He glances away and takes a deep breath. ‘The last I heard from my dad, he’d married the other woman and moved to London, so I’ve been drifting ever since, I guess.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Exactly,’ he says, looking away for a bit. ‘Shit happens, though, doesn’t it? As Matthew says, people break up, things change. We have to learn to move on and keep going, don’t we?’

The sadness in his eyes is back.

‘The band was probably the best thing that ever happened to me.’

The band. Matthew. We’re never going to get past this one, are we?

‘You could form your own band? Make a go of it again?’

I’m excited at my suggestion but Tom just laughs.

‘Nah,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I tried but it will never be the same. That ship has sailed, and I’ve tried but failed, I’m afraid. I’ve also been in and out of jobs, everything from driving cabs in Belfast to selling my soul as a singing stripper for hen parties.’

‘No!’

He throws his head back in laughter now.

‘I thought you’d like that one,’ he says. ‘I’m joking! But I’ve nothing as fancy on my CV as having a degree and being as focused as you are.’

He keeps laughing at the look of shock on my face. I’m trying to be cool at the thought of him stripping for horny young women, even if it was a joke.

‘I get by playing the odd pub gig in a covers band,’ he says. ‘I have a day job and I share a flat here with a Russian guy called Peter who just left to drive to work in the snow, saying it was no big deal even though the whole country is virtually in shutdown. Pete’s really cool.’

My heartbeat has settled after the stripper revelation, and I want to know so much more, but most of all I want to hug this lonely boy who has been so lost for far too long. I imagine him as a teenager, abandoned by both his parents who couldn’t put him above their own needs.

‘You hungry?’ I ask him when I think I just heard his tummy rumble.

‘I’m starving,’ he says in relief, his eyes brightening at the thought of food. ‘That toast was good but I’m a growing boy, plus we still have our date today so don’t stand me up, Charlie Taylor.’

‘As if I would,’ I say, looking forward to it more than anything. ‘But I’ll need to go home first and get changed, which means braving the snow.’

He shakes his head, climbs off the bed and goes to a chest of drawers, which is the only other thing in the room apart from a battered guitar. He hands me a pair of pale blue jeans and a black Guns N’ Roses sweatshirt.

‘Cinderella, you shall go to the ball,’ he says with a heart-melting smile. ‘We won’t be going too far so don’t worry about being too glamorous. There’s a great wee pub that does bar food just a few miles away. It’s got sea views, an open fire and there’s always someone in the corner playing a tune so this will be just perfect.’

I lift the sweater.

‘The Ramones and Guns N’ Roses all in one day!’ I say to him in mock horror. ‘Whatever happened to me being a country girl at heart?’