Emma Heatherington - Rewrite the Stars

Pip’s Bar, on a side street near the house that Kirsty and I share in north Dublin, is the type of place you normally wouldn’t drink out of the glass, only the bottle. But with a blanket of snow thick on the ground and the option to skate home and avoid taxis, it’s becoming more and more fun as the beer goes down.

‘Wooo hoo!’ I sing out loud, dancing as I reach for the cigarette in my purse, ignoring a leering look from some dodgy old guy playing a poker machine by the back door.

Being a teacher is fun and fulfilling but on nights like this when school’s out for Christmas, there’s nothing I love more than to cut loose and just be Charlotte Taylor who loves to sing at the top of her voice, instead of ‘Miss Taylor’ who sometimes has to shout at the top of her voice when my seven-year-old pupils get rowdy.

‘Toilets are dat way, me lady,’ says the man at the poker machine in a thick Dublin accent and I hold up my cigarette to show him that tonight I’m a nicotine addict who doesn’t care that it’s minus seventeen or so outside. I push the heavy grey ‘Emergency’ back door open and then shiver in the chill that greets me, asking myself if leaving the heat and the prospect of a snog with gorgeous Jimmy or John or whoever his name was, who I just left holding a beer for me, is really worth it.

The door slams closed behind me and I realize that I’m locked out but I’m in no mood to panic. Mr Poker Player will hopefully come to my rescue if I bang loud enough once I’m done.

I can still hear the music from inside, I’m more than a little bit tipsy and I’ve decided that this Christmas is going to be the best one ever, so I keep dancing like there’s no one watching. And there is no one watching.

It’s almost midnight in a little yard out the back of Pip’s where no one my age ever goes unless they’ve no choice, which is the case for us tonight. I search my pockets for a lighter.

‘Ah man, now you’ve just locked us both out! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting out here for someone to open that damn door?’

‘Sweet Jesus, you scared me!’ I gasp in reply to my companion who I now realize is sitting in the shadows.

‘Sorry, but we’re going to have to wait now until the next smoker comes out if we want to go inside.’

I get my breath back and turn towards the husky American accent that comes from my right. My unlit cigarette waves around and points to the heavens, my feet are still dancing a little bit too ambitiously. I’m in slippery electric blue cowboy boots, which I now know are certainly not the best footwear when there’s snow on the ground, but I should be more concerned that I’m stuck in a back yard with a stranger who seems more than a little pissed off at me right now.

‘You really shouldn’t jump out on people like that!’ I reply, straining to get a better look at him, and trying to match his tetchy mood. ‘I could have fallen over and broken my ankle and that would not have been—’

‘Charlie?’

My heart stops. He just called me Charlie. No one ever calls me Charlie except my brother when he’s showing off or …

‘ Tom ? Tom Farley ?’

I must be imagining things. This cannot be real. I take a step back and put my hand to my chest, saying a prayer that this isn’t some prank or messed-up dream like so many I’d had down the years since I last heard his voice.

I walk closer, towards the silhouette, and I lose my breath when I see his face.

That voice – how could I not have recognized it after playing it over in my mind for so long? Those eyes that I’ve imagined staring back at me just once more, those lips, that hair, those arms I’d longed to hold me.

It is him. It can’t be. I don’t understand.

‘ Tom Farley ?’ I say again.

He nods. ‘How the hell did this happen?’ he asks me, just as flabbergasted as I am.

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t be that drunk, can I?

I’m locked out of a bar in the back end of nowhere, on a freezing cold night in December, and the one person I find in the same position is the one person I’ve been basing my whole imaginary future for five whole years upon, even though deep down I thought I’d never see him again.

‘This is unbelievable ,’ he says, flashing me a very, very sweet smile and obviously just as taken aback as I am. ‘Charlie Taylor!! Man, I thought the next time I saw you would be on some big stage with your name up in lights, not out the back of some poky bar like this place.’

He shakes his head, just the same way as he did so long ago. He looks at me, just the same way, with the same wonder and hunger as he did back then too.

‘I don’t get it,’ I mumble. ‘What on earth are you doing here? Where on earth have you even been all these years? I can’t even—’

‘You need a light?’

Stop the whole world and let me off. Stop the clocks and silence the pianos and all that. It really is Tom Farley, in the yard of Pip’s Bar, in the asshole of nowhere, and there’s no one out here with him – only me. How?

I look at the cigarette and realize that yes, I do indeed need a light, but I’m too stunned to even speak. I’ve stopped dancing, but on the inside I’m still doing a routine to ‘Boom Boom Pow’ which the DJ inside has followed up with in a Black Eyed Peas’ double spin.

I feel like I might faint. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry as a whole movie script of emotion attacks my insides. My mouth is saying words, but my brain isn’t thinking them through. It’s like every part of me is separated, desperately trying to slot together again and make sense of all this.

‘I don’t even smoke so please don’t tell Matthew.’

I’m tongue-tied and I’ve no idea why I said that, as if I’m fourteen years old or something and will get into trouble with my parents or my big brother if I’m caught. I also think I’m about to have a heart attack and it’s nothing to do with cigarette consumption.

‘You sure look like you’re about to smoke.’

‘What I mean is, I don’t normally smoke, only sometimes when I’m drinking, and after tomorrow I’m never touching them again,’ I ramble.

It’s actually him .

‘I don’t think I will be telling Matthew, no fear of that.’

‘In fact, I’m never drinking again after tonight either,’ I rant on. ‘Those are going to be my two big New Year resolutions come January. I actually can’t believe it’s you. It is you, right?’

‘It’s me, yes,’ he laughs. ‘Still me. Still the same Tom.’

Still the same drop-dead gorgeous Tom. Still the love of my life, Tom. Still the one that got away who I’ve fantasized about meeting again one day, Tom. All I know about him is what I’ve found out from my brother since, which isn’t a lot really. The only thing I’ve managed to gather is that they’re no longer friends after the band they formed had a messy break-up.

I lean into the glow of his cupped hands, glad of the quick blast of heat, and chug on the butt, puffing the ash until it turns bright orange on grey, then I flick my hair back for effect as I exhale a long stream of smoke. Tom, in turn, smells like a heavy mix of spearmint chewing gum, tobacco and leather, just like he did on that first day we met.

‘You still smell nice,’ I tell him. ‘Musky.’

‘You still talk a lot,’ he replies with his dazzling smile. ‘Chatty.’

I would argue but I have been told this before, many, many times.

‘So, do you still sing as much as you talk, then?’ he asks. ‘Please don’t tell me you ignored my advice, became a teacher and your songs are gathering dust under your bed.’