Emma Heatherington - Rewrite the Stars

‘I practically carried you to bed here in my deluxe spare room,’ he says and we both burst out laughing. ‘I carried you right over the threshold and even gave you some clothes to sleep in. So much for a hot-blooded night of making up for lost time. You were very tired.’

I can’t help but giggle at the thought of it all.

‘So much for it all being meant to be,’ I say, covering my mouth with my hand. ‘Sorry to disappoint you but once a convent girl, always a convent girl.’

He lifts a pillow and pretends to fight me, and we wrestle until we fall into a kiss that brings me right back to the night before. I inhale every part of the moment, delighted for once in my life that I was too pissed to turn this into a shitty one-night stand, especially not with someone I’ve dreamed about for so long. All things considered, I’m very, very proud of myself. Sober me may not have been so resilient, but I’ll never admit that to him, of course. Plus, he’s an excellent kisser – his lips are warm, soft, gentle but firm in all the right places at all the right times.

‘Well I guess some things are worth waiting for,’ says Tom, fixing my hair round my shoulders when his lips part from mine. ‘ You have been worth waiting for. I still can’t believe you’re here with me now.’

‘Me neither,’ I whisper. We didn’t end up under the covers together, but we had a very good night. A very, very good night.

‘Brunch?’ I say, remembering now how we had made plans.

He nods. ‘We’re a bit snowed in for now though and could be for a while,’ he says, his green eyes twinkling again just like they did last night. He reaches across and peeps out the curtains to prove it.

‘It’s coming down heavy,’ I say to him. ‘So, what do we do now?’

‘Well, it’s not every day you bump into the girl of your dreams in a dead-end pub in the backstreets of Dublin five years later, so why don’t we start the day off slowly with a really fancy instant coffee, some toast and just enjoy each other’s company?’

I smile in agreement, recalling how he played guitar last night while I danced in my bare feet drinking wine in the poky living room and singing into empty beer bottles. I sent my sister Emily and friend Kirsty a text at the time to say I was OK and told them I’d met Tom actual Farley and had gone to a ‘party’. I begged them not to tell Matthew but neither of them replied, meaning they were probably too busy having fun themselves to care. Now I’ve got missed calls, which means Emily is probably panicking. I’d better call her, but not just yet …

‘So you don’t want to ever perform your own songs, then, just write them?’ Tom asks me as we lie there on the bed, still chatting over an hour later, too warm now with the duvet draped around our legs. Two empty cups and a plate full of crumbs sit beside us on the floor. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed tea and toast as much in my whole life. We’re a bit squashed but it’s cosy and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now.

‘I like the writing part better,’ I say to him, resting my arm over his hip. ‘Maybe I’m too shy and like to hide behind all the words and music, even though to some that might be hard to believe. You see, someone once planted a crazy dream in my head that I could actually be a proper songwriter one day.’

He is still standing by his claim and spent most of last night telling me so.

‘It’s not a crazy dream,’ he whispers to me. ‘I totally believe in you. I really think you should ditch the teaching and go on the road with your songs.’

He has no idea how much he is tempting me to do just that, but I know he is telling the truth when he says he believes in me. I knew it the first day we met that no one will ever ‘get me’ the way Tom Farley does. It’s like he can look into my soul and push me to live my life in the way that I should.

‘So what are your plans now, Tom? Please tell me you’re still going to follow your own dreams to make it big in music?’

He stares up at the wall behind me as if for inspiration. I stare at his face.

‘Ah, I dunno, Charlie. I’m a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants guy when it comes to it,’ he says, then turns towards me again, leaning on his elbow on top of his half of the pillow. ‘I used to think I was going to be a real-life rock star, and I’d some really good opportunities that got me close, but I bailed out. I messed it up, so now I like to just go with the flow and see where it takes me. Right now, I’m bluffing around in some real estate but it’s not for me at all.’

‘Real estate?’ I say, laughing at the contrast of it all. ‘I can’t imagine you in a shirt and tie showing people round fancy houses.’

He sits up straight and puts on his best poker face, then laughs in return.

‘You know, it pays the bills for now, so I count myself lucky, I suppose.’

So, he messed it up. I’ve a feeling my brother could tell me exactly how if he wanted to, but he never did.

‘Tell me more about you, Charlie girl.’

He pushes my hair back and his eyes dart around my face. He has such a handsome face.

I shake my head. ‘You really aren’t going to drop that name, are you?’

He looks so blasé. ‘Why should I? It suits you. Charlotte is too posh.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘And you think I’m not posh?’

‘Are you posh?’ he laughs.

‘No way,’ I say to him. ‘But posh girls can be fun too, you know.’

He puts his arm around my waist and pulls me closer into the heat of his body. ‘I’ve a feeling we’re going to have a lot of fun, Charlie,’ he says with a wink, pulling the duvet up over us again. ‘So, go on. Tell me more about what you’ve been up to since I first fell for you and life got in the way.’

I take a deep breath. He fell for me ? Although I’d always hoped he had, I never thought I’d hear it directly from him.

‘Well, I’m a big twenty-seven years old now,’ I say, getting the formalities out of the way. ‘I’ve been a brunette and a redhead since I saw you last and even a shade of purple but I got rid of that quickly. And then back to blonde.’

Now he raises an eyebrow. ‘I’d never have guessed, my little chameleon.’

I suppose that’s one way of describing my eclectic taste in fashion. My father would describe it in a totally different way, telling me some days I’m like a walking charity shop or a love child between Russell Brand and Mrs Merton.

‘As well as teaching in a lovely primary school where the kids are ace, I’ve been working the very odd shift when I can get it in Music City, a singer-songwriter-type cabaret club for about a year now, so I do sing stuff other than nursery rhymes when I get the chance,’ I tell him.

‘You’ve done really well for yourself so far,’ he says. ‘Is it a permanent post at the school?’

I nod and can’t help but smile with pride.

‘It’s just been confirmed. They want to keep me,’ I tell him, and he holds up a hand for a high five. Everyone knows it’s almost impossible to find a full-time permanent teaching post in Dublin, so it is something I’m very, very proud of. ‘But before I became Miss Taylor, teacher of dreams, I’d some adventures in Australia which was fun. My sister met her husband there – while I met a lot of real-life snakes, you could say. I think that’s about it.’

He looks impressed that I’ve travelled a bit, but what he doesn’t know is that he, or at least the idea of him, came with me every step of the way.

‘And Matthew?’ he asks, unable to look me in the eye when he mentions my brother’s name. ‘What’s he up to these days?’

My stomach flips. I suppose we should just get this part over and done with.