Marjorie and Jack Malone Sr arrive fashionably late to our door in Merrion Square armed with air kisses, fancy drinks with names I can’t pronounce and a hamper of goodies from the very upmarket Brown Thomas department store that probably cost the same as a week’s rent on our apartment.
‘It’s so good to finally meet you, Charlotte, darling!’ says Marjorie with a majestic hug in a generous whiff of Dior. ‘And on such a wonderful occasion, too! We’ve sent an announcement to The Times and it should be featured any day soon, isn’t that right, Dad?’
I suppose calling her husband ‘Dad’ is easier than saying Jack Jr and Jack Sr when both men are in the same room …
‘The Times?’ says my mother, who is keen as mustard for an introduction to her new extended family. ‘We’ll have to buy it then. Paddy normally reads only the farming sections of the papers so it’s hardly worth our while getting them half the time. I’m Mary, Charlotte’s mother. I’m so very pleased to meet you, Mrs Malone.’
Mam is really enjoying her second glass of Merlot, having been first to arrive at our engagement party, and I try and signal to her that she has two little black marks at either side of her mouth which do nothing for the new pink nouveau lipstick she bought especially for the occasion.
‘Nice to see they showed up,’ Jack whispers in my ear in reference to his own parents. His only sister, Caroline, is on her way but so far my family are well outnumbering the Malones when it comes to the turn-out at our party. Mam, Dad, Matthew and Martin were first to arrive, with Matthew thrilled to bits that there were no accessibility issues to access our first-floor apartment and delighting in telling everyone so.
‘It really shows the difference in city life and rural life,’ I hear him say to one of Jack’s friends. ‘I keep saying to Martin we’ll have to move back to Dublin very soon, but I think he’s too well settled now in Loughisland, isn’t that right, Martin? You’re a country boy, now, aren’t you?’
They both share a look and a laugh, which makes my heart swell when I think of all the years my brother wasted pretending to be someone he wasn’t.
Martin, who has the patience of all the saints not to mention the heart of a lion, has been the best thing that ever happened to Matthew, and we tell him so as much as we can. With his love and support, Matthew is gradually learning to adapt to his brand-new life on so many levels, and a lot of that has to do with Martin who has stood by him every step of the way.
‘You’re in for a treat tonight,’ Martin whispers to me when he gets the chance. ‘Matthew would like to sing a song or two later if that’s OK with you?’
I put my hand to my chest. ‘Really?’ I gasp. ‘But he hasn’t played music in public in years. Wow, that’s really special, Martin. Thank you.’
‘All I did was a little bit of coaxing here and there,’ he says. ‘I also didn’t want to land it on you without some warning as I know how much it will mean to you to hear him sing again. It’s an emotional evening for all of you. We’re thrilled to bits for you, Charlotte. Matthew adores you. We all do.’
I get a lump in my throat even thinking about hearing Matthew sing and the memories it will bring back from our childhood and from more recent years as I watched him work so hard with the band. In fact, I’m dreading hearing him again, but so proud of him at the same time as it really does mark another step in the right direction for him.
‘That’s going to be a very special moment,’ I say to Martin, giving him a hug in appreciation. ‘Thanks for the heads-up though. I will probably bawl my eyes out, I won’t lie, but what’s an engagement party without a few sentimental tears from the bride-to-be!’
All in all, in fact, it’s shaping up to be a great party. Emily, Kevin and Kirsty, along with her latest squeeze, a ‘man child’ called Bryan ‘with a y’ from Cork, are mingling and making everyone feel welcome. Each of the girls are quietly battling it out for a role as chief bridesmaid while Sophie and Harry are already getting into the swing of things, having created a mini dance floor to test-run tunes from the iPod I bought Jack for his birthday.
A cluster of my colleagues from St Patrick’s, some of Jack’s friends from the hospital, two of my aunts, Bridie and Bernie who I haven’t seen in years but who Mam insisted on inviting (no doubt, just so she could brag about her new doctor son-in-law), and my dad of course, who is taking in the view of the park from the window and talking all things Oscar Wilde to anyone who will listen, make up the rest of the party.
‘Did you know that Oscar Wilde died in Paris? Now there’s a link, seeing you two got engaged there,’ he says to me on my way past. ‘What a marvellous view you have here, my girl. Imagine looking out at Oscar Wilde every day. That’s culture. It sure makes a change from sheep and cows.’
Canapés are being served, the drinks are flowing and, by the time Jack’s sister Caroline and her husband Daniel arrive with ten-year-old twins Joseph and Sarah, things are really warming up. Caroline is an angel, a female version of her gorgeous brother, and I welcome her with open arms.
‘I’m so bloody over the moon for you both!’ she coos, when we break out of our embrace. ‘I bet you can’t wait to start planning the big day. Come on, tell me everything you have in mind so far!’
We find a quiet corner and get stuck into all things ‘wedding’ orientated as I explain the type of day Jack and I are planning. A handful of carefully selected guests, an outdoor ceremony perhaps (weather permitting of course, given our unruly climate) and an evening of dancing at a luxury hotel near the spectacular Inchydoney Island in County Cork, one of Ireland’s most southern points. I feel nerves in my tummy as other party guests join us to swoon over the diamond on my finger and talk about cakes, flowers and dresses.
‘Did you know that Oscar Wilde might never have even said those famous words about being yourself?’ I later hear my father say to my mother, who has thankfully changed her wine to water, having realized how much the Merlot was messing with her lipstick.
‘Where on earth do you find these facts, Paddy?’ Mam replies, rolling her eyes. ‘You must have more time on your hands than I think you do.’
‘The one about how it’s good to be yourself since everyone else is already taken,’ Dad tells her. ‘Turns out he might never have even said that at all, you know! See, I’m not all just about manure and silage. I do have a brain. Now, put that in your pipe and smoke it!’
I ignore the banter between my parents, instead choosing to think of the famous quote and how much it always resonates with me. Every time I look out onto that statue I question if I’m really being myself, or if I’m putting on a mask and being an easier version of myself – a version that my parents love, my brother loves, that Jack loves, but that I sometimes don’t even recognize. It’s a strange feeling and one I mostly try to ignore when it creeps up on me. I keep telling myself it won’t last forever.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I hear Martin announce on Jack’s instruction, with the polite tap of a glass. He has put so much effort into this and he catches my eye, letting me know that this is the big moment. ‘We’ve a very special treat in store for you now, but mostly for the bride-to-be.’
The noise in the room drops to a hush and I feel all eyes and smiles on me before attention shifts back to Martin and Matthew who sit on the sofa, each with guitars on their laps. Even though I knew this was coming, I’m so not prepared.
‘Please put your hands together for Matthew Taylor, former lead singer in the band once tipped to be even bigger than Bono’s ego, Dublin’s finest, Déjà Vu!’ says Martin, as proud as a peacock of my brother’s ‘semi-famous’ status.
A sea of ‘wows’ filters through our audience, with excited whispers and stories quickly circulating as to how they remember the band on the local circuit when, according to Hot Press magazine, they were destined to be ‘the most exciting Irish export since Guinness’. The media had been crawling over them at the time, with Matthew’s face almost becoming recognizable on the streets amongst women of a certain age.
‘No way! I can’t believe your brother was the lead singer of Déjà Vu!’ says Caroline into my ear. ‘Don’t tell my husband, but I’d have eloped with their drummer in a heartbeat, given the chance! He was something else!’
She throws her head back in a rapturous fit of laughter, nudging me for effect, but to me her voice is miles away. All I can do is stare at Matthew as he plays the accustomed opening of a song that brings me right back to where I used to stand on my own, at the back of music venues, longing and yearning to talk to Tom Farley, settling only for a brief glimpse from afar or a quick hello before they were rushed away at the end of the night.
Matthew plays those oh so familiar notes and speaks over the music to introduce the song, just like he used to when the band was on the rise.
‘Before I sing, I’d just like to say that about sixteen months ago,’ he announces to his audience in our living room, who hang on every word he speaks with bated breath, ‘about sixteen months ago I made a very stupid decision to drive my car on one of the most treacherous nights of the year. Not a wise decision on any account, but an even lesser one when I’d had a few drinks and was in possession of a very tortured mind. I’m not proud of myself and I’ve paid the price since, as have my family.’
Everyone gathered in our apartment goes totally silent now.
‘I haven’t played my guitar in public for many years and, after the accident that almost killed me, I vowed I never would again,’ he says, looking directly at me, his eyes etched in pain. ‘I didn’t think I deserved the joy of playing music any more. But as tonight approached, I realized that being true to yourself is always much more important than punishing yourself. It’s always better to be yourself.’
I swallow, feeling my eyes sting.
‘I want to dedicate this song to my very brave, very supportive and very patient sister Charlotte who sacrificed so much to look after me, even when she knew sometimes I didn’t deserve it,’ he says softly. ‘I’m so happy for you tonight, and I love you more than you’ll ever know. This is one of your old favourites. So this song is for you.’
I stare at the floor now, unable to look at my brother any longer as Martin joins him on guitar and they launch into an acoustic version of a song called ‘Love and Pain’, which I remember Matthew practising for hours on end back in our student digs between band rehearsals.
It was a co-write between himself and Tom and the words now resonate with me so differently, as I finally understand the true story behind it from both Matthew’s point of view, and Tom’s of course.
I might never touch you, it drives me insane, oh nothing hurts more than your sweet love and pain
I feel a hand squeeze my shoulder and, when I glance up, it’s my sister Emily who looks at me knowingly. I take a deep breath, I grasp her hand, then, before the song is finished, I get up from my seat and quietly slip out into the bathroom where I desperately try to compose myself. But I can’t stop the tears that flow.
Not tonight, I tell my own reflection in the mirror. Please don’t let this ruin tonight. A knock at the door makes me jump.
‘Hello,’ I call out. ‘Just a minute!’
‘It’s just me,’ says Jack. ‘You disappeared very quickly there. Are you OK, Charlotte?’
I squeeze my eyes shut and gulp back the emotion, but it sticks in my throat, refusing to go away. He doesn’t deserve this. I don’t deserve him.
I keep telling myself this will pass, that time will make me forget Tom Farley, but then something simple like a stupid song can bring everything to the surface again and I’m back to square one.
‘I’ll be right there,’ I call out to Jack, feeling like I’m betraying him with my very thoughts. ‘Everything’s fine. I’m just freshening up.’
My mind runs overtime as I dab under my eyes, trying my best not to let my tears ruin my mascara. I need to get a hold on this. I’m haunted by Tom’s ghost and that’s all he is – a ghost, a figment of my overflowing imagination. I don’t even know him any more. It’s been months since I saw or heard of him. I have got to let this go. I’ve got to get over him once and for all. I hate him for making me feel this way, I hate myself for feeling this way.
‘Do you want me to come in?’
‘No! No, I’ll be right there,’ I say to Jack.
Handsome, kind, beautiful Jack, who loves me more than I can ever imagine. And I love him too. I do love him.
I don’t want to go out there just yet, but I know I have to, so I paint on my best smiling face for my guests and my future husband, open the bathroom door and he greets me with a kiss.
‘You’re shaking,’ he says. ‘Did that song upset you, Charlotte? Martin thought you’d love to hear Matthew sing again, but maybe it was too much?’
Oh, if only they knew.
‘I haven’t heard his voice in a very long time,’ I say, only half explaining but it’s as much as I can tell him. ‘I just got a bit more emotional than I thought I would, but it was lovely, Jack. I’m so grateful he felt strong enough to sing for me.’
We go back and join the party where Martin has now taken the lead, totally changing the mood by singing ‘Amarillo’ which has everyone dancing. Before long, Sophie and I are in fits laughing as we lead everyone in an Abba tribute, singing and dancing our hearts out.
I catch Matthew’s eye as I sing about being a dancing queen and we both silently acknowledge the bridge we’ve both crossed this evening. He is back doing what he does best with the man he loves by his side, I am singing again with a friend I adore in an apartment I love and with Jack who I’m planning a future with.
Life is moving on in the right direction and I’m singing from the inside out. Even Marjorie and Jack Sr take to the floor, followed by my own parents who I feel are going to do everything they can to show that anything the Malones can do, they can do better.
‘Oscar might come in and join us for a beer,’ Dad says to me at a musical interlude, still dancing as he speaks.
‘It’s the curse of the working class!’ I say, impressing him very much with my Oscar knowledge. ‘I’m a big fan too, Dad. You brought me up to have good taste!’
He dances on very smugly, hugely pleased with himself, and I shed a tiny tear of happiness, thinking of how far we’ve all come since we sat in that lonely hospital corridor willing Matthew’s life to be saved.
‘That I did, my girl!’ he says, tilting his chin out again. ‘That, I did!’
The evening passes with no more tears, except from Kirsty who after way too much wine called her new beau by her ex’s name and he stormed out, oh and my aunt Bridie who was just so proud of me she couldn’t stop blubbing (though I do think it was the Chardonnay). By the time the last of the guests leave, I’m delighted to hear nothing but silence and the sound of Jack pottering around in the bathroom as he gets ready for bed.
I remove my heels, marvelling in the feeling of my toes in the warmth of the deep pile living room carpet, and take my phone from the charger to have a quick glimpse at what’s been going on tonight in the outside world while we’ve been celebrating.
Streams of messages filter through from well-wishers and guests who joined us tonight, thanking us for such a wonderful evening, and I smile as I read them, but then my heart jumps when I see an email in my inbox from an address I used to write to all the time.
The subject matter just says ‘Congratulations Charlie’ and the sender is Tom Farley.
It catches my breath for just a few seconds, but I don’t even open it. I want to, but I can’t, so I just press delete.