Page 139 of The Last Love Song
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CON DALY IN SPLIT WITH WIFE
Steeling herself, Sorcha read the story underneath the page-two headline.
In a sensational split, Con Daly’s wife Sorcha has left the family home in Hampstead. Our inside source says Sorcha Daly stormed out over Con’s growing relationship with Lulu Bradley – actress, peace campaigner and wife of Todd Bradley. The pair have regularly been seen together at marches over the past few months.
Neither Con Daly nor Todd Bradley were available for comment, but their manager, Freddy Martin, said that the situation was dealt with amicably by both sides and won’t affect the future of The Fishermen.
However, an insider at Metropolitan Records said there were fisticuffs in a recording suite recently. A glance at the admissions records in accident and emergency at the Royal Free Hospital, Hampstead, tells us that a Mr C. Daly was admitted with a broken nose and cuts to his face in the early hours of last Friday morning. He was later released and has been lying low in his sumptuous mansion on the edge of Hampstead Heath.
It remains to be seen whether this delicate situation will affect one of the most successful songwriting partnerships of the decade; both Mr and Mrs Daly and Mr and Mrs Bradley have enjoyed a close friendship over the years.
Sorcha Daly’s whereabouts are unknown. A record company spokesman refused to comment other than to suggest that Mrs Daly might have gone to stay with relations abroad.
Sorcha reread the article and wondered who had leaked their split to the press. She suspected that it was someone at Metropolitan – news of discord within the band might drive sales. Was there anything going on between Con and Lulu? Who knew. She hoped that whoever had wanted their payday from the tabloids had provided it as a convenient reason for the split. She hoped the fight with Todd had truth in it, though. A broken nose was little less than Con deserved.
The telephone rang. Without thinking, Sorcha picked it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Reception here. We have a call for you, Mrs Daly.’
‘Okay.’ She waited.
‘Mrs Daly?’
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Sorcha Daly?’
‘Yes?’
‘Glad we’ve found you, Mrs Daly. TheMirrornewspaper here. We’d like to ask you for an exclusive interview on the situation with your husband and Lulu Bradley. We’d be prepared to pay you a lot of money, or donate the same amount to a charity of your choice. Obviously, the interview would be extremely sympathetic towards yourself. How do you feel about—’
Sorcha slammed the telephone down. Why, ohwhyhad she not thought to book in under an assumed name? Fingerstrembling, she dialled reception. ‘Please, no more calls are to be put through to my room. If anyone else rings for me, can you tell them I’ve checked out?’
‘We’ll do our best, Mrs Daly, of course.’
‘Thank you.’ Sorcha put the telephone down. The Hampstead Post House had hardly been the most discreet or distant place to go to, but she’d felt so incapable of driving when she’d left Con. It had seemed a comfortingly anonymous place to stay for a few days while she decided on a course of action.
Sorcha sat down on the edge of the unmade bed and tried to think. The media were on to her. In a matter of an hour she knew there would be a pack of reporters waiting for her outside. She had to move fast, but where should she go?
Home, to Ireland? With the media brouhaha that was about to take place, she thought it unfair to put that burden on her newly bereaved mother, in addition to the prying eyes and wagging tongues of Ballymore.
‘Help,’ she murmured. She’d never felt so totally alone.
Should she move to another hotel? Sorcha shook her head. She’d feel so vulnerable. It only took one receptionist or porter to tip off the press.
There was only one person she could think of that might be able to help.
She reached for the receiver and dialled the number she knew by heart.
‘Metropolitan Records.’
‘Helen McCarthy, please.’
‘I’m sorry, but Miss McCarthy is in a meeting and cannot be disturbed.’
