Page 128 of The Last Love Song
It sounded promising, and somehow familiar. Helen looked at the address again and realised it was the home of a well-known singer who’d fallen on hard times due to his continued drug abuse. She’d attended a party there a couple of years ago. The house was magnificent, and going cheap for what it was. The poor chap must be desperate.
Helen shook her head. She just could not understand the singular need for nefarious substances that seemed to hold the music business in its grip. She rarely drank, and if she did, she usually limited it to a couple of glasses of champagne. In truth, she despised the feeling of not being completely in control of her actions.
‘Here’s your breakfast, Miss McCarthy.’
Katie, the daily maid, put the tray of juice, tea and warm croissants on the table in front of her.
‘Thank you, Katie.’
Helen sipped the juice and decided the house in Cobham was probably worth seeing. She folded the details neatly back into their envelope and cut open a croissant.
Having eaten it, Helen sat back in the chair to enjoy another few minutes in the sun. She’d not slept at all well last night, her brain buzzing with thoughts of the new building, but also the revelation that Con was having an affair with Lulu Bradley.
She’d spent the night thinking how she could stop things before either Sorcha or Todd found out about it. With the problems the band had been having so far in the studio, this would be the final straw. It could signal the demise of The Fishermen altogether. That meant she’d be losing her most valuable business asset at a time when the company’s worth was of utmost importance.
Helen had decided to float Metropolitan on the stockexchange as soon as possible. It would bring in a lot of money which could help expand the empire. With this plan in the pipeline, it was not the time for any rumours in the City of problems with the label’s biggest money-spinner.
Helen sighed. She could control things financially, but the private lives of her stars was something over which she had no power.
Helen thought how ironic it was that she’d once wished every bad thing on Con and Sorcha’s marriage and would have enjoyed watching it fail.
And now, here she was, praying they’d stay together.
Sorcha arrived home at ten o’clock on Monday evening feeling wretched. She’d shivered during the flight to Dublin, then discovered there was to be a two-hour delay caused by the terrible weather. Wearily, she unlocked the front door, dropped her suitcase in the hall and climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Without removing her clothes, she fell onto the bed and closed her eyes.
Dawn broke and light streamed into the un-curtained bedroom. Sorcha moaned but did not stir. Sweat dripped off her, staining the pillows.
The telephone rang, but the sound did not wake her.
The day passed, and dusk began to fall. Rumblings of thunder could be heard in the sky and bright flashes of lightning lit up the heath. Then the rain began, breaking the humidity.
Sorcha started to shiver uncontrollably. Her dreams were confused. She was in her bedroom at Ballymore. The door was opening, and in walked her father, his lips tinged with grey, wearing his best Sunday suit.He’s dead, he’s dead, a voice told her.
An ear-splitting scream scorched the air in the bedroom.
‘Sorcha, Sorcha! Whatever is it?’
Hands were gently shaking her...It was her father, trying to take her with him...
‘Sorcha, it’s Helen, wake up. You’re having a dream. It’s okay, really, it’s okay.’
She opened her eyes. The room was full of evening shadows. Helen McCarthy was standing over her. She tried to pull herself up onto her elbows, but failed and sank back onto the pillows with a groan.
Helen put a hand on her forehead. ‘Sorcha, you have a very bad fever. I think you’ve been delirious. I’m going to call the doctor, okay?’
Sorcha nodded. Her eyes hurt if she held them open, so she closed them and promptly fell asleep.
She was awoken by a hand on her forehead.
‘It’s only Doctor Deane, Sorcha. I’m just going to check you over.’
‘Ow, my eyes sting,’ she remarked feebly.
‘Can you open your mouth wide?’
Sorcha did so, then lay there as the doctor inspected her throat, checked her neck, listened to her heartbeat and finally stuck a thermometer under her tongue.
‘Well now.’ Doctor Deane packed his instruments away in his medical bag. ‘You seem to have a nasty case of the flu. Aspirin and bed rest are my prescription.’
