Page 99 of The Last Love Song
Sorcha sat down abruptly at the table, polish in one hand, duster in the other. That was exactly it.
She was totally surplus to requirements.
If she decided to go to bed today and stay there for a week, the only person who might notice, or indeed care, was Con. And she wasn’t even sure that was guaranteed.
Abandoning her own fledgling career, Sorcha had known she was dedicating her life to her marriage. She had decided to be positive about it, embracing the lifestyle and wanting to support him in any way she could.
But Con now had a team of staff that looked after his everyneed. The only territory that was hers alone was in the bedroom. And she wasn’t providing what they wanted in there.
But if she was honest, it wasn’t really any of those things that was the nub of the problem. They were surmountable. But Con had begun to change.
She could hardly bear to admit it to herself.
At first, she’d blamed it on the pressure he was under. There were no courses or books to tell you how to deal with the whole world wanting a slice of you. He’d seemed to cope very well to begin with; they’d laughed together about the underwear and the photographs of naked women offering their bodies, and the interest the media had in the minutiae of his life.
And then, a few months ago, as his fame reached seismic proportions, it had started to get to him. When he was home, he was morose and short-tempered. He’d sit in front of the TV news, swearing about the situation in Northern Ireland, or becoming steamed up by the war in Vietnam. He’d started to air his views in public, even attending peace rallies and marches.
Sorcha hadn’t minded initially. If these causes gave him an outlet for his frustration, she’d accept it. But lately, it had begun to take over. Sorcha had recently voiced the opinion that it was all very well to sit in his big Hampstead house with his nice cars and more money than he knew what to do with and air his left-wing views, but wasn’t he being a touch hypocritical?
Con hadn’t spoken to her for three days.
She checked her watch. Almost eleven. Time to wake him up. She’d heard him arrive home in the small hours last night, from some anti-war protest in central London.
Sorcha stood up and put on the kettle. This weekend there was nothing on. She brightened considerably at the thought. A small oasis of time for the two of them to be together.
Ten minutes later, she entered the bedroom, still swathed indarkness against the bright sun. She looked at Con, an arm thrown above his head, his expression, for once, peaceful. She set the tray down on the table at the end of the bed and kissed Con on the lips.
‘Morning, darling.’
Con stirred, then smiled, his eyes still closed. His arms wound around her and he pulled her onto the bed to kiss her.
‘Morning, Sorcha-porcha. This is a nice way to wake up.’ His hand snaked under her blouse.
She looked down at him. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too.’ He tried to pull her back towards him but she resisted.
‘Con, I was thinking I’d come to New York with you when you fly out for your next concert. I could do with a break from this house.’
‘That’s a grand idea, Sorcha. New York will cheer you up.’
‘And, Con, you have nothing on this weekend, do you?’
‘Er, well...’
‘I know you don’t. I looked in your diary. I was thinking maybe we could go away for the night somewhere. It seems ages since it was just the two of us.’
‘Maybe. I’m sure you could persuade me.’
‘I will certainly try,’ she smiled.
Con pulled her down towards him.
‘Morning, all! Thought I heard stirrings.’
Sorcha sat bolt upright as Lulu, her eyes heavy with sleep and wearing a T-shirt that only just covered her modesty, entered the room and bounced onto the bed beside them.
Sorcha could have wept.
