“Washing machine’s there, help yourself.” I commented.
I plated up the food as she stumbled back to her room to get her laundry and feed the machine. Before dragging herself up to sit at the breakfast bar sipping the hot chocolate I had just placed there.
“I am sorry,” she said quietly.
I kissed her cheek as I put the pancakes in front of her. “Nothing to be sorry about, that guy is a total fuckwit.”
She ate a few bites of her meal before pausing to ask. “How do you know what he is like?”
Oh crap! I nearly panicked forgetting she didn’t know that I knew him. For a moment I almost wanted to admit the truth before I came up with a reasonable answer. “I saw the messages when youse left the tab open.”
“Oh,” she answered, digging into her food. “It isn’t even his real name. He has like eight different social media accounts and gaming ones to hide from the fans and often from me. Most of them are based around anime characters from shows he enjoys.” She sighed again. “He forgets who he really is. Since the fame, it is like the man I fell in love with is dead, he always said I was enough just being me. Even if I wasn’t famous, too. That I would always have a huge place in his life, but he always chose the famous over me any chance he gained.”
“Then he is a fucking asshole who is too drunk and high to realise everything he has lost in ye yet. Too much of that crap in his system to know how he really feels. When he eventually comes down from that high, he will see what he lost,” I commented.
“And then it will be too fucking late,” she said firmly. “He doesn’t get another chance to hurt me. He doesn’t get to come anywhere near me again. Not ever!”
“That’s my girl!” I said proudly. “So, I have to go into a rehearsal today with the band and youse are coming with me.”
“You want me to meet the entirety of The Pumpkin Spices?” she nearly screamed.
“Well yeah, youse are my friend and they are my band.”
“A band that’s sold one hundred million records and had nine number one albums in the last ten years. Including six of the best-known songs of the last eighteen months in music. And you just want me to go and meet them like I am a somebody.” She freaked out. “And here I am dressed like a hobo.” She picked at her clothing in frustration.
“Someone sounds like a little bit of a fangirl for my band,” I laughed.
She blushed. “I may have heard the odd song, like on the radio or something.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well just don’t go all stalker on me and we are good. Now, grab ye bag and I will go buy ye some clothing. We can divert on the way as it means so much to you.”
“I can’t take your money; you gave me so much already,” she objected.
“It’s just a set of fucking clothes, get over it,” I snapped, my head starting to ache again. I seriously regretted drinking all that whisky.
She shrunk back in her chair as I raised my voice.
“Damn it, sorry. I forgot you hate raised voices. I am just hung over, tired and do not want to go to rehearsal today, but I have to. And sometimes that whole ‘show must go on’ crap gets to me, but I shouldn’t take that out on ye. Sorry.”
She shrugged.
“Grab your bag, please?”
She did and not for the first time, I wondered why she carried such a large handbag everywhere. It was more like a shoulder bag and looked heavy. We walked quietly down the street as I tried to let the cool weather fade my headache. I stopped at the nearest clothes shop, waiting while she found a pair of jeans, sweater, and a band shirt that she liked. Along with a cute pair of low-heeled ankle boots with studs. While she got changed into them, I dropped a few other things into the basket that I saw her looking at. If what my source said was true, and she had no home anymore, she would be needing some more belongings to set up wherever she wanted to.
She did look smart and quite sexy as she came back up to me, dragging her hair into a plait as we walked down the street. Me carrying all of the bags, and yes, that handbag was extremely heavy! We were running late, but I couldn’t help taking a detour down one of the long streets full of buskers. I could see the sheer delight on her face, a far cry from the broken mess of the night before, but I was hyper aware that the broken mess could return at any moment.
We came to stop in front of a young pianist playing a mixture of contemporary songs. “How the hell is a piano on the street?” she exclaimed.
“This is Grafton Street darling,” I answered, as if it explained everything. At her blank expression, I continued. “All the acts start on Grafton Street. We all busked here from childhood. Including me, in all weathers, trying to make enough cash to pay my rent until my career took off. This is the home of every struggling artist in Dublin.”
The young artist tipped his hat at me, noting his special onlookers. Moving on to play The Pumpkin Spices’ latest hit. I smiled at him; it took balls to cover a song in front of the man who wrote it. I dropped a small wad of cash into the man’s case before tugging
