‘Well, maybe you can be that woman,’ says Tadhg, ‘for other people.’
I laugh.‘Is this your new way of trying to persuade me to perform in public?Telling me I can be a role model for guitar-playing women with no kids who can’t sing?’
‘No!’Tadhg protests.‘Though I still think you can sing.And you should sing.’
‘No,’ I say.‘No way.’
‘Do you want to go back in and play the guitar andnotsing?’
I do.
We play some of our new songs.We play some old songs.We play some of Tadhg’s songs.And then we start playing coversongs.We drink lots of water to counterbalance the wine.We drink more wine.We laugh a lot.I even sing, albeit very, very quietly, and not into a microphone so Tadhg can’t actually hear it.
Eventually Tadhg says, ‘I didn’t think I’d ever be hungry again after that giant lunch, but I am.Do you want a snack?’
We make toasted sandwiches and eat them at his kitchen table.We drink tea.We talk nonsense.It’s like one of those magical college days when we hung out together for hours on end.And like those days, I both don’t want to go home and don’t want to overstay my welcome.
But then he says, ‘Are you too tired to watch a film in the screening room?’
And I realise I’m not.
The screening room is gorgeous – like a miniature version of one of those posh indie cinemas, with leather armchairs and side tables.Tadhg opens a big cupboard at the back of the room and reveals shelves of DVDs.
‘What film do you fancy?’he says.
‘Oh, I can’t decide,’ I say, scanning the shelves.‘Pick one at random and I’ll say yes or no.’
Tadhg closes his eyes, reaches out and pulls out a case.‘Jaws?’
Two hours, lots of snacks, a tiny bit of wine and lots of fizzy water later, Roy Scheider and Richard Dreyfuss are splashing in to shore and Tadhg and I are stretching in our too-comfortable seats.
‘You know, Mrs Brody inJawsdresses like you,’ says Tadhg.
My laugh turns into a yawn.‘It’s the other way around.’I glance at my watch and get a shock.‘Bloody hell, it’s nearly one!’
‘It can’t be.’Tadhg leans over and looks at my watch.‘Shit, it is.’
Suddenly I’m exhausted.‘I’d better call a taxi.’I pull my phone out and try the usual app, but no drivers are available.
‘Sorry,’ I say, stifling another yawn.‘It’s usually faster than this.’
‘I’ll try my car service,’ says Tadhg, but there’s nothing there either.
The long day, the wine and the weed are all catching up on me now.Tadhg looks as exhausted as I feel.
‘Look,’ he says, ‘why don’t you just stay over?’
‘Ah no,’ I say.‘I’m only down the road.’
‘You can use the room Rosie uses when she comes over from Paris.The bed’s made up, there’s toiletries in the en suite, there’ll even be clean pyjamas.’
I try the app again.Still no drivers.I’m so, so tired.The thought of going to bed right now is irresistible.
‘Okay,’ I say.‘Thanks a million.If you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure,’ he says.
As I follow him up the stairs I realise I’ve never seen most of Tadhg’s house before.I’ve never even gone up to the first floor.There are framed posters on the wall for Tadhg’s gigs, from hisGlastonbury headliner to his early solo shows.We’re almost at the top of the stairs when I freeze at the sight of one that’s all too familiar.
