This Could Have Been Our Song!: A coulda woulda shoulda ballad (24 page)

“
That’s right, Cally; I’ve booked lunch without telling you. Sue me!” Mary tells her sister while sitting across the table. “Hi, Silly. Sorry this wasn’t a star move. Just schedule conflict,” she adds.

“
Right. Lunch is on you anyway, as it’s about business,” I say. I’m not sure I believe her but bringing Cally with her is a nice touch.

We order our food. Cally, who is compensating her nicotine addiction with food, orders a plate of fish and chips to her si
ster’s disgust. She orders a salad. She needs to stay in shape. Lucia, Noor and Axelle eat everything under the sun and just dance it off. I go for the roast beef with Yorkshire puddings, Hartley’s pub style, the best one in London.

“
I’m so pleased you’re back early. Does this mean that we can start recording Mary’s album earlier?” Cally asks me between bites.

“
Not really. It does give me more time to write a few songs before heading to the studio in October. What’s the rush?” I ask.

“
We’re recording in Paris!” Mary blurts out.

“
What Mary is trying to say,” Cally explains to a very shocked me and a dismissive look to her sister, “is that we signed with Eclipse and it’s a great contract, Marcus, but one of the requirements is that we have to record and produce any future albums in their studio in Paris.”

“
Congratulation, ladies! How good is this new contract? And am I getting a raise?” I ask them. I keep eating; best dish I’ve had since I’ve been back. I knew about the deal; it’s a much better one than Beesly & Matt have with Noël-Sarrow Records.

“
Your raise has already been negotiated by your agent,” Cally says.

“
You writers think you are above it all,” Mary jokes.

“
And you lovely singers can’t write a bloody single song,” I smirk back. We all laugh. “I’ll be in Paris –”

“
Fuck this! I need to smoke!” Cally abruptly leaves our table and heading to the doors.

“
Three weeks! A new record, love!” Mary yells back. She takes my hands. “Alone finally. So when are you coming to Paris? I’m renting this flat next to Charles de Gaulle Étoile station. Remember the last time we were there?”

“
In two weeks,” I say. I kiss her hand. I remember very well. We were young and in love. At least I was. “I proposed.”

“
And I said yes,” she whispers, her head closer to mine.

I remove my hands.
“And then two years later you gave me back the ring. What was the reason again? Me?”

“
I thought I was the one who has a flair for the dramatic. We were too young. What’s up with you lately?”

“
We were twenty-five.” Cally is back and looks more herself now.

“
Piss off, Mary. I’ll stop when I get pregnant,” she tells her sister before she even says a thing. Her mobile rings. “Cally speaking.”

“
Not like you haven’t been trying all over,” Mary tells her.

She covers her mobile.
“Stop hitting on Marcus,
Bloody
. It’s pathetic.”

“
I got it with you two. Hotel arrangements for you it is,” Mary reluctantly says.

“
I like the sound of that,” I say with a smile.

Cally takes care of the bill and calls Paolo for their car.
“Okay, love. We’ll see you in Paris in a few weeks.” She’s air kissing me goodbye.

“
We may have a few surprises for you there, but nothing has been finalized yet,” Mary adds and quickly hugs me. It’s a public place, so I know she won’t try anything that could end up the tabloids. After all, we never went public. “And I’m not giving on us yet, Silly,” she whispers.

“
Bye, Bloody,” I say. I watch them leave the pub, signing a few autographs here and there, taking a few photos with her fans; just an ordinary girl having lunch with friends.

I
’m not ready to leave yet. Another beer will be much appreciated; I look around, searching for a waiter when I notice a woman in sunglasses with a tank top stating “Mother of all Brides”, a mini skirt and stilettos. She’s sitting at the bar and talking on the phone but she stops as soon as she sees me. It can’t be her. She takes her sunglasses off and – yes – those all-too-familiar, big, grey eyes are staring back at me. Noor Mpobo-Riddell is waving at me from across the room and I can’t help but wave back.

“
Sweetie, I have to hang up now,” I hear her say as I approach. “Oh my god! It is you!” she adds while jumping off her stool.

“
Hi, Noor,” I say.

“
I’m getting married in eight days, Marcus. Can you believe it?” She turns around to show me the number eight on the back of her tank top. “One for each day left,” she laughs.

“
Noor, Noor, Noor! Always with the theatrics. What are you doing here?” I’m really happy to see her.

“
Just got back from dance rehearsal. I’m famished. Andrew and I have so many numbers planned,” she enthusiastically says.

“
Okay –”

“
And my dress; the final fitting is on Monday and my hen party is on that day as well. And still so much to do,” she keeps saying.

“
Right but –” I try to say. But, no; she doesn’t let me speak.

“
Okay, what’s the deal with sitting charts? And I still have to decide between an indoor or outdoor ceremony. Marcus, this wedding business is hard,” she says.

“
Are you done?” I ask, laughing. I touch my keys in my pocket. I’ve attached Lucia charm bracelet to it. Not that I wanted to have it with me all the time; I just didn’t want to lose it, that’s all.

“
Why?” she asks. She crosses her arms; a family’s trait I see. “What? You wanted to ask me something?”

I
’m sensing some tensions here. “Well…” I mumble. She’s got me exactly where she wants me to be.

“
That’s what I thought. You didn’t want to ask me about my little sister. You know the one you fucking lied to not once but twice, you prick! And then pretty much ditched without saying so much as a goodbye,” she blurts out seriously.

The sisters are angry. I can respect that. I acted like a wanker that day.
“I was going to ask you what you were doing here at Hartley’s,” I awkwardly tell her.

She giggles.
“I told you; I’m famished. They have the best Yorkshire pudding dishes in town, you know.”

I do know but how does she? Is it in the tourist guide for hungry Canadians? Around us the lunch rush is almost over, the students are back to school or are preparing for Friday night. I remember that feeling. Matt, John and I would be si
tting here for hours just making plans for the weekend. Mary would join us soon after and our weekend would begin.

“
I’m on my own, if you were wondering. Just picking up my orders,” she tells me. I must have been hinting or something because the next thing she says is, “Unlike you earlier. Was that Mary Gillis? I never had the pleasure of meeting her before.”

“
Business meeting, that’s all.” There’s no need to explain myself to her.

Her orders arrive; there
’s enough to feed about fifteen people. “I don’t care.” She signals a man at the door,“You made it clear back in Toronto that none of us should,” she adds. The older man comes and pick up the orders. “Thank you, Tom. Could you please bring the car around; these shoes are killing me,” she tells him with a smile.

“
Wait,” I say as she’s about to leave me in front of the bar.

“
You have one minute.”

I take the keys out and give her the bracelet.
“She left it at John’s.”

“
You have five minutes.”

“
I came by to return it but she was with Greg.”

“
So?” Noor says, apparently not understanding me.

“
He was all over her and –”

“
Yeah? He flew all the way from Sydney to mend her broken heart, you asshole!” she shouts.

I really don
’t think she’s understanding me. “He saw me, Noor. He saw me standing there. You should have seen the look on his face…and hers,” I finally reveal.

“
Who the fuck do you think you are? The center of the universe or should I say Lucia’s universe! So your ego got bruised; he’s in love with her. Deal with it!” she shouts again. People are starting to look. “Twenty-four hours on the plane, Marcus, just to tell her that everything is going to be okay, just to hug and dance with her. What have you done lately?” she says, lower. She’s doing the quotation mark gesture. “Business meeting with your ex?”

“
That’s not fair, Noor,” I say.

“
Your five minutes are up. I’ve got to go,” she says and she’s walking away, towards the door. I follow her outside. Her car is still not here; this is a very busy neighborhood.

“
So, how did you hear about Hartley’s Pub?” I ask her.

“
What do you mean? By eating there. All my life,” she says.

“
I beg your pardon?” What does she means by that?

“
A little too late,” she jokes. She waves at the lady across the street. “This was my hood, Marcus. Axelle, Lucia and I grew up a couple of streets from here and were all born at Portland Hospital. We still own our house here. Andrew and his family are staying there.”

“
Really?”

“
Yes, really. Our lives pretty much revolved around Marylebone Road, Portland Place, Wigmore Street. We were never allowed to pass Gloucester on our own, Luce and me,” she says smiling.

“
You girls are from the West End?” Lucia mentioned that before.

“
Yes we are, Manchester boy! We are West End girls; Marylebone to be exact. What part of ‘we’re British’ haven’t you got yet? Axelle and I both went to Marylebone All-Girls School and Lucia would have too if we didn’t move to France after Papa’s death. But we did all go to the RAM to study music on the weekends,” she says and gets in her car.

“
And you don’t drive in London, you British bird,” I laughs.

“
Are you mad? Have you noticed my alcohol consumption? I’m not driving from Hampstead Village to London until I have my wedding ring on my finger,” she laughs. I close the door for her. “I barely do in Toronto anyway,” she adds.

“
You have a nice wedding, Noor,” I tell her through the window. I really wish her the best on her special day.

Her face finally relaxes.
“Thank you, Just Marcus. You look very good by the way,” she says. She plays with Lucia’s charm bracelet. “You might not be as dense as I thought after all,” she adds before her car drives away.

Lucia is in London and is going to eat the same lunch as I did in the next thirty minutes. I walk to the closest tube station, Regent Park. Not once in Toronto did I use their transportation system but here I only take my car out when forced to. I switch line at Baker Street Station for mine, Jubilee, and exit at St John
’s Wood Station, just a few minutes away from Hampstead. All this time I have been just a few minutes away from her.

The first time I saw Mary O’Connell, John and I were scouting for talent. We were twenty and we thought we knew it all. Johnny needed a lead for his musical, our first and only collaboration. It was called “The Secret Life of Anna Cordilinni”, the story of a murder – with singing and dancing! What the bloody hell were we thinking? We thought we were the RAM and we could do whatever we wanted. Mary was the fifth singer we saw that day. John was dating his then-first-choice, Ally; she could dance and according to John, she could shag but she couldn’t sing.

A nineteen year old Mary arrived with her own music sheet; her long hair was then jade black and wavy and with her pale skin, all I could see were her blue eyes. And that darn sexy, red lipstick; she looked like a sexy vampire with her velvet corset. It gave her the smallest waist I had ever seen and enhanced her small breasts. Our mouths went dry.

“And what’s your name, love?” John asked.

“
Mary O’Connell,” she told us with her strong Irish accent.

“
Bloody hell! Sinead O’Connor’s back,” Ally whined.

“
If she can sing like her, she’s in,” I said. Even if she couldn’t, I then thought.

Ally was getting jealous.
“Why not indeed; we do need somebody to suck out all the lines,” she mocked cynically.

“
I’m auditioning for Anna Cordilinni’s part,” Mary said, not at all affected or threatened by Ally. That was Mary O’Connell; she was afraid of nothing and no one.

“
That’s my fucking part, cunt!” Ally shrieked.

“
And I’ll be singing ‘Nothing Compares To You’,” she gloated with a bright smile. She gave her music sheets. “All Irish
cunts
must stick together,” she smirked back.