Todd sighed and shook his head slowly. ‘Boy, have you changed. There’s me, happy to trot out pleasant ballads, grateful for my nice house and bulging bank balance...and there’s you, sticking two fingers up at all that.’
Con continued to smoke his cigarette silently.
Todd sighed. ‘I dunno, Con. I just think it’s a shame you seem to glean so little pleasure from your achievements. Just occasionally think back and remember how badly you wanted fame and fortune.’
Con still did not respond.
‘And there’s such a thing as abusing your position. Okay, so you’re a famous pop star, but you’re not a politician. You’re going to put a lot of noses out of joint, especially if you carry on so noisily about Ulster.’
‘I—’
Todd stretched his hands out. ‘Please, Con, spare me the political diatribe. I’ve heard it all before.’ He crossed the room and took a seat on the green velvet sofa next to his writing partner. ‘Listen, I can understand your vehemence over the situation in Ireland. At least it’s part of who you are. But it’s all these other causes that you seem to throw yourself into. For example, the Vietnam War. I mean...you’re not even American. Or Vietnamese! The whole thing’s happening thousands of miles away and—’
‘Yes, and isn’t that just the attitude that stops anything changing? The “well, it’s not affecting me so I’ll ignore it” philosophy?’ Con stood up. ‘I’d say I’ve had enough for today. I’m going home.’
‘That’s right, Con. Walk out again. Jesus! Just for once in your life try and remember your priorities. We’re recording an album in a couple of months’ time. At the moment we have two and a half songs. Three and a half if you include the pile of shit you brought in this morning. At this rate we won’t be bringing out an album at all, because frankly, I’ve just about had enough! I’m trying to hold this band together while you run around playing Bolshie,andegging on my wife into the bargain. In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve the concert in Central Park in a few weeks. A quarter of a million people are going to turn up to see us and we haven’t even worked out a playing order. Now that’s whatIcall letting people down, you—’
The door of the rehearsal room slammed behind Con.
‘—son of a bitch,’ murmured Todd to thin air. ‘Bugger it.’ Todd slid back down onto his piano stool and shook his head.
God, he was pissed off. Con was behaving like a complete arsehole, and had been for months now. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d sat down and really sparked off each other, as had been the case in the beginning.
Con and he had been labelled as the songwriting partnership of the decade. In the early days of their success, they’d flown along. Todd, with his eye for the commercial catchy melody, had been toned down by Con’s more serious lyrical approach. They’d written some wonderful songs – songs that Con now trashed as ‘meaningless crap’. They’d worked late into the night, stimulated and excited by the words and music they seemed capable of producing so easily.
But now the two of them were lucky if they could stick at it for more than a couple of hours. The rapport seemed to have disappeared. The pair were sailing off in opposite directions. Todd wondered if they would ever meet in the middle again.
Had the rot set in, as it had in so many other groups over the years? Everyone knew that the Con Daly and Todd Bradleypartnership was the lifeblood of the band. If that continued to disintegrate at its present rate, then what future did The Fishermen have?
And then there was the Lulu problem.
Lulu and he had married four years ago, just before they’d flown to the States to support The Trojans. The two of them had had a great party of a wedding, inviting friends new and old and being mobbed as they emerged from Chelsea registry office.
Over the next couple of years, Lulu’s career as an actress had really started to flourish. She’d done a new play in the West End for which she’d received an award and serious critical acclaim. It had felt then that the couple were unstoppable. What had happened since?
Lulu had followed Con’s lead and embraced the political scene, becoming more and more involved in what Todd saw as hopeless, pointless causes. Instead of enjoying their dual success, she was always rushing around trying to save the world and sometimes bringing her smelly, unkempt fellow activists into their lovely Chelsea home.
In the past few months, Todd had seen less and less of her. She seemed to spend more time with Con and Sorcha in Hampstead than she did at home.
They’d not had sex for over a month.
Yesterday, he’d tried and she’d refused him. They’d had a huge argument and she’d stormed off. He didn’t know where she was now, but that wasn’t unusual these days.
Was she having an affair with Con?
It was a thought that had to be contemplated, considering the amount of time they spent together and their shared interests.
God, he loved her. Difficult, spoilt and selfish as she was, he worshipped the ground she walked on.
Todd wondered what Sorcha thought of her husband’s closerelationship with his wife. The last couple of times he’d seen her, Sorcha had looked completely miserable.
Maybe he should give her a ring and suggest they meet up to discuss their respective partners. At any rate, the situation could not be allowed to continue. Todd was watching his marriage disintegrate. Something had to be done and fast.
The door of the recording studio opened silently. Todd turned around at the sound of footsteps behind him.
‘Hello, Derek, what brings you here?’
Derek still looked like a teenager pretending to be a grown man, even in his smart designer suit.
