I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to go there. Even after all these years it’s still a raw gaping wound, deep enough that no amount of one-night stands can plug it. It’s the song I can’t write. Ten years later, it’s still too fucking painful to confront, let alone analyse.
I shrug off the memories. ‘He’ll get in touch when he needs something.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ Jayden says, his fingers brushing his designer stubble.
Attempting to lighten the mood, I change the subject once again. ‘Any plans for the weekend?’
‘Nah. I was supposed to be going to theBondpremiere with Cindy, but then she asked if I wanted to spend next weekend at her parents’ beach house and alarm bells blasted. I’m not signing up for thatBrady Bunchshit. No fucking way.’
‘And there was me thinking she might be “the one”.’ A smirk twitches at my lips at my outright lie. My brother’s never been interested in anything remotely serious. Though he usually spends a few weeks before moving on, which is more than I can manage.
A hearty belly laugh explodes from his chest and he flashes a rare grin. ‘Bollocks! Anyway, you can hardly point the finger. Not exactly “Mr Committed” yourself, are you?’
I shrug off his remark. The difference is, I was once and I would have remained that way, given half the chance. Sadly, life had other plans.
My brother stays long enough to finish three more beers and a pile of tacos, and give me another pep talk about finding inspiration.
As the evening draws in, I remain on the marble-tiled terrace, the sun pleasantly seeping through the designer polo shirt on my back, straight into my bones. Yet, a chill lingers somewhere in the depth of my core.
Hours after Jayden leaves, I’m still dwelling on his warning.
I need to produce something, and fast, unless I want to be axed faster than a row of ripe Christmas trees in December. Gathering the empty bottles, I head inside the spacious four walls of my pad.
I have more than I ever dreamed of. Another huge villa in San Francisco, a penthouse apartment in New York, a Ferrari, a Porsche and more money than I could spend in several lifetimes. What I don’t have, is any fresh ideas.
Pacing the wide corridors, I can’t settle, never more aware of the ominous ticking of the grandfather clock in the bright, airy hall. It’s like it’s ticking specifically on my career, tormenting me. I need to find that inspiration. And I need to find it now.
Vegas gigs are notoriously prestigious. The Colosseum only hosts the biggest and best artists. The pressure to deliver something original weighs profoundly on my chest. Leave the crowd desperate for more. Show them Ryan Cooper is not a has-been.
Because without my career, what am I?
Flopping onto the massive suede couch, I grab the remote and turn on the TV, searching for something mindless enough to wind down. Christmas movies are airing already.Home Aloneis showing on CBS. I watch for a few minutes before resuming my restless, futile channel hopping.
Fox News display the official switching on of the New York Christmas lights at Time Square and, not for the first time today, I’m instantly transported back to another time. Another life.
A memory of just days before we promptly skipped the country hits me like a freight train, wreaking havoc with my long-buried emotions.
Sasha and I, hand in hand, gazing at the lavish display of lights radiating from her family’s castle. Back then, I was as much in awe of that place as I was her.
We were classes apart, and though her parents welcomed me as warmly as one of their own, deep down, despite my outward show of confidence, I never truly felt good enough to justify the title of her boyfriend.
Mr and Mrs Sexton are two of the kindest, most admirable people. I loved her parents almost as much as I loved her. Thanks to my dad’s illegal investments catching up with him, I had no chance to even utter a goodbye to any of them.
Long pent-up emotion swells in my chest, forcing its way up my throat until I’m certain I might actually explode. It hits me like a brick – the most emotion I’ve felt in years. And it hurts like fuck.
Though I don’t want to face it, to feel the loss of my previous life, maybe that’s exactly what I need to get over this blip in my career.
Perhaps it’s finally time to go back to Ireland? To face the life I left behind.
I’m not stupid enough to think Sasha will be there. She had every chance to find me if that’s what she wanted. Clearly, she didn’t.
But the thought of returning to the lush lands of my roots is suddenly growing legs with every passing second.
It’s been ten years since I stepped foot on Irish soil. Ten years since I witnessed the flourishing green of my homeland. It might be exactly the type of inspiration I need. If that flashback is anything to go by, it might just be the only way to unlock the elusive compartment in my brain that controls my emotions- or lack of them.
If I confront the place I mentally locked away all those years ago, deal with the pain I’ve shied away from, perhaps I’ll return lighter and with some sort of clarity?
At least less emotionally frigid, with any luck.
