#Zero. Neil McCormick

that wasn’t strictly the last time I saw her. Cause my brother Paddy came in and looked at me like I was dirt, and said he’d take Eileen home. I watched from the window as they got into Paddy’s car, a beat-up piece of rusting shit that he treated like it was a fucking latest model BMW. And she looked back up at the tenement at that very moment, and saw me, and blew a kiss, and shook her head, like I was making the biggest mistake I would ever make in my life, and then I ducked behind the curtain. And that really was the last time I saw her.

      I’ve never been back to Kilrock, not even to visit the old man in his new house on the hill, bought on the advance for my first solo album, or Paddy in his little boutique hotel, paid for by my first American number one. I heard Eileen left soon after. Went to live in Dublin, or maybe it was London. Cut herself off from everybody, her own family, her old friends, and I can’t blame her. There was really nothing for people like us in that fucking town.

      It was actually a relief when Kilo came in with a call from Flavia, anything to stop the memory-jacking. He handed me a bottle of water with the phone, then practically tipped my head back and poured it down my throat. Flavia proposed a damage-limitation exercise on Kitty Queenan, a half-hour exclusive interview, during which I would let it be known the pictures were just movie out-takes and melt her heart with tales of how hard it was being subjected to pernicious media assaults. ‘Give her the full charm offensive,’ instructed Flavia.

      ‘I’ll charm her fucking pants off,’ I said, although I was worried my head was starting to float away from my neck.

      ‘Are you fit to do this?’ Flavia wanted to know. ‘Put Kailash on.’

      Kilo spoke briefly into the phone, assured her I was fine, then chopped out a couple of lines. I greedily snorted them both. ‘One of them was for me,’ sighed Kilo. But I was feeling better already, if you discounted the slight twitch in my left eye. I put my mirror shades back on.

      Kitty wanted to interview me in my suite for the full at-home-with-a-superstar experience, hotels being as close to home as most superstars ever get. Kilo let her in, made sure we were plentifully supplied with hot coffee and iced water, then made himself scarce. My interrogator appraised the room with a sweeping gaze that seemed to suck in every detail before coming back to rest on me. For someone who should have been physically unimposing, a short, middle-aged woman swathed in a jumble of lace, patterns and costume jewellery, I was struck again by her aura of mischievous sharpness, as if the frumpy glamour of loud make-up and clashing layers was a disguise, something to blur her dangerous edges. When she was done admiring the hotel artwork and contents of the jellyfish tank, we settled on either side of one of the elongated sofas, digital recorder perched between us, notebook in her lap.

      ‘Would you mind taking your sunglasses off?’ she enquired.

      ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, while she warped in front of my stoned vision, a wolf in hippie clothing. There was something intimidatingly sensuous about such ripe confidence. Her eyes were predator sharp, and when she spoke, I got the uncomfortable feeling I might be the main course.

      ‘This business with Penelope and Troy is obviously bothering you, yet it goes with the territory of celebrity unions, so … what is it about this particular story that has upset you so much?’

      ‘I wouldn’t say I’m upset,’ I lied. ‘Take the celebrity out of it, I’m just a guy in love with a girl, hearing horrible things said about her …’

      ‘Can we really take the celebrity out of it? I am not sure you are just a guy, and she’s certainly not just a girl, she’s one of the most famous women in the world, and there is a twenty-year age gap. She is old enough to be your mother…’

      ‘You’re old enough to be my mother,’ I pointed out.

      ‘Not quite,’ she retorted, a little wounded.

      ‘Half the women I meet are old enough to be my mother,’ I said, to smooth things over. ‘Usually the most interesting half. I’m drawn to character, I’m drawn to experience – girls my own age have nothing to teach me.’

      ‘Your own mother died when you were young, didn’t she? I notice that you never talk about her.’

      ‘I don’t actually remember her,’ I said. ‘I was very young.’

      ‘Nine is not that young.’

      Fuck, she was tough. ‘I think I was eight,’ I said. ‘My father was the dominant character in my life, anyway. He raised me really.’

      ‘So would you say he was both mother and father to you?’

      I laughed out loud. ‘No, I wouldn’t say he was a mother at all. Not much of a father either, sometimes. He was just my old man. He was what I was running away from when I ran into music. I wanted to find something I could make my own, a place where I was safe, and music was that place.’

      ‘A kind of womb,’ she suggested.

      I didn’t like where this was going at all. ‘A womb with a view,’ I joked, trying to divert her. ‘And the view was the whole world. Music wasn’t just about cuddling up somewhere nice and warm, it was about getting out in the world, getting away from Ireland, seeing new things, having new experiences, meeting new people, like you. Smart people, educated people, people I could relate to. That’s a nice dress.’ I reached forward and touched the fabric of her billowy frock. There was a trace of a blush in her cheeks but she wasn’t deflected for a second.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling indulgently. ‘So do you think the fact that you never really mourned for your mother has shaped your attitude to women?’

      Fuck sake, she was like a dog with a bone. ‘I am sure I mourned my mother,’ I said. ‘Everybody has to bury their parents eventually. Death’s part of life, that’s what my old man used to say.’

      Was it? Did he really say that? I don’t know where that came from. I don’t remember him ever talking about death at all, certainly not my mother’s.

      ‘Look at the orphans in MedellÍn, they’ve got nobody, but they survive, living on the streets, fending for themselves, it’s what you do, that’s what being “never young” means. You’re forced to grow up fast.’

      ‘When you were having your photo taken this afternoon, my photographer, Bruno, asked about your mother’s family …’

      She didn’t miss a trick. ‘My mother didn’t have any family. We were her family. I am her family.’ I could feel panic rising – it was time for desperate measures. I reached out and touched her arm. ‘Why are you so interested in my mother?’ I said.

      ‘Maybe because you don’t seem to be.’

      ‘I don’t think about her very often,’ I said, and reached forward and turned off her recording device. ‘Can we go off the record for a minute, is that OK? If I wanted to go to analysis, Manhattan’s full of shrinks. And they’ve got diplomas from medical school, not journalism courses. I just don’t believe in navel-gazing. Music is therapy and I’ve got music coming out of every orifice. I can fart and it sounds like a symphony. Please don’t quote me on that.’

      ‘Are you trying to be obnoxious or does it just come naturally?’ said Kitty, with a sly, mocking smile.

      ‘I’m just kidding with you, you make me nervous,’ I said, gently stroking the back of her hand and holding the tips of her fingers. I picked that move up a long time ago. If she pulled away, I could pretend it was just a friendly gesture. But if she lingered, we both knew it was on. The truth is, they never pulled away. Not any more. So I was a bit flummoxed when she reached forward and turned the recording device back on.

      ‘Why would you be afraid of a few questions, you’ve been batting them back like a pro all day?’ she said. ‘I’ve been watching you. You don’t let anyone under your shield.’

      ‘It gets exhausting talking about yourself all the time,’ I pouted, caressing her fingers again. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you think about me instead?’

      ‘Oh,