Second week of July 199x 

Axel Carr drops me home on Sunday afternoon. Felice claims she's jealous because I live in the centre of town, but she never wants to stay over. We haven't discussed why, mainly since I suspect it's because she's picked up on Mum and Dad's veiled hostility.

I stand on the granite steps for a moment, staring up at the three stories of fine Georgian red-brick architecture looming over me, and try to prepare myself for the week ahead. Period houses like these are on-trend at the moment, but five generations of Lawless solicitors have lived behind this imposing front door with its well-preserved fanlight. 

The house weighs me down, heavy and oppressive with family and tradition.

"Your house could look sensational," Felice often tells me as she points out the photos in magazines. Beautifully proportioned rooms with high ceilings, painted in dark blues or greens, with a vivid dash of turquoise or orange.

Our interiors are all tired magnolia walls and plain ceilings with scuffed white gloss on the windows and doors.

"Is that you, Kit?" Mum calls out as I turn the key and push open the door. "Your father says Felice has dyed her hair blue? Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if she'd come back from London with a tattoo."

Sometimes she's so close to the mark, she astounds me.

I often wonder if she seems so old-fashioned because she's older than everyone else's parents. She was thirty-nine when I was born, unusually late for a first child in that generation. But even with women her own age, she has little in common. She gets on better with people like Spike's grandmother, older ladies who still go to the hairdresser to get their hair set in curlers and never miss Mass on Sunday.

"St Catherine's has become so lax compared to my day," Mum carries on, "but surely they won't let her have blue hair? They must draw the line somewhere. It is supposed to be a school for young ladies."

Both my mother and my grandmother went to St Catherine's, so it's a family tradition. When I was younger, I was dying to go there too. I thought boarding school would be an escape, a new world to explore. Instead, it was just another form of prison, until last year, fifth year, when Felice arrived.

Mum wasn't too pleased about that, especially since Felice had been expelled from both her previous boarding school down the country in Tipperary and the one before that. She couldn't think why a prestigious establishment like St. Catherine's would accept a girl with Felice Carr's track record.

Poor Mum. She honestly doesn't seem to realise St Catherine's is just as much of a dumping ground for wealthy parents to get rid of their dysfunctional kids as any boarding school.

Besides, Mum has never had any time for Axel Carr. I'm not sure which she thinks is worse, that he's divorced or that he's made a fortune on a total gimmick. Axel has over a hundred stores in the More Video 4 U chain, but my mother still can't take video rental as a serious business.

"Really, Kit!" She frowns as she takes in my black oversized t-shirt and skinny jeans tucked into my docs, layered with chunky silver and leather jewellery. "I don't know why you young girls wear black all the time. It's so dreary, especially on a nice hot day like today. Why don't you put on a pair of shorts and go and lie out in the garden? Get some sun on your legs? You could look so pretty if you wanted to." 

She whisks into the kitchen, muttering. "If you'd only tie back that mane of hair, so we could see your face!"

She and I. We exist in different worlds.

I wander upstairs in my room and stick the stub of the ticket for the Black Death gig in pride of place, on the wall over my untidy desk.

Without my friends, there's nothing to do. I lie on my bed, gazing at the posters of rock stars on my walls, wishing I'd one of Mac Whitehead, but he's not that famous yet. 

Since seeing him live, all I can think of is his muscular body and the energy with which he leaps around the stage, hair flying.

Over and over again, I picture those piercing blue eyes that locked onto mine. At least, I'm sure they did, during the second verse of 'Plagued by You'.

The next day, I push the tape I made at Felice's into the tape-deck and press play. Rooting through drawers crammed with broken jewellery, dried-out mascara and lipsticks with the lid missing, I eventually find a notebook underneath all the rubbish. It takes hours, but by pressing play and rewind until I've nearly worn out the buttons on my ghetto-blaster, I manage to write out all of Black Death's lyrics.

Darkness suits Mac's temperament, the moody scowl, the pent-up energy, but his songs need more depth.

As I make small adjustments to the words, adding fragments of longing, sorrow and heartbreak, I can't help thinking of Aonghus wandering the world in searching of true love. The outcast Celtic god reminds me of myself and my hopeless dreams of Mac Whitehead.

In my fantasies, Mac and I converse effortlessly, like we can read each other's every thought. I come up with all kinds of scenarios where he finally notices me.

My favourite is one where he's in the middle of a crowd, centre of attention, but when he sees me, he stops mid sentence.

He leaves the group and comes over.

"I've been waiting for you," he says. "Since I saw you at the gig, I haven't been able to get you out of my head." His smile is tender. "Does that sound strange?"

"No," I say. "I feel the same way."

And his head bends towards me and his mouth melts into mine. I replay the scene over and over again, trying to imagine his kiss and what would happen next if he took me by the hand and led me away.

But I'm never going to meet Mac Whitehead. The closest I'll ever get to him is as one of the crowd rushing the stage.

When I'm not daydreaming or avoiding my mother, I ring Felice.

This old house has just two telephones. One is in the draughty hall, where it always feels like my mother is hovering, even if she isn't, and the second is in my parents' neat, impersonal bedroom, not ideal, but at least it's private.

Several times a day, I perch on the edge of their bed and dial Felice's number. When she doesn't answer, I don't leave a message on the answering machine. Unlike me, Felice has a phone in her room and she tends to return my calls late at night, a habit my parents don't exactly appreciate.

On Thursday, I finally get hold of her.

"Hey, babe," she says. "I was going to ring you later on. Listen, you have to get over here this weekend. There's a party on Saturday."

"Party?"

"Yeah, it's a house-warming for Mac and the guys. They're moving down here for the summer."

"What?" I'm stunned, completely gobsmacked. This is too good to be true, but I can't stop the excitement rising inside me. "No way! They're like the hottest act in the country right now. Why on earth would they move to Drimshanra?"

"They're touring all over the country for the next few months so they reckon Drimshanra will make a good base," she explains. "They can share a house and get a proper rehearsal space here for a fraction of what it would cost in Dublin."

"But won't they feel out of it in Drimshanra?" No matter how much I want this to happen, I can't see why Black Death could possibly think it was a good idea.

"Dublin's only an hour away, not even." Felice is getting impatient with my protests. "What's wrong with you? This is the most exciting thing to happen to Drimshanra in years."

Suddenly it becomes clear. Of course! "You set this up. You told them your dad has property in town."

"Well, yeah, duh! Don't you see? We'll get to hang out with them all summer."

"Wow." I'm seriously impressed. If it was anyone else, I'd say it was too good to be true but, even by Felice's standards, this is a coup. "How did you get your dad to agree?"

"It wasn't that hard. I told him they were friends of mine and it was just for the summer. Dad's been whinging about how slow the rental market is right now, and he has a couple of places empty that he can't shift, so he offered them a good deal. I think he's glad I've somewhere to go. Otherwise he'd be stuck with me under his feet for the rest of the holidays."

I smile to myself. Axel Carr knows how to strike a deal. The house may be cheap but it comes with strings attached, or rather one very long string called Felice.

I spend the rest of the week counting the minutes to Saturday night.

Ticking off the seconds to seeing Mac Whitehead.

Again!

Author's Note

Life before Google... those endless hours of Play and Rewind...😂