Dublin

I don't go to London with Dad because Interesting Monster has a gig that night. No matter how much I want to see William Tracy play live, it would be shitty of me to miss a performance of my own band.

We've been playing two Fridays a month at Top Hat at Dún Laoghaire since last fall. It's a great gig. My dad played here with the Liberties, so the club owner knows me. The venue has plenty of room for dancing. Our audience is made up of handsome boys and pretty girls, who are all dancing, talking, laughing, drinking, to music that I wrote.

Many of the pretty girls are gathered in front of the stage to moon over Eamonn, our lead singer and frontman. When he gets down on his knees during a particularly dramatic verse or lies on his back to play his guitar, their hands swarm over him as if he's a rock god. I write the songs and make the arrangements and even got us this regular gig, thanks to Dad's connections to the local music scene, but Eamonn is the star of this band.

I'm fine with that. I'm at home in the less showy place behind the drums.

Eamonn looks over his shoulder at me and winks, an enormous smile on his face. I grin back and lean closer to my microphone. We sing in unison: "Lover, lover, when you gonna come my way?" Our voices harmonize like they have since we were in primary school. Some of the audience shouts the chorus along with us, which makes me grin even wider.

Playing back-to-back with Eamonn, fingers nimble and steady on her bass guitar, Bree smiles at me too, but ruefully. In response, I do a trill on the high-hat, and she echoes it on her bass. Eamonn loses his place in the song a moment and gives us both a confused look, but then picks up the verse and goes on singing.

Some musicians are good at playing music as written, and others are good at improvising. Eamonn rarely improvises, while Bree and me, we operate on the same wavelength when we're on stage. I could -- and have -- do nothing more than count off the beat and she knows what song I want to play.

We finish "Lover Lover" to applause and cheers, and Eamonn looks at me for what we will do for our final number. I start a quick, light, beat and sing into the microphone, "'Well, I took a stroll on the old long walk--'"

The audience joins in, "'Of a day-I-ay-I-ay,'" clapping to the rhythm of my drums. With a laugh and a toss of her long black hair, Bree claps along too, and Eamonn joins me on his guitar. He lets me carry the verses, though we all know this song backward and forward, having sung or heard it all our lives.

At the end of "Galway Girl," Eamonn shouts into the microphone, "Good night, Dublin! We love you!" The house lights come up and we leave the stage for the tiny green room, laughing and hugging each other. We're joined by Neil, our manager-slash-roadie, as we open bottles of water and choose our favorites from the snacks he brought.

"Solid choice again tonight, Oisín," he says. "Nothing leaves a crowd happy like 'Galway Girl.'"

"That's why I like it." I down half a bottle of water in a few gulps. Drumming is sweaty work. "It's not my idea, though. Dad used to finish his home concerts with 'Galway Girl,' back in the day.

Lounging together on a futon, Bree and Eamonn whisper, "You ask him!" "No, you ask him!" -- but stop when Neil and I look at them.

"Making time with my girl, Eamonn?" I say.

Bree makes a face like she does whenever I pull some possessive shit -- it's all in fun, and she knows it -- and sits up straight. "We finish with 'Galway Girl' half the time we perform. What about trying something new? It doesn't even have to be one of our songs -- just something else everybody loves, like 'Twist and Shout.'"

"I like 'Twist and Shout,'" says Eamonn. "It's a feel-good song. Give it a think, Sheeny."

They both look at me expectantly as I drink my water. I have no objections to 'Twist and Shout' on a musical level. It's a solid rock song, fun to play and sing, and when you get a crowd of a hundred or more people singing along with you, it's like being borne up into the sky by the power of their voices.

But the Liberties sang 'Galway Girl.' I don't know of a Dublin-based band that doesn't perform 'Galway Girl' when they're at home.

"We'll talk about it at the band meeting," I say, and both Eamonn and Bree look disappointed. "We need to collect our gear." I leave the green room and go back to the stage.

The club is nearly empty, with just a few patrons finishing their drinks or lingering near the stage. Some of the remaining audience turn their backs or drift away when they see it's just me. I climb onto the stage, go to the drums, and put my sticks away in a pouch before I take apart my drum kit.

Neil joins me, expertly rolling the cables for the guitars into tidy piles. "Everybody loves 'Galway Girl'," he says. "But the band wants to stretch, Sheeny."

"I'll write some new songs," I reply as I fold up the high hat. "I've always got new songs burbling around."

"Yeah, and that's good," says Neil. "People come to hear your songs. But for closing songs and encores, you could always do something that's just fun."

"Like the Beatles," I say.

"Everybody loves the Beatles, just like they love 'Galway Girl.'"

He has a point. When we started performing live, Dad said to finish a show on an energetic note, so the audience feels good when they leave and will want to come back and see us again.

"We'll talk about it in the band meeting," I say again, and Neil exhales, almost a frustrated sigh.

"I'll bring 'round the van." He stands and leaves the stage.

The club has mostly cleared out now, and the few remaining people seem more interested in chatting with each other than with me, so I'm alone with my thoughts. I try to have new songs on every show since the same people come to see us every week, and they might get tired of hearing the same songs over and over. I suppose we could do more covers. Even U2 do covers in their concerts. We could do a cover of a current pop song for the encore, just to shake things up.

Dad teases me sometimes that I get stuck in my ways -- "Like an old man," he'll say -- but I can't help it. I like knowing what's to come. It's why I'm attending a university here in Dublin instead of going to London or another country and why I'm still friends with people I've known since primary school. It just feels good, things staying the same.

Having William Tracy and his family here will be change enough for now, I think as I carry my drum kit outside to the van. There are rumors about the Tracys throughout the musical world that the Tracy parents are high-strung and demanding and that William is a diva. But Cynthia Beecham wants William to stay with us while the Tracys are here, and Dad has agreed for some reason. I do want to see William perform live someday, but that doesn't mean I want to live with the guy.

Outside, I'm happy to see Neil selling copies of our CD to some fans. He gives me a nod and opens the van's back door so I can pack away my drums.

One of the girls drifts away from the other fans to lean against the side of the van. "Oisín," she says, and I smile at her. I've seen her at shows before.

"All right, lovely?"

"All right," she says. She could be the Galway girl herself, with hair so black and eyes so blue. The girl is dressed stylishly, too, with a black leather jacket, short skirt, and tall boots. "Where are you off to next tonight?"

"Just home," I tell her. "We're having guests tomorrow, so I need to sleep."

"Oh," she says with a disappointed pout. "Some of us are going to meet up for a party. Won't you come?"

"Not tonight, darlin'," I say, and swing myself down from the van. "Maybe next time."

She starts to speak again, but I'm saved from having to turn her down again by Bree and Eamonn coming out of the club with their instruments. Bree steps close and kisses my cheek before she climbs into the back of the van.

Eamonn lingers outside the van, taking in the girl. "Hello, I love you," he says lightly. "Won't you tell me your name?"

She turns up her nose. "Maura," she replies. "I'm trying to convince Oisín to come to an afterparty. Come with us."

"Go ahead without me if you want to go," I say.

Eamonn says, "Where's the party?"

"My mate's house on Salzburg Lane."

Eamonn looks at me. "It's not far."

"Just stop in," she coaxes us. "We'd love it."

Neil rejoins us, carrying our portable amps, and I get back into the van to fit them in, relieved to leave the girl to Eamonn. Neil says to me under his breath, "Want me to get rid of her?"

"She's all right," I say. Neil takes his job as our manager very seriously. "The party might even be fun."

"Do you want to go?"

"Nah," I say, "I've got all that prep to do for tomorrow."

"Oh, right. The cellist." He stands on the edge of the van, holding the frame to keep himself steady, and says, "Oi, Eamonn! You coming or not?"

"Coming." Eamonn climbs into the van--and then so does Maura, planting herself beside him in the center seat. I clamber from the back to the empty seat beside Bree as Neil hops off the van and shuts the rear doors.

When Neil gets into the driver's seat, he double-takes at Maura. "Oh. Hello."

"Hello," she says, natural as anything.

"Am I dropping you somewhere?"

"Oisín's place, please."

Neil looks at me. "Oisín?"

"Yeah, okay," I say, bewildered but willing to see where the night goes. Bree rolls her eyes at the lot of us while Eamonn looks delighted. He drops his arm over Maura's shoulders as she leans into him.

The city grows increasingly quiet as we travel from Laoghaire to my house in Stoneybatter, and we don't talk much on the drive. It's part coming down from the adrenaline of performing and part having a stranger amongst us.

I eye Maura as we drive; she watches the streets go by with wide, lively eyes. She's pretty and clearly keen, but I have no idea how I feel about a girl pushing her way into our lives. Girls approach me sometimes, but when they don't get the response they want they usually turn to Eamonn or Neil. Eamonn is usually happy to give them some of his time. As for Neil, he hasn't had a girlfriend for a while, but he doesn't go out with fans either. I once asked him why and he just blushed and muttered something about promises.

Bree and I have known each other since primary school and have been going out for the last three years. I love her dearly, but lately, I've come to realize there's something off about us.

Eamonn leans over the back of the seat. "Hey, Sheeny. Since your dad's out of town, could Maura and I stay the night at your place?"

I laugh to myself. "Yeah, all right. You'll have to change the sheets in the morning. All our guest rooms are going to be occupied by Monday."

"Thanks, Oisín!" He smacks a kiss on my cheek and then throws himself over to Maura. "We're staying with Oisín tonight!"

She smiles at him, and says, "Thank you, Oisín."

"All for you, lovely," I reply, and she laughs."So we're all going to Sheeny's?" Neil calls back.

"Yes," I say. "We're all coming to mine." So much for me getting to bed early tonight. I rub my hand over my face, and Bree takes my other hand.

"I'll help you get ready for the cellist."

"Thank you, love."

She kisses me and rests her head on my shoulder. She knows I don't like to snog in front of other people, and I'm glad she lets it be.

At the gates to my house, Neil stops the van so I can climb out and enter the security code. Neil drives through once I open it and follows me up the cobblestone drive to park at the side of the house by the door nearest our music room.

Bree climbs out of the van, and once we start unloading instruments again, so does Maura. "I've never been inside any houses around here," she says and decides to help by carrying my drumstick pouch.

Bree gives me an exasperated look--she's got her bass on a strap over her shoulder and is carrying the snare drum from my kit -- and leads the way to the music room when I unlock the side door. She knows where everything goes.

"Are you coming?" I ask Neil when he climbs back into the driver's seat.

He glances at the house. “Nah. I’d be a fifth wheel.”

“Fifth wheel--“ I almost laugh. "Neil, you're one of us."

He looks away from me, then says like he's making a decision, "I can't sleep knowing you and Bree are shagging in the next room."

"What do you mean?" and then it hits me. This is why Neil doesn’t date other girls. He wants to go out with Bree.

"Never mind." Neil starts up the van. “G’night, Sheeny. See you Monday.”

“See you.” I shut the door for him. He backs out, and I shut the gate behind him when he drives away.

"Weird not having your dad around," Bree says from the piano bench when I return to the music room. The instruments are put away, and Eamonn is sprawled on the sofa while Maura wanders around the music room and lets her fingers linger on the upright piano. Bree comes to me, puts her arms around me, and rests her head on my shoulder. I hold her with one arm and kiss her hair. "He should be popping in to offer us tea and tell us stories about the Clash."

"I'll ask him for more stories next time he's home, and you're here," I say. "I hope he's enjoying London."

"What's he doing there?" Maura asks and flicks her fingers against the cymbal to make it shimmer.

"Meeting a musician he'll be producing soon," I reply. "A cellist named William Tracy."

"A cellist? Wasn't your dad a punk back in the day?"

"He was," I say, "but he produces all kinds of genres now. The lines between genres aren't as strict as they used to be."

Maura sniffs like she disapproves. She's not warming herself to me or Bree. "This room is like a music store. How many of these do you play?"

“All of them,” I say, “some better than others. I’m good at percussion and strings but not so good at wind instruments.” Besides the usual band and orchestral instruments, we have oddball instruments from around the world, like a didgeridoo from Australia and a dulcimer from Norway.

Again, Maura sniffs, disbelieving, and Bree's annoyed expression increases.

Before she can say something, Eamonn hops to the piano and opens the lid. “Play us a tune, Oisín.”

I sit on the bench and play a scale to warm up my fingers. “What do you want to hear?”

“Something classical,” says Maura.

She probably expects me to dive into something impressive like Rachmaninoff or Beethoven. Instead, I place my fingers on the keys and start to play Satie’s Gymnopedie No. 1. It’s a quiet piece, peaceful, and whatever mood everyone else is in, I want something relaxing.

Bree sits on the bench at my side. Eamonn moves to stand behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. My hands tremble, but I don’t miss a note--I know this song too well for Eamonn’s closeness to throw me.

“Gorgeous,” he whispers when the song is done.

“I love that one,” Bree says, and we smile at each other.

Maura says, “Can I get some water?”

“Sure,” I sigh, but Bree gets up from the bench before I can fetch her a drink.

“I’ll show her the kitchen. I want a drink, too.”

Both girls leave the room. Eamonn sits on the bench beside me and punches my bicep playfully. "She's missing a party to be with me. She fancies me, Sheeny!"

"Every girl fancies you," I point out, "even the ones who normally don't like boys."

"You think so?" He chuckles, and then his face sobers. "Hey." He nudges me with his elbow. "Where's Neil?"

"Neil decided to go home." I put my hands on the keyboard again to play Für Elise. "He--he fancies Bree."

Eamonn raises an eyebrow in surprise. "Really? How do you know that?"

"He told me."

"I hadn't noticed," Eamonn says. "I mean, I love her too--in a purely friendly sort of way," he hurries to assure me, "but he's never acted like he fancies her."

"Because she's going out with me," I reply. His words give me pause, though. I love Bree--but is it purely in a friendly way? Sometimes I think so. Sometimes ... I don't know. What's the difference between friendly love and lover love?

"And you write all your songs about her," Eamonn says. "Don't you?"

I go on playing Für Elise. It's at the intense part now.

Eamonn prods, "Don't you, Sheeny?"

"I," I begin, but then the girls return to the music room, each carrying glasses of water. Maura gives her glass to Eamonn. “Share with me.”

“Thanks, darlin’,” he says and drinks, holding her gaze. Maura blushes and sits beside him again.

"What were you boys talking about in our absence?" Bree joins me on the piano bench and starts massaging the back of my head.

"Beethoven," I say.

She tugs at my hair. "Cheeky."

"Just gabbing, love."

Bree holds out her glass to me. "Drink."

"Yes, ma'am." I take the glass and have a sip, then put the glass on top of the piano to finish my piece.

Bree leans her head on my shoulder. "Mm," she murmurs. "I love this one."

"Well..." Eamon drawls. He stretches out his arms and yawns. "I'm sleepy. Oisín, which room can we have?"

"Take the grey one."

"Good night, Sheeny. Good night, Bree." He holds his hand to Maura, and they pelt up the stairs, Maura giggling the entire way.

The house initially had a master suite on the ground floor, now the music room. Dad's bedroom is on the top floor, and the three guest bedrooms are on the first floor. Mine is in the turret.

Alone with Bree, I start playing a bit of nonsense that's been in my head lately. She listens for a few minutes. "Working on something new?" Her voice is soft.

"Yeah. Don't know what it is yet."

"It'll be something good. They always are."

I smile to myself. "You only hear the good ones."

"Ah," she says, "so that's what it's like to be a musical genius. Only show the product and not the work."

"Something like that." I'm hardly a genius, but I like that she thinks so.

Bree yawns and huddles closer to me. "Are you sleepy, little Bree?" I ask softly.

"Yes. I'm sleepy. Let's go to bed--unless the composing bug has you in its thrall."

"I'm not enthralled." I close the piano lid, and we both go upstairs.

My room is round and cozy, stuffed with instruments and books and places to lounge. My synthesizer is on my desk, with a typewriter shoved aside. I usually use a lap desk when writing, whether it is an assignment for school or a song. I have fairy lights strung about, too, which I turn on. I like gentle light.

My windows overlook the street, and I draw the shades for privacy. Bree has already cleared off the bed and started to undress, so I do the same.

We've had sex a few times since we started officially going out, but to be honest, it's my least favorite part of having a girlfriend. The first time we did it, I thought it would be a transcendent sort of thing, but instead, it was just ... Fine. It was fine. Her body doesn't drive me wild; I've never run to a bedroom with her. 

Sometimes, I wish I knew how to be more passionate about her. She's my girlfriend, the woman I'm supposed to be mad about, but instead, sleeping with her is like sleeping with my old teddy bear. Comfortable. We're comfortable.

I pull on a pair of pajama bottoms before getting into bed. Bree pauses, wearing only a T-shirt and knickers, and then sits on the bed. She leans over and kisses me sweetly.

I let her kiss me but then gently push her away. "I'm too tired for that tonight."

Bree looks at me, her mouth tightening. She stands up and paces the room, then turns to me. "You never want to fuck me!" she bursts out. "You're always too tired or too busy, or you're too fussy about where to go! Do you even want me, Oisín?"

"Of course I do," I protest.

She yanks off her T-shirt. She's braless, and she holds her breasts as if offering them to me. "Look at me. Look at me!"

"I am looking," and I am; it's hard not to when she's right in front of me, but I may as well be looking at a painting.

"Do you want these?" she demands. "Do you want my body?"

"Stop yelling," I say and rub my temples.

"Don't tell me what to do," she growls in response and picks up her T-shirt. "You can't even look at me. I'm sick of you, Oisín Costigan. You're not my boyfriend anymore." She tugs her T-shirt on and then her jeans. "If you ever were."

"Bree." I go to her and try to take her face in my hands to kiss her, but she turns her head away.

"Don't touch me."

I drop my hands. She pulls on her jumper and then her coat and grabs her boots. "Bree," I say, "you're my girl. I want you near me, I do, but it's not a good night for sex."

Bree stops and looks at me. "Say you love me."

It's like she's knocked the wind out of me. "I," I gasp.

She snorts and finishes tying her boots. "You can't even do that." She stands. "I'm not your girl. I'm my own person. I don't need you." She stalks out of the room.

I stand there, shocked, and then follow after her. She's already halfway down the stairs. "At least let me take you home."

Bree turns to me, her hands clenched. "I don't want to be around you."

That's when we both hear the sounds of moans and a creaking bed frame coming from the grey room. Maura is a noisy one.

Bree points to the grey room door. "That's what I want, Oisín. I want to feel like that. I loved you to bits, but you never did. Never."

"I still want you to be safe."

She glares at me, her arms folded over her chest.

"Wait here," I beg her. "Let me put some clothes on, and I'll drive you home."

"Fine," she says, clipped, and I run back to my room. I throw on jeans, boots, and a leather jacket, before running down the stairs again.

Bree is not on the stairs, lounge, or the garage where I keep my Vespa. I spy her waiting outside the gate, bathed in lamplight, and go to join her.

"Don't bother," she says before I can speak. "I called Neil. He's coming to get me."

"I'll wait with you."

"Don't bother," she repeats.

I try one more time. "What can I do to make this right?"

She looks at me, and I see tear tracks on her cheeks. Her eyeliner is smudged. "Are you gay?" she says without viciousness.

I blink and shake my head. "What?"

"Are you gay? Is that why you don't want to shag me?"

"I--no! I--" I shake my head again. "I just wanted something simple."

Bree chuckles dryly. "So I'm simple now. Lovely."

"That's not what I mean--"

"Stop. Just stop."

I stop, wrapping my arms around myself. I'm too bewildered to make sense, even to myself. My insides feel watery, and my head is spinning.

As Neil's van comes into view, Bree says, "I think you need to have a long, hard look at yourself, Oisín, before you break another girl's heart."

Neil's van pulls up in front of us, and he jumps out to open the door for her. "All right?" he asks Bree, looking at me as if to ask, What happened? I shrug--Damned if I know.

When the van's rear lights disappear from my sight, I take a deep breath, hold it, and then let it slowly out. It helps me calm down, though talking to Dad would be much better. More reason to be glad he'll be home tomorrow.

Back inside, I start to head upstairs but detour instead to the kitchen. Tea sounds like a good idea right now.

The light is already on. I find Eamonn in jeans and bare feet, getting a glass out of the cupboard. "Maura's thirsty," he says sheepishly.

"Would she like some tea? I need some tea." I pick up the kettle and fill it with water.

"Tea sounds perfect." He studies me. "What happened?"

"Bree and I had a fight." I sound so calm it scares me. I put the kettle on the hob and turn on the heat. "She broke up with me."

Eamonn looks genuinely stricken. "I'm sorry, Sheeny. What did you fight about?"

It takes me a second or two to decide what to say. But it's Eamonn, and he knows me better than anyone but Dad. "She thinks I'm gay."

Eamonn takes that in as several expressions cross his face. Finally, he says, "That would explain a lot."

"Eamonn!"

"Mate, you've never really been into girls."

"Of course not. I had Bree."

"Bree's been your excuse for years." He pauses, then puts his hands on my shoulders. "Sheeny, you know I love you, no matter if you like the lasses or the lads or nobody at all."

"Thanks," I murmur and manage to smile. We gaze at each other, and then--I can't explain it--I hold his face, and I kiss him.

Eamonn inhales but doesn't pull away. His hands slide up my neck. I've kissed Bree before, many times, but not like this--not with my heart pounding in my chest and my breath catching in my lungs.

The teakettle starts to whistle, and we break apart, both breathless. I turn to the stove to take the kettle off the heat.

Eamonn says, "Maybe you do like lads."

"Maybe I do." My face feels hot. I concentrate on pouring the water and adding the tea leaves to the strainer.

"But, Sheeny," Eamonn persists, "I don't." He looks distressed. "I mean, nothing's impossible, but..." He trails off.

"It's okay, Eamonn," I say and get mugs from the cupboard. "I love you, too, but I don't think I love you like that."

We smile at each other ruefully. He says, "Do you think Maura takes sugar in her tea?"

"Let's say yes," I said.

With Eamonn gone back to Maura with their tea, I take my mug upstairs. I take off my jacket and boots, change into pajama pants and a T-shirt, and then tuck myself into the window seat with my tea.

The city is dark, moon-lit, and Stoneybatter is quiet. If I stay up all night, I'll see someone exercising before dawn, but it's too early even for that.

I don't know what to feel, or think, or do. I'm sad about Bree, but more that our friendship might be over than because she doesn't want to be my girlfriend anymore. That's actually a bit of a relief. I'm not even jealous that she might get together with Neil. He's a good lad and will treat her right.

But I might lose my friends. I might lose my band.

And, feck, I kissed Eamonn. My body reacted to him in a way it never did to Bree. I have to take a deep breath at the memory--the warmth of his lips, the weight of his hands, the softness of his tongue tangling with mine.

I don't know if I want to kiss him like that again, but I want to kiss somebody that way.

I drink the last of my tea, close the shades, turn off my lights, and crawl back into bed. I pull my blankets over me until I'm cozy as a cocoon. Maybe I can snatch a few hours of sleep before sunrise.

And then I've got to get the house ready for guests. Dominic and J.J. From the Coronado Quartet will be staying with us, in addition to William Tracy.

The last time I saw William Tracy on the telly, he was an angelic-looking boy with coppery curls and sad eyes, hardly taller than his cello. That was a year or so ago. I've never met him in person, though Cynthia adores him and has told me for years that she thinks we'd like each other. Dad refused to invite the Tracys to stay with us, for reasons I believe mostly involve the Tracy parents rather than William.

I suppose I can keep a kid amused, especially a musical kid. The music room alone would be like a toy store to him. I'll bring him to see my band, if I still have a band.

I sigh and turn over, hoping to find a comfortable position that will put me to sleep. I'll deal with Bree and everything else later. Tomorrow, I'm in charge of William Tracy.

Episode 2 | A Prima Vista Home | Episode 4

Continuo: a prima vista © 2025 by Gaenor Gray is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0