She picked up a copy of the autobiography and joined the queue for it to be signed. June never usually queued for anything … The shop was buzzing, and she felt pleased. Julius would be so proud of what Emilia had done. She’d rolled up her sleeves and got on with making the book shop work. She was there, behind the till, hands on, smiling and laughing with the customers he had built up over the years, but also the new ones who’d been drawn in by the lure of a legend. June hoped more than anything that things would fall into place and the shop would stay open.
It was her turn. Mick Gillespie looked up at her, his eyes as dazzling as they ever had been, his smile making you feel special … even though you weren’t. June knew that well enough. And as she smiled back and handed him her book open at the flyleaf for him to sign, there was no recognition. Not a flicker that he had any memory of her.
‘Who will I sign it to?’ he asked.
‘To June,’ she said, waiting for a moment, but there was no reaction. He wrote her name and signed his with a flourish before handing it back to her with another smile. He was so practised. She managed a smile back, although inside she felt fury. How could she still be furious? It was a lifetime ago.
She joined the till to pay.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Emilia. ‘There’s no way I’m going to make you pay after everything you’ve done for me.’
At the back of the shop, Mick Gillespie turned to Marlowe with a glint in his eye.
‘Do you know “Whiskey in the Jar”?’
‘Of course.’
‘Come on, then, boy. Let’s show them how it’s done.’
And he stood up and as Marlowe struck up the tune on his violin, Mick began to sing. And the delighted crowd gathered round and clapped their hands.
‘As I was goin’ over the far-famed Kerry mountains …’
June abruptly turned and left the shop. After all, she’d heard him sing that song herself, all those years ago in a tiny pub with a dirt floor and an equally appreciative audience.
June walked the short distance to her cottage. There, in the sky above, was a full moon, as if it had known about the evening and made a special appearance. She got home, slipped off her high-heeled boots and put on the slouchy cashmere bedsocks she used for padding over the flagstones. She threw some logs on the wood-burner, poured a glass of wine and sat with her legs curled up on the sofa in her living room.
She leafed through his book until she reached the section about The Silver Moon. It had been his turning point, and was an historic film, so there was a hefty chapter.
There was no mention of her. Not a word about the blonde-haired extra who’d played the barmaid and his affair with her. Not a hint of the passion he had professed to feel at the time. She was insignificant. The scenery was discussed at length, the genius writer, the visionary director – even Mrs Malone, the landlady of the cottage they’d stayed in during the shoot was given a namecheck. But as far as the rest of the world was concerned, she didn’t exist and had made no contribution.
She went upstairs. In her sparest spare bedroom she had stored a box in the wardrobe.
She pulled it out. Inside was his Aran sweater and the script from The Silver Moon. Beer mats from the pub they drank in. Shells and pressed flowers. She could smell the air if she breathed in deeply enough. She was there, in the drizzle, the scent of damp wool, the taste of his mouth, tinged with whiskey …
And the photographs. Faded and curling now, but here was her evidence. Irrefutable evidence. The two of them, arms around each other, laughing into the camera. You could see the chemistry between them, crackling and fizzing, evident even in yellowing black and white. She remembered the little old man with the donkey and cart looking at the camera in consternation but taking the pictures nonetheless. Not exactly David Bailey, but it had been a memory not a work of art.
And she remembered holding the camera at arm’s length, back to front, and the pair of them lying on their backs, smiling, as she took what would now be called a ‘selfie’, his dark hair tangled up in her platinum blonde.
They had been so beautiful, she thought. There was a purity to the photographs that you never got today. It was the real them, no filter, no fiddling and she’d worn no make-up, yet their beauty shone through nevertheless.
She laid everything out on the bed. It was all there, their story, in the few artefacts. All the proof she needed.
That had been another her. She’d stopped bleaching her hair, going back to her natural brown, and had put on some weight. No one would ever have known she was Juno.
She suddenly felt angry. He had ruined her for anyone else. She had loved her two husbands in a low-key way, and the divorces had been amicable rather than acrimonious. But she’d never felt the same way about anyone as she had Mick Gillespie.
There was a large brown envelope too, that she hadn’t opened yet. She lifted it: it was heavy with paper. She opened the flap and pulled out a manuscript: pages and pages typed onto cheap flimsy paper.
In 1967, Michael Gillespie ripped out my heart and dashed it onto the rocks at Coumeenoole Beach. To my amazement, I managed to live without it. And I’m here, living, breathing, and able to tell you the story of what happened when an innocent young girl fell in love with the world’s greatest star. It’s a fable, really. A warning.