Cecelia Ahern Untitled Novel 1. Cecelia Ahern
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house, she’s moving in with the sexy tree-man.’
The more Denise speaks, the more nervous I get. These are all things I worked hard to achieve. They cannot become undone.
Sharon is studying me, concerned. ‘How ill are they?’
‘Sharon,’ Denise elbows her. ‘Ill is ill.’
‘Ill is not ill. There’s ill and then there’s …’ she sticks her tongue out and closes her eyes.
‘Ugly?’ Denise finishes.
‘They aren’t all terminally ill,’ I admit, attempting a hopeful tone. ‘One guy, Paul, is in remission and Joy, has a life-long … deteriorating condition.’
‘Well, isn’t that a rosy picture,’ Sharon says, sarcastically. She doesn’t like it. She fixes me with one of her scary mummy faces that takes no nonsense. ‘Holly, you need to be prepared. You’d be helping these people because they’re sick and they’re dying. You’re going to have to say goodbye over and over again.’
‘But imagine, how beautiful it could be,’ Denise changes the tone, to our surprise. ‘When they write the letters. When they die knowing they achieved it. When their loved ones read their letters. Think ahead to that part. Remember how we felt, Sharon, when Holly would open an envelope on the first day of every month? We couldn’t wait to get to her. Holly, you received a gift from Gerry and you are in a position to pass it on. If you are able to, if you feel it’s good for you, you should do it; if you think it will set you back, then don’t and don’t feel guilty about it.’
Wise words but a straight yes or no would have been more helpful.
‘What does Gabriel think?’ Sharon asks.
‘I haven’t told him yet, but I already know what he’ll say. He’ll say no.’
‘No?’ Sharon says, huffily. ‘You’re not asking him for his permission.’
‘I know but … I don’t even think it’s a good idea.’
‘Well then, there’s your answer,’ Sharon says in a final tone.
So why am I still asking the question?
I tune out of the rest of their conversation, my mind racing back and forth as it chases the options, grasping for a decision. I feel as though I should, I know that I shouldn’t.
We part, back to our lives, back to our problems.
To weave and unravel, to unravel and weave.
It’s 2 a.m. and I pace the downstairs rooms of my house. There aren’t many. Living room to dining room to small U-shaped kitchen that only has enough standing room for two people, a toilet and shower room under the stairs. Which is ideal for me because it’s only me, and occasionally Gabriel. His house is nicer and we stay there more often. Mine and Gerry’s was a starter home; a new build in the suburbs of Dublin for us to begin the rest of our life together. Everything was shiny and new, clean, we were the first to use our shower, the kitchen, our bathroom. How excited we’d been to come from our rented flat to our own home with stairs for the first time.
I walk to the staircase and look up.
‘Holly!’ Gerry calls me.
He was standing where I’m standing now, at the foot of the stairs, hand on the banister.
‘Yes!’ I yell from upstairs.
‘Where are you?’
‘In the bathroom!’
‘Where? Upstairs?’
‘Gerry, our only bathroom is upstairs.’
‘Yes, but we have a toilet downstairs.’
I laugh, understanding. ‘Ah yes but I’m in the bathroom upstairs. Where are you? Are you downstairs?’
‘Yes! Yes, I’m here downstairs!’
‘OK great, I’ll see you in a minute when I come downstairs, from where I am upstairs!’
‘OK.’ Pause. ‘Be careful on the stairs. There’s a lot of them. Hold on to the banister!’
I smile at the memory, running my hand up and down the banister, touching all the places he touched, wanting to rub him on to me.
I haven’t done this late-night room wandering for years, not since the months after he passed, but now I feel the house is owed my attentive farewell. My mind is whirring with ideas. Bert’s quiz, Ginika’s letter, Joy’s trees and flowers notions; I didn’t ask Paul what he wants to do. They had more questions for me than I for them, about the dolphins, the holiday, the sunflowers. Sunflowers. My October letter from Gerry. A sunflower pressed between two cards and a pouch of seeds to brighten the dark October days you hate so much
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