Cecelia Ahern Untitled Novel 1. Cecelia Ahern
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‘Easy on the gravy, Frank,’ Mum says, taking hold of the jug in Dad’s hands. Dad clings to it, intent on finishing his gravy annihilation of his roast dinner, and in the tug of war the gravy glugs from the spout and drips on the table. He looks pointedly at Mum, then wipes the thick drips from the linen with his finger and sucks it in protest.
‘There won’t be enough for everyone,’ Mum says, holding it out to Declan.
Declan catches the dribbles from the spout and licks his finger. Then goes for another swipe.
‘No double-dipping,’ Jack warns, stealing the jug from Mum’s hands.
‘I haven’t had any yet,’ Declan gripes, trying to steal it back, but Jack retains possession and pours it over his food.
‘Boys,’ Mum admonishes them. ‘Honestly, you’re behaving like children.’
Jack’s kids laugh.
‘Leave some for me,’ Declan watches Jack. ‘Do they not have gravy in London?’
‘They don’t have Mum’s gravy in London,’ Jack says, winking at Mum, before pouring a little on the kids’ plates, and then passing it to his wife, Abbey.
‘I don’t want gravy,’ one of the kids moans.
‘I’ll have it,’ Declan and Dad say in unison.
‘I’ll make more,’ Mum says with a sigh, and hurries back to the kitchen.
Everybody mills into their food as if they haven’t eaten for days: Dad, Declan, Mathew, Jack, Abbey and their two children. My older brother Richard is delayed at choir practice and Gabriel is spending the day with his teenage daughter Ava. As she has wanted very little to do with him most of her life, these visits are precious to him. All are preoccupied by their meal apart from Ciara, who watches me. She looks away when I catch her eye and reaches for the salad spoon in the centre of the table. Mum returns with two jugs. She places one in the centre and another beside Ciara. Jack pretends to reach for it, like a false start, and it makes Declan panic, jump and grab the jug.
Jack laughs.
‘Boys,’ Mum says, and they stop.
The kids giggle.
‘Sit down, Mum,’ I say gently.
She surveys the table, her hungry family all greedily tucking in, and finally sits beside me at the head of the table.
‘What’s this?’ Ciara says, looking into the jug.
‘Vegan gravy,’ Mum says proudly.
‘Ahh, Mum, you’re the best.’ Ciara pours, and a murky watery substance flows all over the base of her plate like soup. She looks up at me, uncertain.
‘Yum,’ I say.
‘I’m not sure if I made it correctly,’ Mum says apologetically. ‘Is it nice?’
Ciara takes a small taste. ‘Delicious.’
‘Liar,’ Mum says with a laugh. ‘Are you not hungry, Holly?’
My plate is practically empty and I haven’t even begun eating. Broccoli and tomatoes are all I could bear to look at on my plate.
‘I had a big breakfast,’ I say, ‘but this is fabulous, thank you.’
I sit forward and tuck in. Or try to. Mum’s food, vegan gravy aside, really is delicious and on as many Sundays as possible she tries to gather the troops for a family meal, which we all adore. But today, as has been the case for the past few weeks, my appetite is gone.
Ciara eyes my plate, then me, worriedly. She and Mum share a look and I immediately sense that Ciara has spilled the beans about the PS, I Love You Club. I roll my eyes at both of them.
‘I’m fine,’ I say defiantly, before stuffing an entire broccoli floret in my mouth as proof of my stability.
Jack looks up at me. ‘Why, what’s wrong?’
My mouth is stuffed. I can’t answer, but I roll my eyes and give him a frustrated look.
He turns to Mum. ‘What’s wrong with Holly? Why is she pretending she’s fine?’
I grumble through my food and try to chew quickly so I can end this conversation.
‘There’s nothing wrong with Holly,’ Mum says calmly.
Ciara pipes up in a fast-paced high-pitch volley: ‘A woman who died of cancer started a PS, I Love You Club before her death, made up of people who are terminally ill, and they want Holly to help them write letters to their loved ones.’ She seems immediately relieved to have gotten it out of her system and then afraid of what will happen next.
I swallow my broccoli and almost choke. ‘For fuck sake, Ciara!’
‘I’m sorry, I had to!’ Ciara says, holding her hands up defensively.
The kids laugh at my language.
‘Sorry,’ I say to their mum, Abbey. ‘Guys,’ I clear my throat. ‘I’m fine. Really. Let’s change the subject.’
Mathew looks at his tell-tale wife with disapproval. Ciara sinks lower.
‘Are you going to help these people write their letters?’ Declan asks.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say, slicing a tomato.
‘With who? With them or with us?’ Jack asks.
‘With anyone!’
‘So you’re not going to help them?’ Mum asks.
‘No!’
She nods. Her face is completely unreadable.
We eat in silence.
I hate that her face is unreadable.
Frustrated, I give in. ‘Why? Do you think I should?’
Everyone at the table, bar the kids and Abbey, who knows better than to get involved, answer at the same time and I can’t decipher anybody’s words.
‘I was asking Mum.’
‘You don’t care what I think?’ Dad asks.
‘Of course I do.’
He concentrates on his food, hurt.
‘I think …’ Mum says thoughtfully, ‘you should do what feels right for you. I never like to interfere, but as you’ve asked: if it has you this …’ she looks at my plate, then back at me ‘… upset, then it’s not a good idea.’
‘She said she ate a big breakfast,’ Mathew says in my defence, and I throw him a grateful look.
‘What did you eat?’ Ciara asks.
I roll my eyes. ‘A big dirty fry-up, Ciara. With pig’s meat and pig’s blood and eggs and all kinds of dirty animal products dripping in butter. Butter that came from a cow.’ I didn’t. I couldn’t stomach breakfast either.
She glares at me.
The kids laugh again.
‘Can I film it if you help them?’ Declan asks, his mouth full of food. ‘Could make a good documentary.’
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Declan,’ Mum says.
‘No. Because I’m not going to,’ I reply.
‘What does Gabriel think?’ Jack asks.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Because she hasn’t told him yet,’ Ciara says.
‘Holly,’ Mum admonishes me.
‘I don’t need to tell him about it if I’m not doing it,’ I protest, but I know I’m wrong. I should have discussed it with Gabriel. He’s