Cecelia Ahern 2-book Bundle

by Cecelia Ahern

  We both study the small well-worn ribbon of trampled grass across the garden leading to the path.

  ‘Desire lines,’ I repeat, seeing myself as a little girl, as a teenager, a grown woman, cutting across that patch, each time. ‘I suppose desire isn’t linear. There is no straightforward way of going where you want.’

  ‘Do you know what you’re going to do now?’ he asks as the taxi arrives.

  I smile and kiss him on his forehead. ‘I do.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  I step out of the taxi at Stephen’s Green and immediately see the crowds flowing towards the Gaiety Theatre, all dressed in their finest for the National Irish Opera’s production. I have never been to an opera before, have only ever seen one on television, and my heart, tired of a body that can’t keep up with it, is pounding to get out of my body and run into the building itself. I’m filled with nerves, with anticipation, and with the greatest hope I have ever felt in my life, that the final part of my plan will come together. I’m terrified that Justin will be angry that it’s me, though why he would be, I’ve run through a hundred thousand times in my head and can’t seem to come to any rational conclusion.

  I stand halfway between the Shelbourne Hotel and the Gaiety Theatre, no less than three hundred yards between them. I look from one to the other, close my eyes and don’t care how stupid I look in the middle of the road as people pass by me on this Saturday night. I wait to feel the pull. Which way to go. Right to the Shelbourne. Left to the Gaiety. My heart drums in my chest.

  I turn to the left and stride confidently toward the theatre. Inside the bustling entrance foyer, I purchase a programme and make my way to my seat. No time for pre-performance drinks; if he shows up early and sees I’m not here I would never forgive myself. Front-row tickets – I could not believe my luck but I had called the very moment the tickets had gone on sale to secure these precious seats.

  I take my seat in the red velvet chairs, my red dress falling down either side of me, my purse on my lap, Kate’s shoes glistening on the floor before me. The orchestra are directly in front of me, tuning and rehearsing, dressed in black in their underworld of fabulous sounds.

  The atmosphere is magical, the balconies drip from the side. Thousands of people buzzing with excitement, orchestra fine-tuning and striving for perfection, lots of bodies moving around, balconies like honeycombs, the air rich with perfumes and aftershaves, pure honey.

  I look to my right at the empty chair and shiver with excitement.

  An announcement explains that the performance will begin in five minutes, that those who are late will be forbidden entry until a break, but are able to stay outside and watch the performance on the screens until the ushers tell them it is an appropriate time to enter.

  Hurry, Justin, hurry, I plead, my legs bouncing beneath me with nerves.

  Justin speed-walks from his hotel and up Kildare Street. He is just out of the shower but already his skin feels moist, his shirt sticks to his back, his forehead glistens with sweat. He stops walking at the top of the road. The Shelbourne Hotel is directly beside him, the Gaiety Theatre two hundred yards to his right.

  He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths. Breathes in the fresh October air of Dublin city.

  Which way to go. Which way to go.

  * * *

  The performance has begun and I cannot take my eyes off the door to my right-hand side. Beside me is an empty seat whose very presence sends a lump to my throat. While onstage a woman sings with such emotion, much to my neighbours’ annoyance beside and behind me, I can’t help but turn my head to face the door. Despite the announcement, a few people have been permitted entry and have moved quickly to their seats. If Justin does not come now, he may not be able to be seated until after the interval. I empathise with the woman singing before me, for the mere fact that, after all this time, a door and an usher being the only things separating us, is an opera in itself.

  I turn round once more and my heart skips a beat as the door beside me opens.

  Justin pulls on the door and as soon as he enters the room, all heads turn to stare at him. He looks around quickly for Joyce, his heart in his mouth, his fingers clammy and trembling.

  The maître d’ approaches. ‘Welcome, sir. How can I help you?’

  ‘Good evening. I’ve booked a table for two, under Hitchcock.’ He looks around nervously, takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs at his forehead nervously. ‘Is she here yet?’

  ‘No, sir, you are the first to arrive. Would you like me to show you to your table or would you rather have a drink before?’

  ‘The table please.’ If she arrives and sees he isn’t at the table, he will never forgive himself.

  He is led to a table for two in the centre of the dining room.

  He sits in the chair that has been held out for him and immediately servers flow to his table, pouring water, laying his serviette on his lap, bringing bread rolls.

  ‘Sir, would you like to see the menu or would you like to wait for the other party to arrive?’

  ‘I’ll wait, thank you.’ He watches the door and takes this moment of being alone to calm himself.

  It has been over an hour. There have been a few moments when people have entered and been shown their seats but none of those people have been Justin. The chair beside me remains empty and cold. The woman next to it, glances occasionally at it and at me who is twisted round, eye obsessively and possessively on the door, and she smiles politely, sympathetically. It brings tears to my eyes, a feeling of utter loneliness, in a room full of people, full of sound, full of song, I feel utterly alone. The interval begins, the curtain lowers, the house lights are raised and everybody stands up and exits to the bar, outside for cigarettes or to stretch their legs.

  I sit and I wait.

  The more lonely I feel, the more hope that springs in my heart. He may still come. He may still feel this is as important to him as it is to me. Dinner with a woman he’s met once or an evening with a person whose life he helped save, a person who has done exactly what he wished and thanked him in all the ways he asked.

  Perhaps it wasn’t enough.

  ‘Would you like to see the menu now, sir?’

  ‘Em,’ he looks at the clock. She’s a half-hour late and his heart sinks but he remains hopeful. ‘She’s just running a little late, you see,’ he explains.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘I’ll have a look at the wine menu, please.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  The woman’s lover is ripped from her arms and she pleads for him to be let go. She wails and howls and hollers in song, and beside me the woman sniffles. My eyes fill too, remembering Dad’s face of pride when he saw me in my dress.

  ‘Go get him,’ he said.

  Well, I didn’t. I’ve lost another one. I’ve been stood up by a man who’d rather have dinner with me. As nonsensical as it should be, it is crystal clear to me. I wanted him to be here. I wanted the connection I felt, that he caused, to be the thing that brought us together, not a chance meeting in a department store, a few hours before. It seems so fickle for him to choose me over something far more important.

  Perhaps I am viewing this the wrong way, though. Perhaps I should be happy he chose dinner with me. I look at my watch. Perhaps he is there right now, waiting for me. But what if I leave here and he arrives, missing me? No. I am best to stay put and not confuse matters.

  My mind battles on, as events do on stage.

  But if he is at the restaurant now, and I am here, then he is alone, has been alone for over an hour. Why then, wouldn’t he give up on a date with me and run a few hundred yards to seek out the mystery date? Unless he has come. Unless he took one look through the door, saw that it was me and refused to come in. I am so overwhelmed by the thoughts in my head I tune out of the act, too muddled, completely ambushed by the questions in my head.

  Before I know it, the opera is over. The seats are empty, the curtains are down on the stage, the lights are u
p. I walk out to the cold night air. The city is busy, filled with people enjoying their Saturday night out. My tears feel cold against my skin as the breeze hits them.

  Justin empties the last of his second bottle of wine into his glass and slams it back onto the table unintentionally. He has lost all co-ordination by now, he can barely read the time on his watch but he knows it’s gone past a reasonable hour for Joyce to show.

  He has been stood up.

  By the one woman he’s had any sort of interest in since his divorce. Not counting poor Sarah. He had never counted poor Sarah.

  I am a horrible person.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,’ the maître d’ says politely, ‘but we have received a phone call from your brother, Al?’

  Justin nods.

  ‘He wanted to pass on the message that he is still alive and that he hopes you are, em, well, that you’re enjoying your night.’

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘Yes, sir, he said you would understand, as it’s twelve o’clock. His birthday?’

  ‘Twelve?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m also sorry to tell you that we are closing for the evening. Would you like to settle your bill?’

  Justin looks up at him, bleary-eyed, and tries to nod again but feels his head loll to one side.

  ‘I’ve been stood up.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be. I deserve it. I stood up a person I don’t even know.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘But they have been so kind to me. So, so kind. They gave me muffins and coffee, a car and a driver, and I’ve been so horrible to him or her.’ He stops suddenly.

  It might be still open!

  ‘Here.’ He thrusts his credit card at him. ‘I might still have time.’

  I stroll around the quiet streets of the neighbourhood, wrapping my cardigan tighter around me. I told the taxi driver to let me out round the corner so that I could get some air and clear my head before I return home. I also want to be rid of my tears by the time Dad sees me, who I’m sure is currently sitting up in his armchair as he used to do when I was younger, alert and eager to find out what had happened, though he would pretend to be asleep as soon as he heard the key in the door.

  I walk by my old house, which I successfully managed to sell only days ago, not to the eager Linda and Joe, who found out it was my home and were afraid my bad luck was an omen for them and their unborn child, or more, that the stairs that caused my fall, would perhaps be too dangerous for Linda during her pregnancy. Nobody takes responsibility for their actions, I notice. It wasn’t the stairs, it was me. I was rushing. It was my fault. Simple as that. Something I’m going to have to dig deep to forgive, as it shall never be forgotten.

  Perhaps I’ve been rushing through my whole entire life, jumping into things head first without thinking them through. Running through the days without noticing the minutes. Not that the times when I slowed down and planned ever gave any more positive results. Mum and Dad had planned everything for their entire lives: summer holidays, a child, their savings, nights out. Everything was done by the book. Her premature departure from life was the one thing they had never bargained on. A blip that knocked everything off course.

  Conor and I had teed-off straight for the trees and had bogeyed, big time.

  The money for the house is to be halved and shared between Conor and me. I will have to start hunting for something smaller, something cheaper. I have no idea what he will do – an odd realisation.

  I stop outside our old home and stare up at the red bricks, at the door we argued about what colour to paint, about the flowers we’d thought deeply about before planting. Not mine any more, but the memories are; the memories can’t be sold. The building that housed my once-upon-a-time dreams stands for someone else now, as it did for the people before us, and I feel happy to let it go. Happy that was another time and that I can begin again, anew, though bearing the scars of before. They represent wounds that have healed.

  It’s midnight when I return to Dad’s house and behind the windows is blackness. There isn’t a single light on, which is unusual, as he usually leaves the porch light on, particularly if I’m out.

  I open my bag to get my keys and bump against my mobile phone. It lights up to show I have missed ten calls, eight of which are from the house. I had it on silent at the opera and, knowing that Justin didn’t have my number, I didn’t think to look at it. I scramble for my keys, my hands trembling as I try to fit the key into the lock. They fall to the ground, the noise echoing in the silent dark street. I lower myself to my knees, not caring about my new dress, and shuffle around the concrete, feeling for the metal in the darkness. Finally, my fingers touch upon them and I’m through the door like a rocket, turning on all the lights.

  ‘Dad?’ I call in the hallway. Mum’s photograph is on the floor, underneath the table. I pick it up and place it back where it belongs, trying to stay calm, but my heart is having its own idea.

  No answer.

  I walk to the kitchen and flick the switch. A full cup of tea sits on the kitchen table. A slice of toast with jam, with one bite taken from it.

  ‘Dad?’ I say more loudly now, walking into the living room and turning on the light.

  His pills have all been spilled on the floor, all the containers opened and emptied, all the colours mixed.

  I panic now, running back through the kitchen, through the hall, and run upstairs, turning on all the lights as I yell at the top of my lungs.

  ‘DAD! DAD! WHERE ARE YOU? DAD, IT’S ME, JOYCE! DAD!’ Tears are flowing now; I can barely speak. He is not in his bedroom, or the bathroom, not in my room or anywhere else. I pause on the landing, trying to listen in the silence to hear if he’s calling. All I can hear is the drumbeat of my heart in my ears, in my throat.

  ‘DAD!’ I yell, my chest heaving, the lump in my throat threatening to seize my breath. I’ve nowhere else to look. I start pulling open wardrobes, searching under his bed. I grab a pillow from his bed and breathe in, holding it close to me and instantly soaking it with tears. I look out the back window and into the garden: no sign of him.

  My knees too weak to stand, my head too clouded to think, I sink onto the top stair on the landing and try to figure out where he could be.

  Then I think of the spilled pills on the floor and I yell the loudest I have ever shouted in my life. ‘DAAAAAAD!’

  Silence greets me and I have never felt so alone. More alone than at the opera, more alone than in an unhappy marriage, more alone than when Mum died. Completely and utterly alone, the last person I have in my life, taken away from me.

  Then.

  ‘Joyce?’ A voice calls from the front door, which I’ve left open. ‘Joyce, it’s me, Fran.’ She stands there in her dressing gown and slippers, her eldest son standing behind her with a flashlight in his hand.

  ‘Dad is gone.’ My voice trembles.

  ‘He’s in the hospital, I was trying to call y—’

  ‘What? Why?’ I stand up and rush down the stairs.

  ‘He thought he was having another heart—’

  ‘I have to go. I have to go to him.’ I rush around searching for my car keys. ‘Which one is he in?’

  ‘Joyce, relax, love, relax.’ Fran’s arms are around me. ‘I’ll drive you.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  I run down the corridors, examining each door, trying to find the correct room. I panic, my tears blinding my vision. A nurse stops me and helps me, tries to calm me. Knows instantly who I’m talking about. I shouldn’t be allowed in at this time but she can tell I’m distraught, wants to calm me by showing me he’s all right. She allows me a few minutes.

  I follow her down a series of corridors and finally she leads me into his room. I see Dad lying in bed, tubes attached to his wrists and nose, his skin deathly pale, his body so small under the blankets in the bed.

  ‘Was that you making all that fuss out there?’ he asks, his voice sounding weak.

  ‘Dad.’ I tr
y to remain calm but my voice comes out muffled.

  ‘It’s OK, love. I just got a shock, is all. Thought my heart was acting up again, went to take my pills but then I got dizzy and they all fell. Something to do with sugar, they tell me.’

  ‘Diabetes, Henry,’ the nurse smiles. ‘The doctor will be around to explain it all to you in the morning.’

  I sniffle, trying to remain calm.

  ‘Ah, come here, you silly sod.’ He lifts his arms towards me.

  I rush to him and hug him tight, his body feeling frail but protective.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere on you now. Hush, now.’ He runs his hands through my hair and pats my back comfortingly. ‘I hope I didn’t ruin your night, now. I told Fran not to bother you.’

  ‘Of course you should have called me,’ I say into his shoulder. ‘I got such a fright when you weren’t home.’

  ‘Well, I’m fine. You’ll have to help me, though, with all this stuff,’ he whispers. ‘I told the doctor I understand but I don’t really,’ he says, a little worried. ‘He’s a real snooty type.’ He ruffles up his nose.

  ‘Of course I will.’ I wipe my eyes and try to compose myself.

  ‘So, how did it go?’ he asks, perking up. ‘Tell me all the good news.’

  ‘He, em,’ I purse my lips, ‘he didn’t show up.’ My tears start again.

  Dad is quiet; sad then angry, then sad again. He hugs me again, tighter this time.

  ‘Ah, love,’ he says gently. ‘He’s a bloody fool.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Justin finishes explaining the story of his disastrous weekend to Bea, who is sitting on the couch, her mouth open in shock.

  ‘I can’t believe I missed all this. I’m so bummed!’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t have missed it if you’d been talking to me,’ Justin teases.

  ‘Thank you for apologising to Peter. I appreciate it. He appreciates it.’

  ‘I was acting like an idiot; just didn’t want to admit my little girl was all grown up.’