Cecelia Ahern 2-book Bundle

by Cecelia Ahern

  I take in the sight of his face, his curly hair covered by a woolly hat, his small nervous smile. He studies me back and I shiver, but not from the cold. I don’t feel it now. The world has been heated up entirely for me. How kind. I thank beyond the clouds.

  Frown lines appear on his forehead as he looks at me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. You just remind me so much of somebody right now. It’s not important.’ He clears his throat, smiles, trying to pick up where he left off.

  ‘Eloise Parker,’ I guess, and his grin fades.

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’

  ‘She was your next-door neighbour who you had a crush on for years. When you were five years old you decided to do something about it and so you picked flowers from your front yard and brought them to her house. She opened the door before you got up the path and stepped outside wearing a blue coat and a black scarf,’ I say, pulling my blue coat around me tighter.

  ‘Then what?’ he asks, shocked.

  ‘Then nothing.’ I shrug. ‘You dropped them on the ground and chickened out.’

  He shakes his head softly and smiles. ‘How on earth … ?’

  I shrug.

  ‘What else do you know about Eloise Parker?’ He narrows his eyes.

  I smile and look away. ‘You lost your virginity to her when you were sixteen, in her bedroom when her mom and dad were away on a cruise.’

  He rolls his eyes and lowers the bouquet so that it faces the ground. ‘Now you see, that is not fair. You are not allowed to know stuff like that about me.’

  I laugh.

  ‘You were christened Joyce Bridget Conway but you tell everyone your middle name is Angeline,’ he retaliates.

  My mouth falls open.

  ‘You had a dog called Bunny when you were a kid.’ He lifts an eyebrow, cockily.

  I narrow my eyes.

  ‘You got drunk on poteen when you were,’ he closes his eyes and thinks hard, ‘fifteen. With your friends Kate and Frankie.’

  He takes a step closer to me with each piece of knowledge and that smell, the smell of him I’ve dreamed to be near gets closer and closer.

  ‘Your first French kiss was with Jason Hardy when you were ten, who everyone used to call Jason Hard-On.’

  I laugh.

  ‘You’re not the only one who’s allowed to know stuff.’ He takes a step closer and can’t move any nearer now. His shoes, the fabric of his thick coat, every part of him touches me.

  My heart takes out a trampoline and enrols in a marathon session of leaping. I hope Justin doesn’t hear it whooping with joy.

  ‘Who told you all of that?’ My words touch his face in a breath of cold smoke.

  ‘Getting me here was a big operation,’ he smiles. ‘Big. Your friends had me run through a series of tests to prove I was sorry enough to be deemed worthy of coming here.’

  I laugh, shocked Frankie and Kate could finally agree on something, never mind keeping anything of this magnitude a secret.

  Silence. We are so close, if I look up at him my nose will touch his chin. I keep looking down.

  ‘You’re still afraid to sleep in the dark,’ he whispers, taking my chin in his hand and lifting it so that I can look nowhere else but at him. ‘Unless somebody’s with you,’ he adds with a small smile.

  ‘You cheated on your first college paper,’ I whisper.

  ‘You used to hate art.’ He kisses my forehead.

  ‘You lie when you say you’re a fan of the Mona Lisa.’ I close my eyes.

  ‘You had an invisible friend named Horatio until you were five.’ He kisses my nose and I’m about to retaliate but his lips touch mine so softly, the words give up, fainting before they reach my voice box and sliding back to the memory bank where they came from.

  I am faintly aware of Fran exiting her house and saying something to me, of a car driving by with a beep, but everything is blurred in the distance as I get lost in the moment with Justin, as I create a new memory for him, for me.

  ‘Forgive me?’ he says as he pulls away.

  ‘I have no choice but to. It’s in my blood,’ I smile, and he laughs. I look down at the flowers in his hands, which have been crushed between us. ‘Are you going to drop these on the ground too and chicken out?’

  ‘Actually, they’re not for you.’ His cheeks redden even more. ‘They’re for somebody at the blood clinic who I really need to apologise to. I was hoping you would come with me, help explain the reason for my crazy behaviour, and maybe she could explain a few things to us in turn.’

  I look back to the house and see Dad spying at us from behind the curtain. I look to him questioningly. He gives me the thumbs-up and my eyes fill.

  ‘He was in on this too?’

  ‘He called me a worthless silly sod and an up-to-no-good fool.’ He makes a face and I laugh.

  I blow Dad a kiss as I begin slowly to walk away. I feel him watching me, and feel Mum’s eyes on me too, as I walk down the garden path, cut across the grass and follow the desire line I had created as a little girl, out onto the pavement leading away from the house I grew up in.

  Though this time, I’m not alone.

  Extract of One Hundred Names

  CECELIA AHERN

  CHAPTER ONE

  She was nicknamed The Graveyard. Any secret, any piece of confidential information, personal or otherwise, that went in never, ever came back out. You knew you were safe; you knew you would never be judged or, if you were it would be silently, so you’d never know. She was perfectly named with a birth name that meant consistency and fortitude, and she was appropriately nicknamed; she was solid, permanent and steady, stoic but oddly comforting. Which is why visiting her in this place was all the more agonising. And it was agonising, not just mentally challenging; Kitty felt a physical pain in her chest, more specifically in her heart, that began with the thought of having to go, grew with the reality of actually being there, and then worsened with the knowledge that it wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t a false alarm, this was life in its rawest form. A life that had been challenged, and would subsequently be lost, to death.

  Kitty made her way through the private hospital, taking the stairs when she could take elevators, making deliberate wrong turns, graciously allowing others to walk before her at every opportunity, particularly if they were patients moving at a snail’s pace with walking frames or wheeling intravenous lines on poles. She was aware of the stares, which were a result of the current crisis she was in, and the fact she had at times walked in circles around the ward. She was attentive to any bit of conversation that any random person wished to have with her, anything and everything that she could do to postpone arriving at Constance’s room. Eventually her delaying tactics could continue no longer as she reached a dead end: a semicircle with four doors. Three doors were open, the occupants of the rooms and their visitors visible from where Kitty stood, though she didn’t need to look inside. Without even seeing the numbers, she knew which room contained her friend and mentor. She was grateful to the closed door for the final delay she had been granted.

  She knocked lightly, not fully committing to it, wanting to make the effort to visit but truly hoping she wouldn’t be heard, so she could walk away, so she could always say she’d tried, so she could rest easily, guilt free. The tiny part of her that still clung to rationality knew that this wasn’t realistic, that it wasn’t right. Her heart was pounding, her shoes were squeaking on the floor as she moved from foot to foot, and she felt weak from the smell. She hated that hospital smell. A wave of nausea rushed through her and she breathed deeply and prayed for composure, for the supposed benefits of adulthood to finally kick in so she could get through this moment.

  While Kitty was in the process of looking at her feet and taking deep breaths, the door opened and she was faced, unprepared, with a nurse and a shockingly deteriorated Constance. She blinked once, twice, and knew on the third time that she ought to be pretending, that it would not help Constance to see her visitor’s true
reaction to her appearance. So she tried to think of something to say and words failed her. There was nothing funny, nothing mundane, nothing even nothing, that she could think of to say to the friend she’d known for ten years.

  ‘I’ve never seen her before in my life,’ Constance said, her French accent audible despite her living in Ireland for over thirty years. Surprisingly, her voice was still strong and solid, assured and unwavering, as she had always been. ‘Call security and have her removed from the premises immediately.’

  The nurse smiled, opened the door wider and then returned to Constance’s side.

  ‘I can come back,’ Kitty finally said. She turned away but found herself faced with more hospital paraphernalia and so turned again, searching for something normal, something ordinary and everyday that she could focus on that would fool her mind into thinking she wasn’t there in a hospital, with that smell, with her terminally ill friend.

  ‘I’m almost finished there. I’ll just take your temperature,’ the nurse said, placing a thermometer in Constance’s ear.

  ‘Come. Sit.’ Constance motioned to the chair beside her bed.

  Kitty couldn’t look her in the eye. She knew it was rude, but her eyes kept moving away as though pulled by magnetic force to things that weren’t sick and didn’t remind her of people that were sick, so she busied herself with the gifts in her arms.

  ‘I brought you flowers.’ She looked around for somewhere to put them.

  Constance hated flowers. She always left them to die in their vase whenever anybody attempted to bribe her, apologise to her or simply brighten her office. Despite knowing that, buying them had been a part of Kitty’s procrastination, particularly as there had been an enticing queue before her.

  ‘Oh dear,’ the nurse said. ‘Security should have told you that flowers aren’t allowed in the ward.’

  ‘Oh. Well, that’s not a problem, I’ll get rid of them.’ Kitty tried to hide her relief as she stood up to make her escape.

  ‘I’ll take them,’ the nurse said. ‘I’ll leave them at reception for you so you can take them home. No point in a beautiful bouquet like that going to waste.’

  ‘At least I brought cupcakes.’ Kitty took a box from her bag.

  The nurse and Constance looked at one another again.

  ‘You’re joking. No cupcakes either?’

  ‘The chef prefers patients to eat food which has come only from his kitchen.’

  Kitty handed the contraband to the nurse.

  ‘You can take them home too,’ she laughed, studying the thermometer. ‘You’re fine,’ she smiled at Constance. They shared a knowing look before she left, as if those two words meant something entirely different – they must have done – because she wasn’t fine. She was eaten away by cancer. Her hair had begun to grow back, but sprouted in uneven patterns around her head, her protruding chest bones were visible above the shapeless hospital gown and she had wires and tubes connected to both arms, which were thin and bruised from injections and tube insertions.

  ‘I’m glad I didn’t tell her about the cocaine in my bag,’ Kitty said just as the door closed behind the nurse, and they heard her laugh heartily from the corridor. ‘I know you hate flowers but I panicked. I was going to bring you gold nail varnish, incense and a mirror, because I thought it would be funny.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ Constance’s eyes were still a sparkling blue and if Kitty could concentrate on just them, so full of life, she could almost forget the emaciated frame. Almost, but not quite.

  ‘Because then I realised it wasn’t funny.’

  ‘I would have laughed.’

  ‘I’ll bring them next time.’

  ‘It won’t be so funny then. I’ve already heard the joke. My dear …’ She reached for Kitty and they clasped hands tightly on the bed. Kitty couldn’t look at Constance’s hands, they were so sore and thin. ‘It is so good to see you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

  ‘It took you a while.’

  ‘The traffic …’ Kitty began and then gave up joking. She was over a month late.

  There was a silence and Kitty realised it was a pause for her to explain why she hadn’t visited.

  ‘I hate hospitals.’

  ‘I know you do. Noscomephobia,’ said Constance.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Fear of hospitals.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was a word for it.’

  ‘There’s a word for everything. I haven’t been able to poop for two weeks; they call it anismus.’

  ‘I should do a story on that,’ Kitty said, her mind drifting.

  ‘You will not. My rectal inertia is between you, me, Bob and the nice woman I allow to look at my bottom.’

  ‘I meant a piece on phobia of hospitals. That would make a good story.’

  ‘Tell me why.’

  ‘Imagine I found somebody who is really sick and they can’t get treatment.’

  ‘So they medicate at home. Big deal.’

  ‘Or what about a woman in labour? She’s pacing up and down on the street outside but she just can’t bring herself to go through the doors of the hospital.’

  ‘So she has the baby in an ambulance or at home or on the street.’ Constance shrugged. ‘I once did a story on a woman who gave birth whilst in hiding in Kosovo. She was all by herself and it was her first child. They weren’t found until two weeks after, perfectly healthy and happy together. Women in Africa have their babies while working the fields, then they go straight back to work. Tribal women dance their babies out. The Western world goes about childbirth the wrong way around,’ she said, waving her hand dismissively in the air, despite having no children herself. ‘I wrote an article on that before.’

  ‘A doctor who can’t go to work …’ Kitty continued to push her idea.

  ‘That’s ridiculous. He should lose his licence.’

  Kitty laughed. ‘Thanks for your honesty, as usual.’ Then her smile faded and she concentrated on Constance’s hand wrapped around hers. ‘Or how about a selfish woman whose best friend is sick and she wouldn’t visit her?’

  ‘But you’re here now and I’m happy to see you.’

  Kitty swallowed. ‘You haven’t mentioned anything about it.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You know what.’

  ‘I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about it.’

  ‘I don’t really.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  They sat in silence.

  ‘I’m being torn apart in the newspapers, the radio, everywhere,’ Kitty said, bringing it up anyway.

  ‘I haven’t seen any papers.’

  Kitty ignored the pile of papers on the windowsill. ‘Everywhere I go, all week, everyone is looking at me, pointing, whispering as if I’m the scarlet woman.’

  ‘That is the price of being in the limelight. You are a TV star now.’

  ‘I’m not a TV star, I’m an idiot who made a fool of herself on TV. There’s a distinct difference.’

  Constance shrugged again as if it wasn’t a big deal.

  ‘You never wanted me to work on the show in the first place. Why don’t you just say “I told you so” and get it over with?’

  ‘They are not words that I use. They do nothing productive.’

  Kitty removed her hand from Constance’s and asked quietly, ‘Do I still have a job?’

  ‘Haven’t you spoken to Pete?’ She looked angry with her duty editor.

  ‘I have. But I need to hear it from you. It’s more important that I hear it from you.’

  ‘Etcetera’s stance on hiring you as a reporter has not changed,’ Constance said firmly.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kitty whispered.

  ‘I supported you doing Thirty Minutes because I know that you’re a good reporter and you have it in you to be a great reporter. We all make mistakes, some bigger than others, but none of us is perfect. We use these times to become better reporters and, more importantly, better people. When you came to be interviewed b
y me ten years ago do you remember the story you tried to sell to me?’

  Kitty laughed and cringed. ‘No,’ she lied.

  ‘Of course you do. Well, if you won’t say it, I will. I asked you if you were to write a story for me then and there about absolutely anything, what would it be?’

  ‘We really don’t have to go through this again. I was there, remember?’ Kitty blushed.

  ‘And you said,’ Constance continued as though Kitty had never spoken, ‘that you had heard of a caterpillar that could not turn into a butterfly …’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know.’

  ‘And you would like to examine how it would feel to be denied such a beautiful thing. You would like to know how it feels for the caterpillar to watch other caterpillars transform while all the time knowing he would never have that opportunity. Our interview was on the day of a US presidential election, and on the day a cruise liner sank with four thousand five hundred people aboard. Of the twelve interviewees I saw that day, you were the only person who did not mention anything about politics, about the ship, or about wanting to spend a day with Nelson Mandela, for that matter. What concerned you most was this poor little caterpillar.’

  Kitty smiled. ‘Yeah, well, I was just out of college. I think I still had too much weed in my system.’

  ‘No,’ Constance whispered, reaching out for Kitty’s hand again. ‘You were the only person who truly told me in that interview that you weren’t afraid to fly, that in fact you were afraid that you wouldn’t.’

  Kitty swallowed hard, close to tears. She certainly hadn’t fl own yet and was, she felt, further from it than ever.

  ‘Some people say that you shouldn’t operate from a place of fear,’ Constance went on, ‘but if there is no fear, how is there a challenge? Often that is when I’ve done my best work, because I have embraced the fear and challenged myself. I saw this young girl who was afraid she wouldn’t fly and I thought – a-ha – she is the girl for us. And that is what Etcetera is about. Sure, we cover politics but we cover the people behind the politics. We want them for their emotional journeys, not just so we can hear their policies but so we can hear the reason for their policies. What happened to make them believe in this, what happened to make them feel this way? Yes, we sometimes talk about diets, but not organic this and wholewheat that, but of why and who. We are all about people, about feeling, about emotions. We may sell fewer but we mean more, though that is merely my opinion, of course. Etcetera will continue to publish your stories, Kitty, as long as you are writing what is true to you and definitely not what somebody else is telling you will make a good story. Nobody can pretend to know what people want to read or hear or see. People rarely know it themselves; they only know it after the fact. That is what creating something original is all about. Finding the new, not rehashing the old and feeding a market.’ She raised her eyebrows.