She looked at him then for the first time. ‘I want to be able to remember him at any moment I so please. He’s all I’ve got.’
‘Mummy.’ The daughter’s face fell. ‘You have us.’
‘Oh don’t be silly, Lizzie, you all argue about whose turn it is to take me out for lunch and I know you’re not all arguing to take me out. No, he’s up there, the only place I have him,’ she said jabbing her finger against her temple roughly, against her tough old skin, as if stubbing out a cigar. ‘And I’m losing him.’
Lizzie cleared her throat. ‘I have a photograph of him.’
He took it. An imposing black-and-white photograph of an overweight man wearing a monocle, hands clasped on his lap, staring coldly into the camera. Behind him on the wall was the head of a stag.
‘That’s our hunting lodge,’ she said rather proudly.
‘No, no, no.’ Mrs de Lacey waved the photograph away as though it were a wasp. ‘That’s not him.’
‘Mummy, that was taken right after he became president of the cricket club, I know so because look, his lapel—’
‘I don’t want to remember a damn cricket-club or hunting-lodge photograph,’ she snapped, and once again her daughter appeared shocked, wounded even. ‘I want to remember him as he was in the morning, first thing when I opened my eyes. I want to see him as we made love.’ She closed her eyes then, savouring a moment.
‘Mummy,’ her daughter said, shocked, but she’d softened, as though all of a sudden seeing her mother as a woman.
‘When he first held Ellis when he was born, playing with the children in the garden. The way his nostrils twitched when he was angry.’ She laughed then. ‘I know all these things about him, but when I close my eyes I can’t see them any more.’
He placed the pads on her temples and forehead, he attached the wires to the machine. He switched it on.
‘So paint me the picture and that’s what you’ll see.’
He runs his fingers through her hair, it’s loosely curled and his fingers fall straight through it, it is so soft, like velvet. He hears his name being called. A colleague to his right-hand side coming toward him. He greets him.
She tells him she’ll see him later. He is a little distracted but he agrees. He quickly brushes his lips against the skin on her fingers. Her skin is warm and soft. She takes her hand away quickly so as not to embarrass him in the company of his colleague, and she moves away. He turns to greet his colleague. They begin to discuss a case that has been boggling the offices for a great many months. He hears her call goodbye again but he is caught in conversation, she will understand, he will see her later. He hears a sound. A God-awful sound. A sound he will never forget. Never forget. His colleague grabs his arm so tightly, he feels nails on his skin through his summer suit. And he knows but he cannot look. He does not want to have to remember that sight for the rest of his life, for he knows he will see it everyday. In waking hours and in sleep. Every single day.
When Judith arrived at his home the following morning her brown hair was covering her face. Her eyes were cast down, wouldn’t meet his gaze. With her chin down she pushed passed him in the hallway and made her way to the kitchen. She stalled when she reached the door and saw the table. He had prepared breakfast for the first time. A feast of sausages, eggs, tomato, pudding - black and white - mushrooms of all different sizes. A rack of toast sat in the middle of the table with every condiment imaginable. He quite literally did not want her to have to ask for anything.
She swayed a little and he rushed forward to catch her but her small pink hand appeared from her oversized coat sleeve and she held on to the door frame. That’s when she turned and he saw. Her eye. Her left eye was bruised, the flesh around it had swollen up so much you would barely know an eye was buried beneath. Her skin had the appearance of a rotten peach. She saw his face, the look in his eye and she turned around again quickly. Anger surged through him. Never had so much anger rushed through his blood since Judith. His Judith. And now this Judith. His Judith, he realised. His grip tightened around his cane, his knuckles turned white.
He wanted to say so many things - shout, demand to know who did this to her. So many questions and feelings he had inside he had to take a minute to process which one he should say first. The wrong thing and he knew she’d be gone. She was so fragile, her presence so precious but like a feather, a light wind and he knew she’d be taken away from him so easily. He managed to calm himself a little. The red-faced anger had left him and now he felt the tremble in his body, the after-shock. He cleared his throat to speak but she stopped him. Her pink hand jerked suddenly into the air to halt him as a traffic warden would. The sleeve fell further down in the motion and he saw the markings on her wrist. Yellow-tinted black bruises all the way up her arm.
‘Don’t,’ she said, and her voice was firmer than he’d ever heard.
He didn’t.
He knew he would not.
He would not risk losing her.
‘Don’t ask,’ she said, ‘and I won’t ask why you’ve done this, this morning.’
He was suddenly embarrassed but understood. He nodded, knowing with her back turned she couldn’t see him but her comment was not a question and she expected no answer.
They sat at the table, his jubilant mood from that morning murdered, and they ate in silence. She didn’t eat much. Neither did he.
His first client of the day arrived. An eighteen-year-old whose father, he said, despised him. He wanted memories of spending time with his father so that when he looked at him he wouldn’t feel so sad about what he was missing and what he had missed. His father in the stand at his football match, his father cheering when he’d scored the winning goal. His father smiling when he made a joke. No new conversations, nothing dramatic and exotic. Just memories with his father just being there. Present and attentive.
He was afraid she wouldn’t come back the next day but she did. As usual she was dressed in a day dress but this had long sleeves and a high neck with back buttons to hide what he had seen before. But it was too late. He would see it for ever. Whenever he closed his eyes. The flesh around the eye had coloured more. And for weeks it went back to being as it was before, only it wasn’t like it was before. It was polluted, their fresh perfect existence together polluted, until late one night she arrived doubled over and coughing on his doorstep, so much blood he couldn’t see where it was coming from. She wouldn’t let him call the police or bring her to the hospital. She wouldn’t even let him clean her up. She wanted to do it herself, she just needed a place. She locked herself in the bathroom and was in there for an hour, the sound of running water and occasional splashing the only thing to let him know she was still alive.
She opened the door, dressed in his shirt, looking like a small child in the oversized striped top. She slept in his bed, he slept - or didn’t - on the couch. They never spoke of it, though he had to fight with himself not to. A few days later she came to him.
‘Can we talk?’
‘Of course. I have an appointment now. Would you like to wait in the kitchen?’
‘I am your appointment.’ She sat before him in the armchair.
He suddenly froze.
‘I’m not going to tell you anything,’ she said.
He nodded just once, not trusting himself to speak just then.
‘I know you’re not a psychiatrist. I know that you hate people telling you things.’
‘You’re different.’
She smiled sadly. ‘So here is my memory. The one that I want. The day I arrived here.’
He knew which day she meant.
‘You open the door, you’re happier than I’ve ever seen you. I’m intrigued but I smile. Your smile is so big it’s contagious. You’re happy to see me smile. Good morning, Judith, you say. My name is Mary, I tell you.’
She was looking at him intently, her eyes shining with tears.
Mary, he thought, what a beautiful name.
‘Mary, you say, that’s a beautiful nam
e. Thank you I say. Then you bring me down the hall, you take my coat, always the perfect gentleman, and you show me the kitchen. As soon as you have opened the door the smell hits me. It’s the most beautiful table of food I’ve ever seen. It’s the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.
‘And I turn around to face you and I thank you. And I tell you that there is the most beautiful smell, the most beautiful spread, the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.
‘And you are so happy.
‘We sit down and I eat everything. I eat everything because it tastes so good and I want you to know that I appreciate how long it must have taken you to cook it. And I tell you it’s the tastiest food I’ve ever eaten.
‘And you’re so happy.
‘Then you read the newspaper and we talk about the news stories. I ask you to explain, not because I want to know but because I want to hear your voice. Because I love the sound of your voice. Because it’s the most solid and safe thing I’ve ever heard in my life. The most solid thing in my whole life.’
His eyes well up.
‘And I tell you that and you almost cry. And then I ask you about the machine, about how you did it. But I don’t ask why, even though I’ve always wanted to know why. I can guess. I’ve heard the stories of what happened, but I don’t believe them all. But I don’t ask you why because now I understand. I already know why. Because I know how a moment can pass - how you’ve really wanted to say something to someone or do something, but something happens and you don’t, and you almost want to explode afterwards because you didn’t do it. And I know you get annoyed when people come in here and try to make stupid memories like becoming sporting heroes and play around on their wives with prettier women. Because that’s not what it’s about. It’s about fixing a moment back to the way it should have been, had you not got distracted, or if you weren’t such a coward or if you had known that that lost moment was the only moment you had to say or do what you wanted.
‘But I don’t say that to you then, because you know that I know. We talk about the appointments. We have a cheese sandwich. Before I go, I thank you for everything you’ve done for me. And I give you a hug. And it’s the warmest, softest - safest - hug I’ve ever had and I know that you’ll protect me through everything.’
He nods.
‘And then I go home. Happy. And you watch me leave. Happy. And we both know that we’re going to be okay.’
She stopped then, tears streaming down both their faces. She removes the wires from her head, she stands, takes her bag and coat, and leaves. The front door clicks behind her. He watches her boots on the metal steps upstairs to the roadside. All he can hear is the hum of the machine. He never sees her again.
He puts the pads over his temples and forehead.
He runs his fingers through her hair, it’s loosely curled and his fingers fall straight through it, it is so soft, like velvet. He hears his name being called. A colleague to his right-hand side coming toward him. He greets him.
She tells him she’ll see him later. He is a little distracted but he agrees. He quickly brushes his lips against the skin on her fingers. Her skin is warm and soft. She takes her hand away quickly so as not to embarrass him in the company of his colleague, and she moves away. He turns to greet his colleague. They begin to discuss a case that has been boggling the offices for a great many months. He hears her call goodbye again but he is caught in conversation. He tells his colleague he is very sorry but he must say goodbye to her properly. His colleague is a little put out but he waits for him. He looks up and she turns around and their eyes meet, she smiles at him. He smiles back. One final confirmation of their love.
He hears a sound. A God-awful sound. A sound he will never forget. Never forget. His colleague grabs his arm so tightly, he feels nails on his skin through his summer suit. And he knows but he cannot look. He does not want to have to remember that sight for the rest of his life, for he knows he will see it everyday. In waking hours and in sleep. Every single day.
It is not the memory he needs to change, it was almost perfect. It was the most perfect day of his life up until that point. But Mary is right, it is what he regrets, what beats him up inside that makes him relive it over and over a thousand times a day. If he had just looked up when she called. They would have smiled, she would have seen his love one last time. The horse and carriage would always have hit her. The horse was frightened by something else. It bolted. He can’t change each thing that happened to each person around the square that day. He can’t bring her back to life in his mind, it would be pointless. But that last look, that’s what he wishes to change. It was the only error on both of their parts that day. The accident … that was somebody else’s error. Then it would all have been one hundred per cent perfect - until that point.
He turns the machine off. The humming stops. And there is nothing.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my family, Marianne Gunn O’Connor and the wonderful HarperCollins team, especially my editors Lynne Drew and Kate Burke.
About the Author
Before embarking on her writing career, Cecelia Ahern completed a degree in Journalism and Media Communications. At twenty-one years old, she wrote her first novel, PS I Love You which instantly became an international bestseller and was adapted into a major motion picture starring Hilary Swank. Her successive novels, Where Rainbows End, If You Could See Me Now, A Place Called Here, Thanks for the Memories, The Gift and The Book of Tomorrow were all number one bestsellers. Her books are published in forty-six countries and have collectively sold over ten million copies. Cecelia has also co-created the hit ABC Network comedy series Samantha Who? which stars Christina Applegate. In 2008 Cecelia won the award for the Best New Writer at the Glamour Women of the Year Awards. Cecelia lives in Dublin, Ireland.
To sign up for the exclusive Cecelia Ahern Harper-Collins newsletter and discover all about Cecelia’s books, as well as interviews, photographs and much more, log onto www.cecelia-ahern.com
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PS - don’t forget to read Cecelia’s other novels:
P.S. I Love You
Where Rainbows End
If You Could See Me Now
A Place Called Here
Thanks for the Memories
The Gift
The Book of Tomorrow
Copyright
Copyright (c) Cecelia Ahern 2011
Cecelia Ahern asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it arethe work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978 0 00 742503 7
EPub Edition (c) 2011 ISBN: 9780007425044
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