How to Fall in Love

by Cecelia Ahern

  ‘They walked down the dark stairs into the basement. Flames of fire on the walls lit their way. Then before them, there they were – the coffins,’ she said spookily.

  One of the children let out a sob and ran to her mother. The mother gathered her belongings, threw the Dracula woman an angry glare and left the bookshop.

  ‘Amelia, are you sure that story is appropriate?’

  Amelia, who looked too comatose and blurry with tears to see past the end of her nose, seemed confused by the question. ‘Elaine? Yeah, she’s fine, I just hired her. Come on, let’s talk.’

  We left the bookshop and went upstairs to the apartment Amelia shared with her mother, Magda.

  ‘I don’t want my mother to know,’ she said quietly, closing the kitchen door. ‘She was convinced he was going to propose. I don’t know how to tell her.’ She started crying again.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He said he’s got a job in Berlin and he really wants to move there because it’s a great opportunity for him. He asked me to go with him, but he knows I can’t go. I can’t leave Mum, whatever about getting our own place. I definitely can’t leave the country. What about the shop?’

  I didn’t think it was an appropriate time to remind her that the shop had been haemorrhaging money for the past ten years, unable to compete with the big book chains selling coffee, let alone online stores and e-readers. It was all I could do to stop Amelia spitting at people whenever she saw them reading from a tablet. She had done her best, introducing children’s reading hours, author events and evening book clubs, but it was a losing battle. All for the sake of keeping her father’s memory alive. The bookshop had been his pride and joy, not hers. It was him she loved, not the business. I had tried to point this out on various occasions, but Amelia wouldn’t listen.

  ‘Is moving your mother to Berlin an option?’

  Amelia shook her head. ‘Mum hates travelling. You know what she’s like, she won’t leave the country. There’s no way she could live there!’ She looked at me, horrified that I’d even suggested it. I could understand Fred’s frustration. Amelia would never entertain the thought for a second.

  ‘Come on. It doesn’t mean it’s over. Long-distance relationships work. You did it when he was in Berlin for six months, remember? It was hard, but it’s do-able.’

  ‘You see, that’s the thing …’ She wiped her eyes. ‘He met someone when he was there. I didn’t tell you at the time, but we worked it out. I believed him when he said that it was over with her, but … Christine, he knows I’d never leave here. He knows that I’d never do that. The restaurant, the champagne, it was all a ridiculous charade to force me to be the one to end the relationship. He knew I’d say no, but at least this way he’s not the bad guy. If he hasn’t got back in touch with her already, he’s planning to, I know he is.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Have you ever not known something but known it at the same time?’

  Her words struck me hard; I knew exactly what she was talking about. I had used the very same expression when thinking about my own feelings about my marriage.

  ‘Oh God,’ Amelia said, exhausted. Her head flopped down on her arms, resting on the table. ‘What a day.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I whispered.

  ‘What time is it?’ Amelia looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘That’s unusual. Mum would usually have called for her dinner by now. I better check on her.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘Do I look like I’ve been crying?’

  Her eyes were red raw, matching her wild red hair.

  ‘You look fine,’ I lied. Her mother would know anyway.

  As soon as she left the room, I checked my phone for messages from Adam. I’d given him the keys to my apartment and hoped he would be okay, but there was nothing in the apartment to offer him distraction, no television, no books. This was not a good thing. I quickly dialled his number.

  ‘Christine! Call an ambulance!’ Amelia shrieked from the next room. By her tone, I knew not to ask any questions. I cleared Adam’s number and dialled 999.

  Amelia had found Magda on the floor beside her bed. As soon as the ambulance crew got there, they pronounced her dead. She had suffered a major stroke. Amelia was an only child with no dependants and no one else to turn to, so I stayed with her throughout the ordeal, lending a shoulder to cry on and helping her make arrangements.

  It was ten p.m. when I finally had the chance to look at my phone. I had six missed calls and a voicemail. It was from Clontarf garda station, asking me to call them about Adam Basil.

  10

  How to Make an Omelette Without Breaking Eggs

  ‘I’m here to see Adam Basil,’ I said, bursting into Clontarf garda station. All the way there, my already cluttered mind had been further overloaded with what-ifs and awful, terrifying thoughts of what he might have done to himself. I couldn’t even remember the journey.

  The garda stared back at me through the hatch. ‘Can I see some ID?’

  I passed it through. ‘Is he okay? Is he hurt?’

  ‘If he was hurt, he’d be in hospital.’

  ‘Of course, yes.’ I hadn’t thought of that and I relaxed. Then I tensed up again: ‘Is he in trouble?’

  ‘He’s cooling down,’ he said, exiting the office and disappearing from view.

  I waited for ten minutes and finally the door to the waiting area opened and Adam stepped into the room. He looked a mess. I knew from the expression on his face that I would have to tread carefully. His eyes were dark. His shirt was crumpled as if he’d slept in it, though I knew he hadn’t because his eyes were exhausted, and angry. If this was Adam after cooling down, I dreaded to think what he had been like a few hours before.

  ‘You know it’s not legal to lock me up for so long,’ he snarled at the garda. ‘I know my rights.’

  ‘I don’t want to see you back here again, do you hear me?’ the senior garda pointed a menacing finger at him.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked quietly.

  He glared at me, then stormed past and out the door.

  ‘We found him on a park bench, looking at the kids in the playground. The parents got anxious, suspicious, called us to go around. I went over to ask him some questions and he lost his head.’

  ‘So you locked him up?’

  ‘Speaking to a garda like that, he’s lucky I didn’t charge him. He needs to talk to someone, that lad. You should watch yourself,’ he warned.

  I followed Adam outside, expecting him to have disappeared. But there he was, standing by the car.

  ‘I’m sorry I was gone all afternoon. Amelia was upset about breaking up with her boyfriend.’

  He didn’t seem too touched by her misfortune and I didn’t blame him after what he’d been through that afternoon.

  ‘I was about to call you and tell you I was on my way when she went upstairs to check on her mother and found she’d had a massive stroke. We called an ambulance but it was too late, she was dead. I couldn’t just walk out on her after that.’ Suddenly I was tired. So, so tired.

  Adam’s jaw softened. ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  We drove the short distance to the flat in silence and when we got inside he looked around the empty rooms, naked walls, my Spider-Man duvet.

  ‘I’m sorry this is all there is,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘It’s a rental. All my stuff is being held hostage.’

  He dumped his bag on the ground. ‘It’s grand.’

  ‘Adam, the crisis plan is there to help you. I know it might seem useless, but if you follow the steps, I’m sure you will find it helpful in future.’

  ‘Helpful?’ he shouted, giving me a fright. He pulled a rumpled piece of paper from his pocket and started to rip it up in a fury. I took a few steps away from him, suddenly aware that here was a total stranger with mental health issues that I had let into my home. How stupid had I been? He didn’t notice me edging away.

  ‘This thing was what got me into trouble. Call someone on your emergency list whenever
you have a suicidal thought, it says. So I had one. First on my emergency list is you. I called you. You didn’t answer. Second should be my girlfriend and third should be my best friend, but they’re not on the bloody list. My mother’s dead and my father’s dying. They’re not on the list. Failing that, Do something that makes you happy whenever you have a suicidal thought.’ He clenched the remains of the note in his fist. ‘Seeing as I’d already eaten my food and had my walk, what other happy thing could I possibly do today? Then I remembered the playground and heard the kids laughing and I thought, that’s fucking happy, maybe they’ll make me fucking happy. So I sat there for an hour, not feeling very fucking happy, and then this garda comes along and asks me if I’m some paedo! Of course I’m going to have an attitude if he thinks I’m some sicko, gawking at kids. So you can take your fucking crisis plan and stuff it up your hole!’ he yelled, throwing the tattered bits of paper in the air. ‘Your friend’s boyfriend left her, her mother died and you’re not doing much better yourself. Thanks for showing me the beauty of life.’

  ‘Okay …’ I faltered, trying not to be afraid of this man I didn’t know while at the same time struggling to convince myself that I did know him, reminding myself that I’d seen glimpses of Adam being kind, showing his romantic side, being funny. Faced with this darkness and rage, it was hard to believe that other Adam existed. I looked at the door, trying not to let him see me. I could run. I could call the guards, I could tell them what had happened on the bridge, I could tell them he wanted to kill himself, I could end this all right now, because I had failed. I had made a mess of it all.

  I took a deep breath in an effort to slow my heartbeat down. His shouting was making me so panicky, I couldn’t think straight. At last there was silence. He was standing there, looking at me. I had to say something. Something understanding. Something that wouldn’t trigger another outbreak of anger. I couldn’t bear it if he hurt himself. Not here, not with me, not ever.

  I swallowed and was surprised by how steady my voice was. ‘I understand that you’re feeling angry.’

  ‘Of course I’m feeling fucking angry.’ But he didn’t sound as angry as he had before. He seemed to have calmed a little at my acknowledging it. That made me feel calmer; maybe I could do this after all. At least I could give it a try for a while longer. I didn’t want to give up on him.

  ‘I’ve got a remedy for that.’ I side-stepped around him quickly, and went to the kitchen. I took six eggs from the fridge, and wrote on them with a black marker, noticing how my hand trembled. I wrote the names ‘Basil’, ‘Sean’, ‘Maria’, ‘Dad’, ‘Lavinia’ and ‘Christine’ on the eggs, then slid open the kitchen door leading to the long back garden.

  ‘Come on,’ I called to him.

  He stared at me with dark eyes.

  ‘Come on,’ I said more firmly, trying not to be intimidated, trying to keep things moving. I was in control here, I needed him to listen to me. Reluctantly, he followed.

  ‘I have six eggs here, with words representing things that are making you angry right now. Throw them. Throw them anywhere you want. As hard as you want. Crush them. Get rid of your anger.’ I handed him the carton and indicated the open door.

  ‘I’m tired of your tasks,’ he spoke through his teeth.

  ‘Fine.’ I put the carton down on the counter and left the kitchen, going to my bedroom. Though I wanted very much to lock my door, I didn’t like the message it would send him. Instead I sat on my Spider-Man duvet and stared at the magnolia wall, at the grid-shaped shadow the moon was casting through my window pane, and tried to think what I should do next. I had a huge task ahead of me and no idea how to proceed. Somehow I needed to make him see a therapist. I thought about ways I could get him to go. Maybe pretend we were going somewhere else and arrive at a practice? But if I did that, fooled him or tried to trick him in any way, I would lose his trust for good. Then he wouldn’t even have me to help him, useless as I was.

  For the first time since I’d agreed to this challenge, I was beginning to think I might not be able to deliver. Thoughts of him killing himself made me physically ill and I rushed to the toilet and locked the door. As I crouched in there, bent double, I heard him groan as if he was in pain, as if he’d been punched. Startled, I composed myself, splashed my face with water and hurried out. I stopped at the kitchen door. The light behind me spilled out into the black garden, which had been neglected since my green-fingered great-aunt Christine passed away. Now there was nothing but a long rectangular patch of grass, which hadn’t been properly tended in at least a decade, and not at all in these winter months. I remembered how my great-aunt used to feed us strawberries plucked straight from the vines, edible flowers, wild garlic and mint, eating more for the token of it than the taste. I could picture her, picking gooseberries for her jam, her wide-brimmed straw hat shielding her face from the sun, her wrinkled skin drooping on her neck and chest, creasing and wobbling as she worked, and all the while her raspy voice breathless from emphysema explained what she was doing. The garden was a long way from that now, yet the memory was there in a corner of my mind, the brightness of my youth on a sunny day when I felt warm and safe, contrasted with this cold dark night with fear and panic locked in my heart.

  Out in the garden, Adam was looking down at the tray of eggs in his hand, choosing thoughtfully. He picked one up and gave it an almighty throw down the end of the garden. He let out a yell and it crashed against the end wall. Looking more motivated, he went back to the egg carton and picked another. He threw it, screaming as he released it into the air, watching as it smashed against the back wall. He repeated the process three more times. When he had finished, he stormed back into the house and slammed the bathroom door behind him. I ducked into the bedroom to give him space. The shower went on. I heard his angry sobs getting lost beneath the falling water.

  I went outside to the carton. There was one egg left. I crouched down, picked up the egg and tears sprang to my eyes. The name on the remaining egg was ‘Christine’.

  I was in bed, propped up on pillows, tense and alert, unable to relax while he was in that mood, when he appeared in my bedroom doorway. Instinctively, I pulled the covers around me, fearing for my safety. Seeing my reaction, he winced, hurt by my fear of him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently. ‘I promise not to behave like that again. I know you’re trying to help.’

  I saw this was a different Adam from the one who’d raged at me earlier and I relaxed.

  ‘I’ll try harder,’ I said.

  ‘Ignore what I said. You’re doing fine. Thank you.’

  I smiled.

  He returned the smile.

  ‘Good night, Christine.’

  ‘Good night, Adam.’

  11

  How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found

  At four a.m., I had an epiphany. Adam had been right the night before: I needed to do better. He hadn’t said it but he’d intimated it. I could see how vulnerable he was. I had to do better. Wide awake, my mind too wired now for sleep, I got up and threw on a tracksuit, then made my way as quietly as possible through the living room. The room was dark but Adam was sitting up, his troubled face illuminated by the glow of his laptop.

  ‘I thought you were asleep.’

  ‘I’m watching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.’

  It was one of the things we had listed on his crisis plan as a distraction for when he dipped.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I tried to study his face but the computer screen didn’t give off enough light to reveal his innermost thoughts.

  ‘Where are you going?’ He ignored my question.

  ‘To my office. I’ll be back in a few minutes – if that’s okay?’

  He nodded.

  When I returned, his computer was overturned on the floor, the cord from the charger was wrapped around his neck and he was hanging off the edge of the couch, his eyes closed and his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

  ‘Very funny.’ I kept walking, my arms overlo
aded with paper, pens, highlighters, and a whiteboard, which I set up in my bedroom.

  Adam claimed he didn’t want emotional help, insisting his needs were material, tangible physical ones. He wanted to get his job with the Irish Coast Guard back, he wanted his girlfriend back, he wanted his family off his back. I had assumed I could tackle this by helping him emotionally, but I had very little time. Perhaps what I needed to do was to treat his physical needs as I would his emotional. Emotionally he had his tools, he had his crisis plan. What was missing was a set of tools to cope with the physical needs, and I was going to give them to him.

  Too curious to hold out any longer, Adam appeared at the door.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I was making plans, charting things in a frenzy. Drawing grids, mood boards, highlighters, bubbles, all kinds of things were flying around on large white boards.

  ‘How much coffee have you had?’

  ‘Too much. But there’s no point wasting time. Neither of us sleep anyway, so why not get started now? There are twelve days left,’ I said, urgency in my voice. ‘That’s two hundred and eighty-eight hours. Most people sleep eight hours a night – not us, but people do. That gives us sixteen hours a day to do what we have to do, which leaves us with only one hundred and ninety-two hours. Not that much time. And it’s four a.m. so officially we’ve eleven days left.’

  I crossed out the figures and began feverishly working them out again. We had work to do in Dublin and pretty soon we would have to go to Tipperary to deal with the rest of Adam’s problems.

  ‘I think you’re having a nervous breakdown,’ he said, amused, arms folded as he watched me.

  ‘No. I’m having an epiphany. You want my services full-on, one-on-one? That’s what you’re going to get.’ I opened the wardrobe and pulled out a torch, checked to see if the batteries were working. I stuffed a bag with towels and a change of clothes. ‘I’d suggest you get something warm on and bring a change of clothes because we’re going out.’