How to Fall in Love

by Cecelia Ahern

  ‘Maybe Maria’s too busy sleeping with Sean to help him out. Isn’t that right?’

  Startled, we all turned towards the doorway. A handsome young man looked back at us, the family resemblance obvious in his strong jaw and blue eyes. But his hair was dark instead of fair – and so was his soul. To me, he emanated bad vibes.

  Amused, he raised an eyebrow at us, put his hands in his pockets and strolled over casually.

  ‘Nigel,’ Adam said curtly.

  ‘Hello, Adam. Hello, Uncle Dick.’

  I wish I could have felt for Mr Basil then. What could be worse than seeing someone you despise when you’re ill in bed, wearing paisley pyjamas, powerless to defend yourself. And his name was Dick. But it was impossible to summon the pity.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Adam asked, not bothering to be polite and looking as though he wanted to hit him.

  ‘I came to visit my uncle, but it turns out to be good timing – you and I never got to finish our meeting last week. You seemed to leave in rather a rush.’

  ‘You two had a meeting?’ Mr Basil looked as though he’d been stabbed in the heart.

  ‘Adam came to me about my taking over Basil’s. He quite liked the idea of the names Bartholomew Basil coming together – the greatest tribute to our grandfather, don’t you think?’ he smirked.

  ‘You’re a liar!’ Adam’s fury was evident. He trampled on my feet to get to his cousin, who he grabbed by the scruff of the neck and pushed all the way across the room till he slammed him hard against the wall. He wrapped his hand around Nigel’s throat and held him there as his cousin struggled.

  ‘Adam,’ I warned, trying to hold back my panic.

  ‘You’re a bloody liar,’ Adam said through gritted teeth. Nigel’s veins were protruding from his forehead as he tried to pull Adam’s hands away from his throat, but Adam was stronger. Instead, Nigel turned his effort to thrusting his fingers at Adam’s nostrils, forcing his head back.

  ‘Adam!’ I jumped up. I tried to stop them but was afraid of getting too close when they were battling it out. I looked back at Mr Basil. His face was like thunder but he was ultimately an impotent old man in his sick bed – and he knew it. He started breathing very heavily.

  ‘Mr Basil, are you okay?’ I asked. I ran back to his side and pressed the call button for the nurse.

  His eyes were watering.

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ I said firmly. ‘Adam wouldn’t do that.’

  He searched my face for signs of being misled.

  ‘Of course, he wouldn’t,’ I said, beginning to panic and pressing the call button continuously. By the time security burst into the room, Adam and Nigel were scuffling on the ground. They immediately pulled Adam off Nigel and while they held him by the shoulders, with his arms trapped behind his back, Nigel swung his arm and punched Adam hard, first across the jaw, then in the stomach.

  Adam doubled over.

  ‘I think your modelling days are over,’ I joked weakly as I dabbed Adam’s split lip once we were back at the flat.

  He smiled and the blood started to spill all over again through his stretched cut.

  ‘Ah, don’t smile,’ I said, dabbing at it again.

  ‘No problem,’ he sighed. He stood up suddenly, pushing me away, the aggression back in his body. ‘I’m going for a shower.’

  I opened my mouth to call out an apology. I had tried to do right and it had all gone horribly wrong. Our lunch at the restaurant had given him cramps, the walk in the park had led him to be locked in a garda cell, the random drive had led to a car chase, and my quest to tell his father the truth had led to him getting his face punched in.

  Sorry.

  But I didn’t say anything. It didn’t matter. I had said it in the car on the way home until I was blue in the face; I had tried to talk the entire episode into a positive experience, one about facing the truth and dealing with consequences, but I knew it was a hard sell. I’d misjudged the situation. I’d thought he had been too afraid to tell his father, but the fear was because he knew that his father was aware he wanted none of it but it made no difference. It had been naïve of me, thinking I could hit upon an obvious way out of a situation Adam had spent years trying to extricate himself from. It was only after exploring every other possible escape route that he’d made his desperate decision on the Ha’penny Bridge. I should have known that, and the fact it hadn’t occurred to me left me feeling awkward and embarrassed. He didn’t want to hear my words any more. My words weren’t fixing anything. My being sorry would change nothing.

  At four a.m. I kicked the duvet covers off the bed in a fit of frustration and officially gave up on trying to sleep.

  ‘Are you awake?’ I called out to the dark.

  ‘No,’ he responded.

  I smiled. ‘I left a sheet for you on the coffee table. Pick it up.’

  I heard him move across the room to retrieve the page I’d set out the night before.

  ‘What the hell is this?’

  ‘Read one.’

  ‘“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched – they must be felt with the heart.” Helen Keller.’ He was silent. Then he snorted.

  ‘“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light.” Aristotle Onassis.’ I called out, from memory, lying back down on the bed.

  He paused and I wondered if he was going to rip it up, or humour my attempt at lifting his spirit.

  ‘“Believe you can and you’re halfway there.” Theodore Roosevelt,’ I called out again, encouraging him to read another.

  ‘Don’t piss into the wind,’ Adam called.

  I frowned. ‘That’s not on the sheet.’

  ‘Don’t buy a telescope, just walk closer to what you want to see.’

  I smiled.

  ‘Never eat yellow snow. Don’t smoke. Wear a bra. Never make eye contact while eating an ice pop.’

  I was giggling in bed. Finally he was silent.

  ‘Okay, I get the point: you think they’re crap. But do you feel better?’

  ‘Do you?’

  I laughed. ‘Yes, I do actually.’

  ‘I do too,’ he answered eventually, his voice soft and low.

  I imagined he was smiling, at least I hoped he was; I could hear it in his voice.

  ‘Goodnight, Adam.’

  ‘Goodnight, Christine.’

  I slept a little that night, but mostly I couldn’t help thinking: eight days left.

  14

  How to Have Your Cake and Eat It

  Detective Maguire sat across the table from me in an interrogation room in Pearse Street garda station. His eyes were bloodshot, with crinkled bags underneath as though he’d had a hard night partying the night before. Once again I knew this not to be true. He’d grudgingly agreed to see me, warning that for the time being he would merely listen to my story before deciding whether to refer me to his colleagues. I understood that to mean he was acting as a filter; if my complaint wasn’t worth it, he didn’t want to waste garda time. I felt my forehead prickle with sweat. The room was suffocating, with no windows and no ventilation. If I were a suspect I’d have been ready admit to anything, to get out of there. Thankfully, I’d insisted on the door being left open so I could keep an eye on Adam.

  ‘Are you in the habit of picking up suicide victims?’ Detective Maguire had asked when I arrived with Adam.

  ‘I’m helping him with a job placement actually.’ It wasn’t a total lie.

  I checked the door once again to make sure Adam was still there. He looked bored and tired but at least he was present.

  ‘You always bring your work home with you?’ he asked.

  ‘You ever go home?’ I snapped.

  I realised too late that he’d been on the verge of opening up for once. My snapping immediately caused him to retreat to his shell; the force field went back up, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, clearly berating himself over his weakness in letting his mask slip.

  M
y response left me feeling guilty; I realised I preferred dealing with the tough Maguire. I didn’t want to relax and start sharing trade secrets with this man.

  ‘So tell me again, you think a man wearing a black leather jacket and turtle-neck jumper, possibly an Eastern European, smashed your windscreen with a hurley stick because you possibly witnessed a drug sale between this man and a black car with tinted windows – of which you can remember no other details – on a country lane, for which you can’t provide directions or a location because you were playing a game of getting lost. Have I got that right?’ His tone was bored.

  ‘My friend Julie’s windscreen, not mine, but yes, the rest of that is correct.’ It had taken me three days to make a report about the windscreen, partly because I was helping Amelia with her mother’s funeral arrangements, partly because of my schedule with Adam but mostly because I was avoiding having to spend a single second in Detective Maguire’s company, though in the end I knew he was the one who could help me.

  ‘Why possibly Eastern European?’

  ‘He had that look,’ I said quietly, wishing I hadn’t mentioned that part at all. ‘He was enormous, strong jaw, wide shoulders. But then he had a hurley stick, which made him look more Irish …’ I trailed off, my face reddening at the amusement on his face.

  ‘So if he’d done a perfect somersault he’d have been Russian, and if he’d had a baseball bat that would have made him American? What if he’d come at you with a chopstick? Japanese or Chinese – what do you think?’ He grinned, enjoying his joke.

  I ignored him.

  ‘Can anybody else corroborate your story?’

  ‘Yes. Adam can.’

  ‘The suicide man.’

  ‘The attempted suicide victim, yes.’

  ‘Any other witnesses who didn’t just try to kill themselves five minutes ago?’

  ‘He attempted suicide five days ago, and yes, my niece saw it all.’

  ‘I’ll need her details.’

  I thought about it. ‘Sure. Have you got a pen?’

  He picked up his biro grudgingly, flicked open his notepad, which was blank despite my having spent the last ten minutes telling him what happened.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Her name is Alicia Rose Talbot and you’ll find her at the Cheeky Monkey Montessori, Vernon Avenue, Clontarf,’ I said it slowly.

  ‘She works there?’

  ‘No, she attends it. She’s three years old.’

  ‘Are you fucking with me?’ He slammed the pen down.

  Adam peered into the room protectively.

  ‘No, but I believe you are with me. I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,’ I said.

  ‘Look, I operate from the place that the most obvious answer is probably the truth. Your story about a Russian drug dealer with a hurley down a country lane has so many ifs and buts, I doubt it has any legs.’

  ‘But it happened.’

  ‘Maybe it did.’

  ‘It did.’

  He was silent.

  ‘So what’s the most obvious answer then?’ I asked.

  ‘I heard you left your husband.’

  I swallowed, surprised it had taken this direction.

  ‘The night of the shooting,’ he prompted.

  ‘What’s when I left got to do with anything?’

  He rubbed his stubbled jaw, red raw from too much shaving and not enough moisturising. Then he sat a moment, studying me, and I began to feel as if I were being interrogated.

  ‘Did it have anything to do with the shooting?’

  ‘No … yes … maybe,’ I stammered, having realised I didn’t want him to know. ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  ‘Because.’ He shifted in his chair and started doodling on the pad. ‘I’ve been in this job a long time and – take it from someone who has experience of these things – you shouldn’t let what happens on the job affect what happens in your home life.’

  I was surprised. I was about to snap back but instead bit my tongue. It must have taken him a lot to say what he’d said to me.

  ‘It wasn’t because of what happened with Simon. But thanks. For the advice.’

  He studied me for a while in silence, then parked the issue. ‘Do you think your ex-husband has anything to do with the car being damaged?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because he’s not that type of person. He’s not passionate like that. He doesn’t even support a football team because he can’t believe in anything that much. For his birthday one year his friends got him part of a fence for him to sit on – that’s how devoid of opinion he is. Honestly, if you knew him you wouldn’t be having this conversation. Let’s move on.’

  ‘How has he been taking you leaving him?’

  ‘Jesus, Maguire, that has nothing to do with you,’ I shouted, standing up.

  ‘It may have something to do with your window,’ he said calmly, remaining seated. ‘A husband, recently left by his wife, humiliated, broken-hearted and angry, I’d imagine. He might have been your sweetpea when you were married, but you never know how much people can change. Like the flick of a switch. Has there been any threatening behaviour over the past few weeks?’

  My non-answer was a good enough answer for him.

  ‘But it’s not even my car,’ I protested. ‘He knows that. Smashing it up would affect someone else, not me.’

  ‘It’s your friend Julie’s, you told me. But you’re driving it. And he’s not exactly thinking rationally now. How does he feel about your friend Julie? Anything to say about her recently?’

  I sighed, remembering the voicemail from a few days ago, and I looked out at Adam who was now clearly listening. He nodded at me to tell Maguire.

  ‘Shit,’ I rubbed my face tiredly. ‘Then I’m not pressing charges. I’ll pay for the damages myself.’ I stood and paced the room.

  ‘All the same, I’d like to pay him a visit.’

  ‘Don’t!’ I stopped pacing. ‘Seriously, he’ll go ape-shit if he knows I told you.’

  ‘Looks like he already went ape-shit. I’d like to make sure he doesn’t do it again.’

  ‘Please don’t contact him.’

  He sighed, then stood. ‘What came first? The angry phone calls? Were they sad to begin with? Then abusive? Then he trashes your car.’

  ‘Julie’s car.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit whose car it is. The next thing on his list won’t be sitting down to have milk and cookies with you.’

  ‘But the Russian guy—’

  ‘It’s not the Russian guy. You have somebody at home with you?’

  I didn’t like the personal question and I wasn’t exactly sure how to answer. I blushed, embarrassed to tell him Adam was staying with me. In the end I didn’t have to say anything; I caught the look exchanged between Adam and Detective Maguire.

  ‘Right.’ Maguire seemed mildly satisfied that I’d be safe. ‘Think about it and let me know if you need me to drop him a visit.’

  ‘Sorry to waste your time,’ I said, mortified, as he left the room.

  ‘Used to it by now, Rose,’ he called down the hall.

  ‘Shit,’ I said, ending the call on my mobile. ‘That was someone who wants to view the car. How quickly can you get a windshield fixed?’ I unburied my head and then rooted through the empty cupboards for a telephone directory.

  ‘Quickly. Don’t worry about it,’ Adam said, sitting on the counter swinging his legs and watching me. ‘I know a guy who can do it, I’ll give him a call.’

  ‘That would be amazing. Thanks. How much will it cost?’ I nibbled on my nails and awaited his response.

  ‘Not that much. I’m sure your friend has insurance, I wouldn’t worry about it.’

  ‘There’s no way in the world I’m going to tell Julie. I have to sort this out without her knowing. How much will it cost?’

  ‘Christine, relax. It’s a windshield, they get cracked all the time. A stone can bounce up from the road and crack it.’r />
  ‘My ex-husband smashed it to a million pieces,’ I said. ‘It’s not quite the same thing.’

  ‘Takes the same amount of time to fix it, though. Do you think he did it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Detective Maguire seems quite sure but I really can’t see Barry doing it.’

  He mulled that over for a moment, looked out the windows as if to make sure I was safe. I liked this protective side of him.

  ‘I’ll pay for the window,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘No way, absolutely no way. That’s a stupid idea Adam,’ I said angrily. ‘That’s not what I want, I wasn’t trying to suggest that. I don’t take hand-outs,’ I said firmly.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘This isn’t a hand-out. I owe you for your services anyway.’

  ‘Adam, I’m not charging you for this. I’m not doing this for money. I’m trying to save your life. You living will be enough payment for me.’ My eyes filled and I had to look away. I started looking for the directory in cupboards I’d already looked in, forgetting he said he’d call a friend. I was losing the plot.

  ‘But you’ve cancelled all your appointments for two weeks. I’m costing you.’

  ‘I don’t think of it like that.’

  ‘I know. Because you’re kind. Now let someone be kind to you, because I believe you’re going through a particularly shitty time, and I haven’t seen anyone come to your aid once. I don’t see anybody trying to help fix Little Miss Fix-It,’ he said, watching me.

  His comments took me by surprise and I momentarily forgot about the money. My family might be odd but I knew they were always there for me; Amelia was understandably quite distracted; Julie was in Toronto; and the others … Well, I had thought they were respectfully giving me space, but now, forced to think about it, I realised perhaps they had taken sides. I pushed the thought out of my head and returned to money woes. Eventually I was going to have to talk to Barry about giving me back the money I’d lodged in our joint account. We’d set it up as our wedding and honeymoon savings account and we’d kept it open afterwards as the account from which we paid the mortgage, with me paying in larger amounts of money so that I wouldn’t spend it. The message I had received from Barry that morning was that he had taken my money, my share of the mortgage payments and any extra I had lodged. I’d checked the account to see if he was telling the truth and the money was gone. It hadn’t been a clever idea to get an ATM card for the account. He had withdrawn the whole lot.