Cecelia Ahern - Cecelia Ahern Untitled Novel 1

I take a large gulp of wine that burns going down my throat. ‘Can I run something by you both?’

‘Sure,’ Denise says, concerned and happy to be distracted.

‘After the Magpie podcast, a woman from the audience was so moved by what she heard she set up a club, called the PS, I Love You Club. It’s made up of people who are ill, and they want to write letters to their loved ones, the way Gerry did.’

‘Oh my …’ Denise says, looking at me with wide eyes.

‘They reached out to me and want me to help them write their letters.’

Sharon and Denise share a concerned look, each trying to figure out how the other feels.

‘I need your honest opinions, please.’

‘Do you want to help them?’ Denise asks.

‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘But then I think about what I’d be helping them with, I know the value of what they’re doing and I feel slightly obligated.’

‘You are not obligated,’ Sharon says firmly.

They’re both pensive.

‘On the positive side,’ Denise begins, ‘It’s beautiful that they asked you.’

The beauty of it we cannot deny.

‘On the realistic side,’ Sharon steps in, ‘for you, it would be like reliving the entire thing. It would be going backwards.’

She echoes Gabriel’s podcast concerns and half of my family’s feelings on the matter too. I look from one to the other like it’s a tennis match, my two best friends replaying the exact same conversation I’ve had in my head all week.

‘Unless it would actually take her forward. She’s moved on,’ Denise defends it. ‘She’s a different Holly now. She has a new life. She works. She washes herself. She’s selling her house, she’s moving in with the sexy tree-man.’

The more Denise speaks, the more nervous I get. These are all things I worked hard to achieve. They cannot become undone.

Sharon is studying me, concerned. ‘How ill are they?’

‘Sharon,’ Denise elbows her. ‘Ill is ill.’

‘Ill is not ill. There’s ill and then there’s …’ she sticks her tongue out and closes her eyes.

‘Ugly?’ Denise finishes.

‘They aren’t all terminally ill,’ I admit, attempting a hopeful tone. ‘One guy, Paul, is in remission and Joy, has a life-long … deteriorating condition.’

‘Well, isn’t that a rosy picture,’ Sharon says, sarcastically. She doesn’t like it. She fixes me with one of her scary mummy faces that takes no nonsense. ‘Holly, you need to be prepared. You’d be helping these people because they’re sick and they’re dying. You’re going to have to say goodbye over and over again.’

‘But imagine, how beautiful it could be,’ Denise changes the tone, to our surprise. ‘When they write the letters. When they die knowing they achieved it. When their loved ones read their letters. Think ahead to that part. Remember how we felt, Sharon, when Holly would open an envelope on the first day of every month? We couldn’t wait to get to her. Holly, you received a gift from Gerry and you are in a position to pass it on. If you are able to, if you feel it’s good for you, you should do it; if you think it will set you back, then don’t and don’t feel guilty about it.’

Wise words but a straight yes or no would have been more helpful.

‘What does Gabriel think?’ Sharon asks.

‘I haven’t told him yet, but I already know what he’ll say. He’ll say no.’

‘No?’ Sharon says, huffily. ‘You’re not asking him for his permission.’

‘I know but … I don’t even think it’s a good idea.’

‘Well then, there’s your answer,’ Sharon says in a final tone.

So why am I still asking the question?

I tune out of the rest of their conversation, my mind racing back and forth as it chases the options, grasping for a decision. I feel as though I should, I know that I shouldn’t.

We part, back to our lives, back to our problems.

To weave and unravel, to unravel and weave.

It’s 2 a.m. and I pace the downstairs rooms of my house. There aren’t many. Living room to dining room to small U-shaped kitchen that only has enough standing room for two people, a toilet and shower room under the stairs. Which is ideal for me because it’s only me, and occasionally Gabriel. His house is nicer and we stay there more often. Mine and Gerry’s was a starter home; a new build in the suburbs of Dublin for us to begin the rest of our life together. Everything was shiny and new, clean, we were the first to use our shower, the kitchen, our bathroom. How excited we’d been to come from our rented flat to our own home with stairs for the first time.

I walk to the staircase and look up.

‘Holly!’ Gerry calls me.

He was standing where I’m standing now, at the foot of the stairs, hand on the banister.

‘Yes!’ I yell from upstairs.

‘Where are you?’

‘In the bathroom!’

‘Where? Up stairs?’

‘Gerry, our only bathroom is upstairs.’

‘Yes, but we have a toilet down stairs.’

I laugh, understanding. ‘Ah yes but I’m in the bathroom upstairs . Where are you? Are you down stairs?’

‘Yes! Yes, I’m here down stairs!’

‘OK great, I’ll see you in a minute when I come downstairs, from where I am upstairs!’

‘OK.’ Pause. ‘Be careful on the stairs. There’s a lot of them. Hold on to the banister!’

I smile at the memory, running my hand up and down the banister, touching all the places he touched, wanting to rub him on to me.

I haven’t done this late-night room wandering for years, not since the months after he passed, but now I feel the house is owed my attentive farewell. My mind is whirring with ideas. Bert’s quiz, Ginika’s letter, Joy’s trees and flowers notions; I didn’t ask Paul what he wants to do. They had more questions for me than I for them, about the dolphins, the holiday, the sunflowers. Sunflowers. My October letter from Gerry. A sunflower pressed between two cards and a pouch of seeds to brighten the dark October days you hate so much

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