Cecelia Ahern - Cecelia Ahern Untitled Novel 1

Sharon reappears in the emptying shop, flustered, with the baby asleep in the stroller and Alex, her toddler, holding her hand, red cheeks and flushed.

‘Hello, buster.’ I lean towards him.

He ignores me.

‘Say hi to Holly,’ Sharon says gently.

He ignores her.

‘Alex, say hi to Holly,’ she growls, channelling the voice of Satan so suddenly that both Alex and I get a fright.

‘Hi,’ he says.

‘Good boy,’ she says ever so sweetly.

I look at her wide-eyed, always amazed and perturbed by the double personality that the mother role brings out in her.

‘I’m so embarrassed,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a disaster.’

‘Don’t be sorry. I’m so happy you came. And you’re amazing. You always say the first year’s the hardest. A few more months and this little man will be one. You’ve almost made it.’

‘There’s another one on the way.’

‘What?’

She looks up, tears in her eyes. ‘I’m pregnant again. I know, I’m an idiot.’

She straightens up, trying to be strong, but she looks broken. She’s deflated, all wiped out. I feel nothing but sympathy for her, which is an emotion that has increased with each pregnancy reveal as the celebration levels have reduced.

As we hug we speak in unison. ‘Don’t tell Denise.’

I feel stressed just watching Sharon as she leaves with the four boys. I’m also exhausted after the nervous tension of today, the lack of sleep last night and from discussing a personal story in depth for an hour. It has wiped me out, but Ciara and I must wait until everybody has left to return the shop floor to the way it was and lock up.

‘That was nothing short of wonderful,’ Angela Carberry says, interrupting my thoughts. Angela, a great supporter of the shop who donates her designer clothes, bags and jewellery, is one of the main reasons Ciara can keep Magpie going. Ciara jokes that she thinks Angela buys things for the sole purpose of donating them. She’s dressed stylishly as always, a jet-black bob with a blunt fringe, a bird-like frame, and a set of pearls around her neck over the pussy bow tie on her silk dress.

‘Angela, so good of you to come.’ I’m taken aback when she reaches for me and hugs me.

Over her shoulder, Ciara’s eyes widen at the surprising display of intimacy from this usually austere woman. I feel Angela’s bones beneath her clothes as she hugs me tightly. Not one for impulsive behaviour or physical contact, she’s always seemed quite unapproachable on the occasions she personally delivered boxes of her clothes to the shop, shoes in their original boxes, bags in their original dust covers, telling us exactly where we should display them and how much we should sell them for without expecting a cent in return.

Her eyes are moist as she pulls away from me. ‘You must do this more often, you must tell this story to more people.’

‘Oh no,’ I laugh. ‘This was a one-off, more to silence my sister than anything else.’

‘But you don’t realise, do you?’ Angela asks, in surprise.

‘Realise what?’

‘The power of your story. What you have done to people, how you have reached in and touched every single heart in this room.’

Embarrassed, I look to the queue that has formed behind her, a queue of people who want to talk to me.

She grabs my arm and squeezes it, too tightly for my liking. ‘You must tell your story again.’

‘I appreciate your encouragement, Angela, but I’ve lived it once and told it once and I’m finished with it all.’

My words aren’t harsh but there’s a toughness to me that I didn’t expect. An edgy, prickly outer layer that springs into existence in an instant. As though my thorns have pierced her hand, she immediately loosens her grip on my arm. Then, remembering where she is and that there are others who want to speak with me, she reluctantly lets go.

Her hand is gone, my prickles disappear, but something of her pinching grip stays with me, like a bruise.

I crawl into bed beside Gabriel, the room spinning after drinking too much wine with Ciara and Mum in Ciara’s flat above the shop until far too late.

He stirs and opens his eyes, studies me for a moment and then grins at my state.

‘Good night?’

‘If I ever have any notions to do anything like that again … don’t let me,’ I murmur, eyes fluttering closed and trying to ignore the head spins.

‘Agreed. Well, you did it. You’re sister of the year, maybe you’ll get a pay rise.’

I snort.

‘It’s over now.’ He moves close and kisses me.

‘Holly!’ Ciara shouts my name again. Her tone has gone from patience to concern to sheer shrill anger. ‘Where the hell are you?’

I’m in the stockroom behind boxes, perhaps crouched down behind them, perhaps with some clothes draped over the top like a little den. Perhaps hiding.

I look up and see Ciara’s face peering in.

‘What the fuck? Are you hiding?’

‘No. Don’t be ridiculous.’

She throws me a look; she doesn’t believe me. ‘I’ve been calling you for ages. Angela Carberry was looking for you, she was insistent that she speak to you. I told her I thought you’d stepped out for a coffee. She waited for fifteen minutes. You know what she’s like. What the hell, Holly? You made me look like I didn’t even know where my own staff member was, which I didn’t.’

‘Oh. Well now you do. I’m sorry I missed her.’ It’s been a month since we recorded the podcast and Angela Carberry’s advocacy for me sharing my story has developed into stalking, in my opinion. I stand up and stretch my legs with a groan.

‘What’s going on with you and Angela?’ Ciara asks, worried. ‘Is it something to do with the shop?’

‘No, not at all. Nothing to do with the shop, don’t worry. Didn’t she just deliver another bag full of clothes?’

‘Vintage Chanel,’ Ciara says, relaxing, relieved. Then she’s confused again. ‘So what is going on? Why are you hiding from her? Don’t think I haven’t noticed – you did the same thing when she came by last week.’

‘You’re better with her on the floor. I don’t know her. I find her very bossy.’

‘She is very bossy, she has a right to be: she’s giving us thousands of euro worth of stuff. I’d display her necklace on my own naked body on a mechanical bull, if that’s what she wanted.’

‘Nobody wants that.’ I push past her.

‘I’d like to see that,’ Mathew calls from the other room.

‘She asked me to give you this.’ She holds out an envelope.

There’s something about this that makes me uncomfortable. Me and envelopes have a history. It’s not the first time in six years that I’ve opened an envelope, but there is a sense of foreboding about this one. I expect it to be an invitation to speak about grief at a ladies’ lunch or something like it, organised by Angela. She has asked me several times if I’d continue my ‘talk’, or if I’d write a book. With each visit to the shop she has given me a phone number for a speaking events agent, or a contact number for a publishing agent. The first few times I politely thanked her, but on her last visit I shut her down so directly I wasn’t sure if she’d ever come back. I take the envelope from Ciara, fold it and shove it into my back pocket.