Cecelia Ahern - The Year I Met You

‘You stir it up.’

‘I have to. That’s what gets them calling in. Gets the debate going.’

‘And you think these debates are necessary?’ I say. I’ve stopped walking and we’re standing face to face outside Steven’s house, where the lawn has disappeared beneath a mass of flowers and gifts, teddy bears, candles and handwritten cards. ‘It’s not as if your show does anything to educate people about the facts. All you do is invite a bunch of lunatics on to vent their oppressive, racist, uneducated opinions.’

You look at me seriously. ‘Every person, every voice on there is real. They represent what real people in this country are thinking. I think people need to hear that. It’s no good spending all your time with your politically correct friends, thinking the world is a wonderful open and understanding place, only to turn up at the voting booths and suddenly discover it’s not. Our show gives everyone a voice. As a result of our show, some of these issues have been discussed in the Dáil: bullying, same-sex marriage, we’ve closed down dangerous nursing homes, crèches …’ you start to list things off on your fingers.

‘You seriously think you’re doing the country a service?’ I ask, flabbergasted. ‘Surely that only applies if it’s a decent debate. Not when it’s idiots who are half drunk, or high, or who’ve escaped a lunatic asylum. Allowing those people to air their opinions is a good thing? They should be silenced, if anything.’

‘Good idea, Kim Jong-un. Free speech bad,’ you say, clearly annoyed.

‘Perhaps you should invite him on your show – give the man a chance to share his fine opinions. Anyway, from what the newspapers are saying, it sounds as if your show isn’t coming back on air,’ I say, chin high in the air and walking up the pathway to the front door, hoping that will silence him, that I can get the last word in. My final bitchy, defensive, edgy, uptight comment.

‘Oh, it is. Bob and me are like that.’ You hold up your crossed fingers. ‘Bob’s head of radio, he’s been with me since the start. He’s only doing this to follow procedure. Wouldn’t look right if he didn’t. When a show gets as many complaints as we did, you have to go through the motions.’

‘You must be so proud,’ I say, pressing the doorbell.

‘I really must have pissed you off something good,’ you say, your breath close to my ear. When I look at you, your eyes are twinkling mischievously. It occurs to me that you like it that I dislike you, and in a sick way, I do too. Disliking you has given me something to focus on. Disliking you has become my full-time job.

Suddenly the door opens and a woman with red eyes, a red nose, crumpled tissues in hand answers. She recognises you straight away, seems delighted and honoured to find you at her door, and quickly ushers you inside. This baffles me – don’t people hear what I hear? You are gentlemanly enough to let me enter first.

Inside, the kitchen is filled with people standing around engaging in long silences that are occasionally broken up by small talk, reminiscing and nervous laughter. The table is overflowing with food: lasagne, cakes and sandwiches that neighbours have dropped by. We are shown through to the living room, where a man sits alone in an armchair staring out the window. The walls are filled with professional studio photographs of the young family: black-and-white portraits of Steven, Rebecca and Lily. Mummy and Daddy in black polo necks against a white backdrop, little Lily in a pretty white dress, glowing under studio lights like an angel, showing a big smile with tiny teeth. One of Lily holding a lollipop, one of Lily twirling, one of Lily laughing, one of Lily sticking her tongue out while Mummy and Daddy look on, big smiles on their faces.

I recognise Steven from the photos and as someone I see regularly around the area, in the supermarket, butcher’s, jogging along the bay …

‘Matt,’ he says, standing up and offering you a hug.

‘I’m so sorry, Steven,’ you say, and you both hold the hug for a long time. Close badminton buddies. I look around and then stare at the floor awkwardly while I wait.

‘This is my neighbour, Jasmine. She lives around the corner, on my street.’

‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ I say, offering my hand, which he takes.

‘Thank you,’ he says solemnly. ‘You’re a friend of Rebecca’s?’

‘I … No … Actually …’ I feel silly. I’m not sure where to start. Perhaps this was a mistake. I’m not sure. The responsibility I felt earlier has waned and now I feel like an intruder. The woman who answered the door is in the room too and all eyes are on me. ‘I saw them both yesterday afternoon at three p.m. In the Marine Hotel.’

He looks confused. He turns to the woman. She looks confused.

They both look at me. They don’t believe me.

‘I’m not sure they were there …’ he says, frowning.

‘Lily was having a hot chocolate. “Hot choc stop,” she called it.’

He smiles, covers his mouth and chin with his hand and sits on the arm of the chair.

‘She was in great spirits. Rebecca couldn’t stop laughing. I could hear her as soon as I walked into the lobby. Lily was trying to make a toast.’

He looks at the woman, who I now understand to be his sister; I can see the likeness. ‘Because of the party last week, Beth,’ he says, and she nods happily, her eyes filling. Steven looks back at me, his face open, gentle, eager for more to come from my mouth. You are watching me too and that is slightly off-putting, I don’t know why you make me so nervous, but I try to ignore that you’re there and speak only to Steven. The more I look at him, the more I see the resemblance to Lily in his blonde lashes and his elfin face. So I stand there, a complete stranger in his home, and I tell him about her toast, about her many toasts, about the conversation she and her mother were having, about the conversation I had with her. I tell him every single thing that I can remember. I stress the laughter, the happiness, the utter joy of their last hour together before they got in the car and began the journey to visit Rebecca’s parents on that stormy day. I tell it because I would want to know.

Steven absorbs it all, almost as though he’s in a trance yet taking in every word I’m saying, studying me as I say it, probably trying to figure out if I’m for real, hoping that I am, then eventually believing that I am. He watches my eyes, my lips, and when he thinks I’m not looking runs his eyes over me. And then when I’m finished there is silence and it probably seems to him that they have been killed again, as they go from being present to suddenly gone. His face crumples and he breaks down. I freeze, not knowing what to do, wanting to comfort him but knowing it’s not my place. His sister steps in instead. You pat him on the shoulder and leave the room. I follow, feeling like a spare part, feeling awkward; my every move is mechanical, I’m convinced I’ve made a mistake in coming here and sharing what I shared, but I’m not sure. I want you to reassure me, but at the same time I don’t want reassurance to come from you.

Once outside, you discard the nicotine gum and light a cigarette. My face burns crimson as we walk and you don’t say anything the entire way home. When we stop outside my house, you look at me and maybe you sense my inner turmoil, or maybe you see my discomfort, or perhaps my face is a picture of the despair that I feel, because your eyes linger for a moment, your handsome face studying mine, soft, caring, still curious and studious as it always is, trying to figure things out, as if I’m a puzzle, but a humorous one.

You stub out your cigarette. ‘I’d have wanted to know too,’ you say. ‘That was nice.’ You reach out and squeeze my shoulder.