Cecelia Ahern - The Year I Met You

You look at me, eyebrow raised, unimpressed by my goading you. When I see you’re not going to repeat it, I look at Dr Jameson.

‘So, how was your holiday?’

‘Oh, well,’ he gathers himself. ‘It was rather nice to see the children and—’

‘It rained for two weeks, they were stuck inside and they made Dr J do all the baby-sitting.’

‘It wasn’t all doom and gloom.’

‘Dr J, you tell me to face facts, it’s time you did the same. They used you.’

Dr Jameson looks defeated.

What rings in my ears is you saying you tell me to face facts. A little glimpse into your relationship with the good doctor; facing facts is not what I thought you’d be doing at this hour, outside in your garden.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say to Dr Jameson.

‘It’s … you know, it’s … I was hoping to stay with them for Christmas, you see, but no. That won’t be happening now.’

‘Dr J’s spent Christmas Day on his own for the past fifteen years.’

‘A little less than that,’ he says. ‘I was hoping this year would be different. But,’ he perks up, ‘no matter.’

We sit in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

‘You’ve done a nice job on your garden,’ Dr Jameson says.

‘Thanks.’ I look at it proudly.

‘She’s on gardening leave,’ you say, then laugh and cough ‘fired’ into your whisky glass.

I feel the anger building. ‘Fionn helped me with the rockery. He wanted to get away from his dad,’ I say.

Dr Jameson is amused by our banter. I’m not.

‘He’s fifteen. No one wants to be with their dad when they’re fifteen,’ you say.

I concur.

‘And there’s nothing to do here,’ you continue. ‘The three of them just want to sit around all day playing on their iPads.’

‘Then do something with them,’ I say. ‘Think of something. He likes being out and about, do a project with him.’ I look at the table. ‘Sand and varnish this thing. That’ll keep him busy. Do it together. You might even communicate.’ I gasp sarcastically at the idea.

Silence again.

‘Gardening leave, Jasmine,’ Dr Jameson says. ‘For how long?’

‘One year.’

‘What was your business?’

‘I was co-founder of a company called the Idea Factory. We came up with and implemented ideas and strategies for other companies.’

‘Consultancy?’ you ask.

‘No.’ I shake my head.

‘Advertising then.’

‘No no,’ I object.

‘Well, it’s not very clear what exactly—’

‘It’s not talking out loud for people to hear, Matt, that’s what it’s not,’ I snap.

‘Hoo hoo hoo,’ you sing-laugh, knowing you’ve touched a nerve and I’ve reacted perfectly, played right into your hands. ‘I’ve offended her, Dr J, somehow, sometime,’ you explain.

‘Why stop at one time? Why can’t everything you say offend me?’ I know that that’s no longer true and I feel bad. I think of the times when your words comforted me.

I look across at my garden, the only thing that can take my mind off everything these days, the only thing that will lift me out of this conversation and stop me from saying something I might regret. You have been good-spirited up till now, but I know that if I keep on pushing your buttons you might crack, and likewise with me.

‘What will you do?’ Dr Jameson asks, and it feels as if I’ve had to come back from somewhere far away to answer him.

‘I’m thinking of building a water fountain,’ I say.

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘She knew what you meant.’ You watch me thoughtfully.

‘That couple who live beside me, Dr J,’ I say, without realising I’m now using your nickname for him until you react.

‘The Lennons,’ he reminds me.

‘I saw them calling door-to-door yesterday. What were they doing?’

‘A secret swinging society,’ you say. ‘Right under our very noses.’

I ignore you.

‘I think she fancies me,’ you say to Dr J.

‘You are so childish.’

‘You are so easy to wind up, it’s almost a waste not to.’

‘Not normally. Only with you.’

‘The Lennons were saying goodbye,’ Dr Jameson says as though our childish spat isn’t happening. ‘They’ve decided to let their house and go on a cruise for a few months. After what happened with Elsa Malone, they’d rather live while they have the chance.’

‘Who’ll be renting?’

‘Your cousin,’ you say.

‘Really? I heard it was your wife,’ I shoot back.

‘A corporate man. Lone man. Companies pay an absolute fortune for their managing directors now, don’t they? He moves in next week sometime. I saw him having a look around. Young fellow.’

You make a bizarre tooting sound that I realise is directed at me. A schoolboy jeer. ‘You never know, Jasmine.’ You wink at me.

‘Please.’

‘Time is getting on. You’re not getting any younger. Tick tick tick, you’ll need to start making those kids soon.’

Anger burns within me again. You have the knack, I’ll give it to you, for relentlessly prodding at people’s weaknesses. ‘I don’t want children,’ I say, disgusted by you and knowing I shouldn’t respond, but I can’t give you the benefit of feeling like you’re winning. ‘I’ve never wanted children.’

‘Really,’ you say, interested.

‘That’s an awful shame,’ Dr Jameson says, and I want to get up and walk away from these two men who suddenly feel what I do or don’t do with my body is any of their business. ‘I see older women regret that decision. You should think about it, consider it deeply,’ he says, looking at me as if I’d just shot those words out of my mouth without giving the matter any thought.

I’ve always known that I didn’t want children. Ever since I was a child, I’ve known.

‘There’s no point in me regretting something now that I might not regret later,’ I say, as I always say to people like Dr Jameson who come out with exactly the same thing he said. ‘So I’ll stick with my decision, since it feels right.’

You are still looking at me, but I avoid your eye.

‘Did the Lennons say goodbye to you?’ I ask you.

You shake your head.

‘Why didn’t they say goodbye to us?’ I ask nobody in particular. ‘You and I were standing in my garden when they called to every single door. They walked straight past us.’

You snort, swirl your whisky around in the glass. You’ve barely drunk anything since I sat down, which is good because your children are in the house, for their one night of the week with Daddy and you’re outside, drunk.

‘Why would they say goodbye to you? You’re hardly the neighbour of the century. Two months of digging to help get over some kind of psychotic break …’

I can feel myself rising and I know I shouldn’t. It’s exactly what you want, to stir things up so that everyone around you explodes – apart from you. Hurt people hurt people. But I can’t help it, I’m hurt too. ‘So what does a fired DJ do then? Are there other stations lining up at your door?’

‘I haven’t been fired.’

‘Not yet. But you will be.’

‘They’ve extended my gardening leave for an as yet undecided amount of time,’ you say, with a mischievous twinkle in your eye. ‘So it looks as if we’re stuck here together. You and me.’

Something twigs in my head. Snaps, more like. I have realised something and I feel the heat of the anger burn through me.

‘You’ll still be able to go to the station next week though?’ I ask.

‘No,’ you say slowly, lifting your eyes from the whisky to meet mine. ‘They’re planning to restructure the station. I will not be setting foot in that place until they tell me what’s happening with my job.’