Cecelia Ahern - The Year I Met You

Dr Jameson and I huddle around the laptop screen to examine them.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ you say. ‘I’m glad my kids aren’t there.’

‘My rockery looks nice,’ I say, zooming in on my garden in the background. ‘Wish I’d finished the water fountain though.’ I pout.

I head upstairs before you can do a King Kong on me, and Dr Jameson goes back to watching Homes Under the Hammer .

‘That flat looked better before the makeover,’ he says as I leave the room.

‘This house is a madhouse,’ Caroline says, taking the cup of coffee I’ve brought her.

‘Welcome to my new world,’ I say wryly.

‘So, where was I?’

‘You were at the popping candy bit.’

‘Oh yeah.’ Her eyes light up and she resumes the account of her and her new boyfriend’s bedroom shenanigans, which have long since left the bedroom. ‘So anyway,’ she takes a breath when she’s finished, ‘the reason I’m really here is because I’ve come up with an amazing business idea … and I want you to work with me on it,’ she squeals. ‘All I have is this mega idea and no clue where to take it. You’ve done this loads of times. Will you do it? Please?’

‘Oh my goodness,’ I say, wide-eyed, very excited but a little anxious too. Working with friends is a tricky thing and I haven’t even heard the idea yet. I mentally plan my exit, expecting it to be crap. ‘Tell me about it.’

She is more prepared than I thought. She takes out a folder labelled GÚNA NUA – Irish for ‘new dress’. The idea is that you post a photo of your dress on a website – she’s already bought the domain name – and you choose another dress to swap with. That dress then leaves your hands and a new dress arrives in its place. No money changes hands, everything comes with the promise of being dry-cleaned and in mint condition.

‘There will be a selection of designer dresses, vintage, high street – whatever you like. It’s like getting a free dress, and it’s a way to get rid of the stuff you don’t want in your wardrobe.’

‘So how do you make money?’

‘A sign-up fee. Membership. For fifty euro a year you can get as many free dresses as you want. Honestly, Jasmine, I know there’s a market for this, I’m seeing people’s situations every day and it’s depressing. Dress-swapping is the way to go, I’m sure of it.’

It is not a flawless business idea by any means and I think fifty euro is too expensive, but any problem I can see, I can also see a solution. I’m bordering on interest.

‘I know you really need this right now too, so really think about it,’ she says, in an effort to convince me. In fact, this does the opposite.

It sounds as if she is doing me a favour, which is not the case: she needs me to help develop this further. So far it’s a good but badly thought-out idea. She needs me to help make it a reality. I don’t like her spin of it being a help to me. I feel prickly hot inside with frustration. She isn’t sensing it though and she continues.

‘Your garden leave is up in when, November? We can be quietly working on this until it’s ready to launch and by then you’ll be finished gardening leave. Which is perfect, because I don’t think there’ll be any more room down there for daffodils.’ She means this to be complimentary, but it doesn’t feel it.

‘Daffodils don’t grow in November,’ I say, defensive of my garden.

She frowns. ‘Okay,’ she says slowly.

I leave a long silence.

She snaps the folder shut. ‘If you think it’s shit, say it’s shit.’ She brings it to her chest and hugs it.

‘No, it’s not the idea. It’s, it’s just that, I’m not stuck for work, Caroline, I appreciate you thinking of me and that this would be good for me, but I do have a job offer already.’

‘What job?’

‘I’ve been headhunted – by this gorgeous man, by the way,’ I smile and try to be serious: ‘It’s to set up an organisation dealing with climate change and human rights.’

‘Climate change? Why the sudden interest? Did your snowdrops come up late this year?’ she laughs.

This is meant to be funny. My friends have all been teasing me lately about my dedication to my garden. I have refused coffee dates, I have talked about the process on nights out. It’s the new thing: let’s all tease Jasmine about the garden. I get it, I really do, but … The way Caroline looks at me makes me question if I should even be thinking about going for the job, but I don’t care for her attitude, the implication that I need her.

‘So you’re taking this job?’

‘I’ve been thinking about it.’ I surprise myself with this honesty.

‘Would you get to meet Bono?’

Finally her face softens and I laugh and rub my face tiredly.

‘Jasmine,’ she says gently, ‘do you want to work with me? Yes or no? I won’t take it personally.’

I bite my lip, unable to make a decision there and then. ‘Tell me about the popping candy again.’

Understanding I need more time, she says, ‘Okay but whoever it is you’re planning this with, you’ll have to tell them to shave everything down there because it gets a bit sticky.’

And as she talks, all I can think of is Monday. Not because of the popping-candy scenario, but because I don’t want to let him down, this man I barely know who seems to have so much faith in me.

‘Monday,’ I say into the phone, feeling light-headed at the sound of his voice, and a little nervous about what I have to tell him.

‘Jasmine. Perfect. I was just thinking of you. Which isn’t unusual these days.’

It is a beautiful sentiment that is quite unusual, given our relationship, but he moves on quickly as though he hasn’t dropped it in at all. He sounds like he’s out; I can hear traffic, people, wind. Busy man in the city, headhunting people, while I’m here, in my garden, the place I’ve chosen to ring him because it’s the only place where my mind can find peace and clarity these days. It’s day three and the paparazzi are in the car, hiding from the chill, waiting for Matt to come home and misbehave again, placing the pressure on him to explode while the revelations of what actually happened on New Year’s Eve in his studio come to light in the tabloids, a story that was perfectly corroborated by what he’d told me but which has taken on a life of its own in the press, with the prostitute in question selling her story and revelations of her ‘relationship’ with Tony coming to light. It’s a seedy affair that any radio station would back away from.

‘How’s your water fountain coming along?’ he asks.

‘Almost finished. I’m making a deck for it. With hammer and nails in hand. If my old colleagues could see me now.’

‘Those paparazzi better watch out.’

I pause and look around to see if he’s there, though I know from the background on the phone that he’s not.

At my silence he explains, ‘I saw the photos online. Your garden looked nice.’

‘Wish I’d finished the fountain though.’

I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘The rate you’re going, you will. So, the reason I was thinking of you is because I read today that the bluebell will struggle to maintain its range in the face of climate change. During periods of cold weather, spring flowers such as bluebells have already started the process of growth by preparing leaves and flowers in underground bulbs in summer and autumn.’

He sounds as if he’s reading and I sit down on my new garden bench and smile as I listen.

‘They are then able to grow in the cold of winter or early spring by using the resources stored in their bulb. With warmer springs induced by climate change, bluebells will lose their early start advantage and be out-competed by temperature-sensitive plants that start growing earlier than in the past.’