Cecelia Ahern - The Year I Met You

Despite my fears that I would never hear from him again, I did hear from Monday, in fact we met on a few occasions to talk, though invariably we ended up talking about everything else but the job. I feel so comfortable with him, so at ease; there’s no need for pretence about my not working, the way there is around other people. Though I am enjoying my gardening, it does not take away from the moments when I still feel lonely and worthless; it doesn’t for a moment make me feel more secure about my future, it merely stops me dwelling on it. Monday, on the other hand, takes away my loneliness. His eagerness to meet and talk for any amount of time takes away my worthlessness. Truth be told – and I know this sounds the complete opposite to what I’ve been expressing – I wish there was no job, I wish that Monday and I could continue to meet like this, talking about the ways of the world, the things we want or don’t want, instead of the reality.

It is just an interview, it is not yet a job, so I’m not ready to make a decision about Caroline’s proposal. We have met on a few occasions about Gúna Nua, and I have helped her idea along without fully committing to a long-term involvement. This will make it possible for me to slip away if I must, but businesswise it is not the ideal situation for either of us. I know that it is not enough for us to be friends. I thought the same thing about Larry, who subsequently fired me and landed me with a one-year ‘prison’ sentence. A prison sentence that feels, on glorious days in my garden, like a gift – though he wouldn’t want to hear that. And so my present ticks along, sometimes nicely, other times with frustration, but my future is as uncertain as ever.

It has been over two months since the incident with Heather in Dad’s home. Heather has gone about her usual wonderful way of forgiving or forgetting or being seemingly unaffected, and her relationship with Dad has carried on the same as ever. Mine has not. Not speaking to him has been somewhat helpful, but in other ways it’s made things worse. It has meant I do not have to deal with him, and it has meant that I have become increasingly maddened by him as I continue the arguments in my head. But it also means that, in not seeing him, I have not seen my little sister Zara, and that is unacceptable. It is for her mostly that I pick up the phone. I arrange to meet them at the playground beside Howth pier. It is a bright day, though we need to wrap up against the chill of the sea wind. Our winter wardrobes have made way for lighter wear, spring coats are being aired or given their first outing, people lie out on the grass eating Beshoff’s fish and chips, the vinegar mixing with the salty air and making my mouth water.

‘Jasmine!’ I hear Zara before I see her and she comes running towards me for an embrace. I pick her up and spin her around, immediately feeling bad about not seeing her. There is no excuse, my behaviour towards her has been unforgivable. Her growth since I’ve seen her is a sign of our silence. Ten weeks is a long time in her short life.

It should be awkward between Dad and me, but it’s not because we immediately speak to each other through Zara. Dad begins it.

‘Tell Jasmine about how we fed the seals some fish.’

She does.

‘Tell Jasmine about how the fishermen let you hold the rod.’

She does.

Zara is the kind of child who seems to attract attention, always asked to be the magician’s assistant, allowed into the cockpit to meet the pilot, shown around professional kitchens by chefs. She is one of those children who exudes interest in life, engages with people, and in return people want to please her, reward her, impress her. Finally, when Dad and I can’t speak to each other through her any more, we have no choice but to stand side by side outside the playground and watch her fire herself around with her new best friends that she met two seconds ago.

He won’t bring anything up, I know that. He would rather we stand like this, in awkwardness, than risk talking, in awkwardness. Even when forced into a discussion on something, on the rare times he can’t escape it, his feelings on the issue would be limited. This is frustrating on the rare times I want to communicate about something important. I get this trait from him. When you have two people who don’t talk about things, the situation can be more explosive than with those who do. Or rather, implosive, because the war is within.

‘That incident with Ted Clifford wasn’t right,’ I say suddenly, unable to properly broach or phrase the subject.

‘He has a position for account director going. Forty K a year. He wanted to talk to you directly,’ he says, the anger in his voice. He didn’t need to build up to it, it was there ready, for whenever I brought it up. ‘You could have talked about it between yourselves. Not for everyone to hear at the table. A perfect opportunity. Do you know how many people would want that job?’

It’s not at all what I meant. I was referring to his treatment of Heather, his reaction to Heather, not about the job, which was another issue – a less important one, but one that was bothering me enough that I was planning to tackle it next.

‘I meant, with Heather.’ I look at him for the first time and the expression on his face reveals it’s a struggle for him to work out what I could be referring to. Eventually it comes to him.

‘I spoke to Heather about that the very next day. All over, Jasmine.’

‘And?’

‘And now I know the Circles concept.’

‘ Now you know.’

‘Yes. Now,’ he says, glaring at me.

‘She’s thirty-four years old, we’ve been doing the Circles concept for quite some time.’

I should have said it louder, but I mumble it. I don’t even know if he hears. I hope he does, but I’m not able for this: to discuss, to confront. Or maybe I’m okay with confrontation but then all I want to do is back away like it never happened and I don’t exist. The child in me quivers a bit at having my dad angry with me, however much the teenager in me rebels. ‘You treat her like she’s different. Like she’s special .’

‘I do not. I treat her the same as everyone else and that’s what gets you mad. It’s you that treats her differently,’ he says. ‘And you should think about that. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t exactly practise what you preach. It’s always been one rule for you and another for everyone else. This Circles concept – seems to be different for you than for everybody else, because everyone and anyone who comes near you is orange. No, Zara love, don’t climb on that.’ He cuts the conversation short and runs to her aid.

‘Is that your granddad?’ a child asks, and Zara laughs as though she’s never heard such a ridiculous thing. ‘This is my daddy!’

They end up on a see-saw together, Dad’s gut barely able to squeeze behind the handles. As he goes down I see the bald patch in the back of his thinning hair. He does look like her granddad.

I’m quite stunned by what he has said to me. He said it so easily, without anger, which should make it easy to ignore, yet it isn’t. It’s the very calmness with which he said it that makes me listen, that makes me hear him loud and clear.

The Orange Wave Circle is the furthest circle away from the Purple Private Circle that represents the person concerned, in this case, me. It’s the circle for distant acquaintances, for those you have no physical or emotional contact with at all.

Everyone and anyone who comes near you is orange.

That’s not true, I want to shout at him. But I don’t know if that’s correct. Heather is the only person I have ever really kept close to me. Orange is certainly the circle I seem to have firmly planted him in. I came here to confront him about his own actions – no, I came to see Zara, but secondary to that was to make him see that his behaviour must change, I didn’t expect the tide to change, for me to be staring down the barrel of my own finger.