Cecelia Ahern - The Year I Met You

‘Well, well, well, what have we got here?’ you say, coming towards me with an enormous grin. You give my hair an annoying big-brother ruffle before joining me at the garden table. ‘You look fancy tonight.’

‘Just thought I’d call an urgent neighbourhood meeting,’ I slur, then push a glass towards you and lean over to fill it. I almost fall off my chair as I do so.

‘Not for me.’ You place your hand over the top of the glass.

‘Still not drinking?’ I ask, disappointed.

‘Have I made you get out of bed in the middle of the night lately to get me into my house?’

I think about it. ‘No.’

‘Not for four weeks.’

I top my own glass up some more. ‘Party pooper.’

‘Alcoholic.’

‘Potato, potato,’ I say. I slug back some wine.

‘That’s supportive,’ you say good-naturedly.

‘You’re not an alcoholic. You’re a pisshead – there’s a difference.’

‘Wow. That’s controversial. Explain that please.’

‘You’re an eejit, that’s all. Selfish. Choose late nights over early nights. You’re not addicted, you don’t actually have a drink problem, you have a life problem. I mean, do you go to meetings?’

‘No. Well, kind of. I sit with Dr J.’

‘A retired GP doesn’t count.’

‘Dr J is an alcoholic. Hasn’t had a drink in over twenty years. There’s a lot about him that you don’t know,’ he says, seeing my shocked expression. ‘His wife said she wouldn’t have children until he cleaned himself up. He didn’t stop until he was over fifty. Too late. She stayed with him though.’

‘Well, she’s dead now.’ I drain my glass.

You frown. ‘Yes, Sherlock. She’s dead now.’

‘So she got away in the end.’ I have no idea why I’m saying the things I’m saying. Probably for the sake of being annoying, which I clearly am. It’s fun to be you, I can see why you do it.

You get up and leave the table and disappear into the house. I think you’ve gone for good, but you return with a bag of cheese nachos.

‘Are the kids in there?’

‘Kris and Kylie asked if they could stay another night. They’re enjoying the plot.’

‘Kris and Kylie. So that’s their names. They even sound like twins.’

‘They are.’

‘Oh.’

You have quite an impressive plot of vegetables growing at the side of the house. Though it’s dark, I eye the area. You laugh.

‘You’re jealous.’

‘Why would I be? When I have that.’ We look at my garden. It’s the best on the street, if I do say so myself. ‘Don’t try to compete with me, Marshall,’ I warn.

‘I wouldn’t dare,’ you say, mock-serious. ‘Fionn still isn’t getting into the spirit of things.’

‘He might not ever,’ I say thoughtfully, my finger running around the rim of the glass. ‘No matter what you do.’

‘Well, that’s positive, thanks.’

‘I’m not here to be positive. I’m here to be realistic. If you want cheery tips, talk to okey-dokey Dr J.’

‘I do.’

‘I’m surprised about him, you know. He’s lucky he didn’t kill someone at the practice.’

‘He was a functioning alcoholic. The worst kind.’

‘Lucky for you, you weren’t.’

You take both insults: that you’re an alcoholic and that you couldn’t function.

‘I know. He’s made me see that.’

We go quiet and you munch on the nachos. I slug my wine. I realise I’ve been doing the usual thing of attacking you.

‘Every boyfriend I’ve ever been with has left me. Did you know that?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ You have that amused expression again. ‘But I can’t say I’m surprised,’ you add, sarcastically, but gently.

‘Because I’m very difficult to live with,’ I say, to your surprise.

‘Why are you difficult to live with?’

‘Because I want everything done my way. I don’t like mistakes.’

‘Jesus, you wouldn’t want to live with me.’

‘You’re quite right. I don’t.’

Silence.

‘Where’s this coming from tonight?’

‘I slept with my ex.’

You look at your watch. It’s two a.m.

‘I left when he was asleep.’

‘He was probably pretending to be asleep.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘I used to pull that trick all the time.’

‘Well, it worked. She left.’

You don’t like that joke so much, probably because it didn’t come out as a joke.

‘So is that what he told you? That you’re difficult to live with?’

‘Not in so many words. I came up with it all by myself. It’s something I’ve realised since …’ I look over at my garden, beautiful and blooming, drawing the magical source of knowledge into myself. The more I dig into the soil, the more I dig into myself.

‘Then how do you know it’s true? Maybe you’re not difficult to live with at all, maybe you’re just a busy, successful, beautiful woman who won’t settle for anything but the best – and why should you?’

That moves me, almost to tears.

‘Maybe,’ he says.

My tears instantly dry.

‘Or maybe you’re crap in bed and impossible to live with.’

You start laughing and I throw a nacho at you.

‘He told me tonight that he was lonely in my company. That’s why he left me.’

Silence.

‘Lonely in your company,’ you say slowly, thoughtfully.

‘Lonely in my company,’ I repeat, refilling my glass.

Imagine how I felt – imagine how he’d felt, being with somebody who made him feel lonely. It’s quite an awful thing to feel lonely in the company of someone you love. It is quite something to say it, it is unbearable to be the one to hear it, to be the one to have it said of you.

‘He said this before or after you slept with him?’ you ask, leaning forward, elbows on the table, interested, studying me.

‘Before. But I know what you’re thinking. It wasn’t a line.’

‘It was a line,’ you say, annoyed. ‘Come on, Jasmine, it was a line. I bet you two were on your own somewhere, bet it was the end of the night, he takes you aside, talks to Jasmine, still single and jobless, bound to be in a vulnerable state, her friends popping sprogs all around her. Even though she says she doesn’t want them, it’s still going to get her thinking. And then he pulls the line out of his pocket. He looks at you, all red hair and big tits …’

I snort, trying not to smile.

‘Smudged eyeliner …’

I wipe under my eyes.

‘It’s a line. It’s bound to go one of two ways: either you get angry and throw your drink on him, or you feel guilty and he gets laid. Nine times out of ten, it works.’

‘To quote Dr J: “ Codswallop! ” You did not try that ten times,’ I say, dubious.

‘Twice. Got a drink in my face once, got my happy ending once. And the drink in question was a Sambuca, which really stung my skin, with the coffee bean still on fire.’

I laugh.

‘Finally. She smiles,’ you say softly.

I light up a cigarette.

‘You don’t smoke.’

‘Only when I drink.’

‘Wild thing.’

I roll my eyes.

‘So what about your boyfriend? You going to tell him about what you did tonight?’

‘What boyfriend?’

‘The good-looking guy who calls around all the time. The one who’s not your cousin.’ You hold your hands up and laugh. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t help it.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend. That’s Monday. He’s a headhunter. He was trying to get me to go for a job.’

‘Monday?’

‘He was born on a Monday.’

‘Right. And Monday is headhunting you.’

I don’t like the amused look on your face.

‘Was. Or do you think that was a line too?’ I’m being sarcastic, I don’t expect you to give it serious consideration.