Cecelia Ahern - The Year I Met You

‘What was the job?’

‘Working with the DavidGordonWhite Foundation.’

‘The tax consultants?’

‘They have a new foundation dedicated to climate justice.’

You look at me pointedly. ‘You do start-ups.’

‘It’s new. I’d have to start it up.’

‘And you’re telling me he’s not trying to get you into bed?’

‘I wish he would,’ I reply, and you laugh. I drop the cigarette on the ground and pivot on it with my strappy heel. For a moment I’d contemplated extinguishing it on the varnished table, but the thought of the children’s hard work stopped me. ‘Anyway it’s too late. I missed the interview.’

‘Why? Get scared?’ You’re not teasing this time.

‘No.’ But I was scared, though it wasn’t over the job.

I think about telling you the truth. It would mean having to explain my fears about Heather going away on her own, and I don’t want to reinforce your stereotypical view of Down syndrome, even if my own thinking was wrong. She has been home for one week and while we have spoken on the phone – of course she’s talking to me, Heather couldn’t be any other way – things are not the same. She is distant. I’ve lost a piece of her, the invisible piece that held her and me together.

‘Did you miss the interview because you were drunk?’ you ask, concerned.

‘No,’ I snap.

‘Okay, okay. It just seems to be a recurring theme these days, so I thought I should mention it, seeing as you so kindly brought my drinking to my attention.’ You hold your hands up, defensively.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, more calmly. ‘I’m just … so …’ I make a fart noise with my mouth and then sigh, unable to sum up my feelings any more than that.

‘Yeah. I understand.’

And despite my inability to explain, I think that you do understand exactly. We sit in a comfortable silence which makes me think of how Jonathan and Heather were together, the jealousy I felt, not realising I have that comfort right here with you.

‘That man who comes over to your house with the little girl. Is that your dad?’

I nod.

‘He seems like a good dad.’

I think you’re going to start picking at me again, but as you run your hand down the smooth varnished wood I know that you’re thinking about yourself and your current predicament.

‘He is now,’ I say. I want to add to someone else , but I don’t.

You look up at me. Study me in that way that you do, which I hate, because it’s as though you’re seeing, or trying to see right through to my soul.

‘Interesting.’

‘Interesting,’ I sigh. ‘What’s interesting about that?’

‘It explains the things you said to me, that’s all.’

‘I told you you were a terrible dad because you were a terrible dad.’

‘But you noticed it. It bothered you.’

I don’t respond. I drink instead.

‘Is he trying to make up for it now?’

‘No, he’s interfering in my life – different thing altogether.’ On your questioning look, I explain: ‘He’s trying to get me a job. At his old company. Pull in a few favours, that kind of thing.’

‘That sounds helpful.’

‘It’s not helpful. It’s nepotism.’

‘Is it a good job?’

‘Actually, yes, it is. Account director, manage a team of eight. Forty thousand,’ I repeat dad’s mantra in a bad impression of him.

‘It’s a good job.’

‘Yes, it’s a great job. That’s what I said.’

‘Not something that he’d give to anyone.’

‘Of course not.’

‘You’d have to do an interview.’

‘Of course. It’s not his company any more. He’s only putting my name forward.’

‘So he believes in you. Thinks you’re capable. I’m sure he’s a proud man. He wouldn’t want to be embarrassed by an underperforming daughter.’

I prickle at that and wonder if you’re referring to Heather. I ready myself, but realise you’re not. I don’t know what to say to you.

‘I’d take it as a compliment.’

‘Whatever.’

‘You and Fionn have a lot in common,’ you say, and I know you’re criticising my childish response, but I go for the jugular.

‘Because we’ve both got crap dads?’

You sigh. ‘If I told you I knew someone with a great idea for a start-up, and they were looking for someone to work with, would you be interested?’

‘Is her name Caroline?’ I say, and hear the dread in my voice.

‘I mean hypothetically.’

‘Yes. I would meet them.’

‘But your dad knows someone who’s looking for someone and you won’t entertain it.’

I don’t know how to answer, so in the spirit of Fionn, I shrug.

‘I wouldn’t rule it out if I were you.’

‘I don’t need his help.’

‘Yes, you do.’

I’m silent.

‘You’ve a headhunter hunting you for a job you would have taken by now if you were in any way interested, and a friend who wants you to help her set up a website about dresses. I was in your house, I heard,’ you explain, seeing my reaction. ‘Of course you need help.’

I’m silent.

‘I know you don’t like other people’s opinions. You think they’re wrong. That they’re not open-minded. Don’t look at me like that, you’ve told me this. Sometimes – just sometimes – I think you look at things entirely the wrong way. I don’t know what you think you’re defending yourself against, but it’s all the wrong things.’

You let that hang for a while. I preferred it when I hated you and we didn’t speak. But seeing as you’ve picked through me and my issues, I feel we’ve reached the point where I can tackle yours. ‘What’s with the Guns N’ Roses song?’

You look at me blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘“Paradise City”?’ I smile. ‘It’s blaring out most nights when you come home.’

You stare at me blankly. ‘Nothing. The CD player in the jeep is jammed. It’s the only song that plays.’

I’m disappointed. Where I thought I found meaning in you, it turns out I am wrong. Where I thought I had a glimpse of something, I am mistaken.

‘I better get back to bed, the kids will be up early in the morning. We’re picking our peas tomorrow and planting tomatoes.’

I make a faux impressed face. I’m actually jealous. My peas failed.

‘You okay here?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Just for the record, Jasmine: I would have said the opposite about you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If it wasn’t for you, I would have been alone too many times. I’ve never felt lonely in your company, not for a second.’

My breath catches in my throat. I watch you disappear inside the house. I suddenly feel stone-cold sober. Although I’m dizzy, I have clarity of thought. I’m sitting at the head of the table, at the seat you usually sit in. Your drinking table. How the tables turn in life.

22

The following morning I’m woken by the sun streaming in on my face and the doorbell is ringing. My head is hot, as though I’ve been lying on the tarmac with a magnifying glass held over my face, God’s childish joke on me. I didn’t bother closing the curtains when I fell into bed. Everything comes back to me in an instant, as though I’m being hit over the head with a stone-filled sock. The christening, Laurence. I don’t even care that I dragged you out of bed last night, it is Laurence that beats everything, hands down. The doorbell continues to ring.

‘She’s not here, Dad!’ I hear a little girl’s voice shout beneath my window. Kylie. Or maybe Kris, whose voice hasn’t broken yet.

‘She’s there. Keep trying,’ I hear you shout across the road.

I grunt as I open my eyes and try to adjust to the white light. My mouth is like sandpaper and I look to my bedside locker for water and instead see an empty bottle of vodka. My stomach heaves. This is becoming all too familiar and I know, I just know, that this is the last time this will happen. I can’t take any more. Wanting to be out of my system is now all out of my system. I want to come back now. My alarm clock tells me it is noon and I believe it, the midday sun on my hot cheeks.