Cecelia Ahern - The Year I Met You

There are kids’ zones, cooking zones, main stages and smaller stages with chefs doing cooking exhibitions, audiences crowded around, tasting, Irish dancers, DIY displays, bubble displays and fashion shows. The park is buzzing with event after event, something for everyone. Around me, award-winning garden designers have created entire new worlds in their small plots of land. There is a sharp and sleek Scandic garden, a Japanese garden, a Chinese garden, a Wizard of Oz garden, some fun, some quirky, some breathtaking, all of them taking me into another world.

Though my heart is bursting to see him, I take my time wandering around, not wanting to miss a clue, and also enjoying the atmosphere. This time last year I would not have thought about being here, I wouldn’t have considered this event to be for someone like me, unless I was there to work, unless I was pitching something to someone and with my eye on the prize. And if I had been here under those circumstances I would have missed the beauty of the place. It is almost a cliché to hear people talking about ‘slowing down’, but it is true. I have slowed down and through slowing, I see so much more.

It is when I see a recreated Irish landscape with Connemara drystone walls and a caravan – the idea being to capture the ‘staycation’, holidaying in Ireland in summertime – that I sense I’m close. There is a field of bluebells, the purple haze like a carpet, leading the eye all the way past the drystone walls, the bog marshes and the lake … and there he is. Monday stands at the door of a sixties caravan, which sits in the long grass as though it has been there, abandoned for years. The door is open, there is a floral window blind flapping in the breeze.

I stop by the rusted gate.

‘ Fáilte , Jasmine,’ he says, a coy smile on his face, and I sense nervousness too.

I laugh.

‘Come on in,’ he motions, and as I push the gate open it gives the perfect creak, as though it’s not real. I make my way through the tall purple flowers which line the pathway, mixed with fluffy cream-coloured blossoms that perfume the air with their fragrance: loosestrife and meadowsweet. It’s a hot day and for the occasion I’m wearing a floral summer dress, though the poppies are more pop art than country garden. The fragrance of the meadowsweet gives way to pungent garlic as the wild garlic reaches my nose.

When I get closer, he sees the enormous lump caused by Dr Jameson’s frying pan, and he holds my face in his hands, concern, and anger all over his face.

‘What happened?’

‘An accident.’

‘Who did this?’ Dark, concerned, angry face.

‘Dr J. It’s a long story …’

‘What?’

‘An accident. To do with the letter …’ I bite my lip.

He smiles and shakes his head. ‘Honestly, I’ve never met anyone like you three …’ He kisses my bruise tenderly. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you, full stop.’ He takes my hand, his thumb rubbing against my palm, which makes me shiver, and he leads me to the caravan. I peer inside and see the table has been set for lunch.

‘Do you do this for all the people you headhunt?’

‘Depends on the commission.’

‘I can imagine what you give them when you get actual commission,’ I tease. ‘Really wish I’d got that job now.’

He fixes me with a look that makes my heart race and I try to calm my flustered innards as we sit in the tiny caravan, our knees touching under the fold-out table.

‘So instead of always going to your house, I thought I’d bring you to my home and show you a slice of where I come from.’

‘Monday, this is beautiful. And incredibly sweet.’

He blushes but forges onward, ‘And in the spirit of being home, I brought you what I grew up eating.’ He opens the containers. ‘Blackberries, wild strawberries. We used to pick them and my grandmother made jam. Apple pie.’ He reveals the delights, Tupperware box by Tupperware box. ‘Wild garlic pesto with hot brown bread.’

My mouth waters. ‘Did you cook all of this?’

He’s embarrassed again. ‘Yeah, but they’re Maimeó’s recipes. Foolproof. My mam can’t cook to save her life, so for lunch I had …’ he makes a grand gesture with a Superman lunchbox, ‘salad-cream sandwiches.’

‘Wow.’

‘I know. She was hopeless. Still is. Maimeó raised me, really. Tough woman, moved over from the Aran Islands when my mam got pregnant with me, even though she was an Aran islander at heart and being away almost killed her. She brought me there every chance she could.’

‘Is she still alive?’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He doesn’t say anything, just starts sharing out the food.

‘Your home is a lot more peaceful than mine was the last time you were there. I’m sorry about the meeting …’ I need to address it.

‘Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry it was sprung on you. That lady who works with your sister, Jamie, told me it would be a surprise for you. I thought maybe you’d like it.’

‘You didn’t think that I’d like that, surely.’

‘I don’t know you very well, Jasmine. But I want to.’ No blushing this time, just hazel emerald eyes. ‘How’s your ex?’

‘Oh God. Monday. I’m so sorry about that. Really—’

‘You don’t need to apologise. We weren’t … there was nothing …’ But I can see that it hurt him.

‘And I’m sorry about the interview.’ I cover my face in my hands. ‘I haven’t started very well at all, have I? If all I have to say to you is sorry.’

‘I understand about the interview,’ he says. ‘I can understand how you’d want to follow Heather. You should have just told me, you know? I was calling and calling. I could have tried to change the date.’

‘I know.’ I wince. ‘I couldn’t think what to say to you.’

‘The truth is always fine with me.’ He shrugs easily.

‘Okay. Yes. Sorry.’

‘Stop saying sorry.’

I nod. ‘Don’t suppose you’d want to headhunt me for anything else?’ I try weakly. ‘I can be quite reliable—’

‘I have a wonderful prospect for you,’ he says, spooning clotted cream on to strawberry-jam-covered scones.

‘Yeah?’ I light up.

He stops what he’s doing and fixes me with one of his looks. ‘How about a six foot, black-haired, green-eyed, freckle-faced black man from Connemara? One in a million. Actually, one in four point seven million.’

My heart soars. ‘I’ll take it,’ I say, and he leans in to kiss me and it is as long and luscious as I have daydreamed and imagined it would be.

‘Your elbow is in the jam,’ I whisper, mid-kiss.

‘I know,’ he whispers back.

‘And you’re not six foot.’

‘Ssh,’ he whispers again, kissing me. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’

We laugh as we pull apart.

‘So now it’s my turn to apologise,’ he says, playing with my fingers. I’m no small lady but my hands look like doll’s hands in his. ‘I’m sorry it took me so long to—’

‘Make a move?’ I offer.

‘Yes,’ he finally looks me in the eye. ‘I’m really quite shy,’ he says, and I believe him. For someone who is so confident when it comes to work, he is endearingly awkward at this kind of thing. ‘I used the job as an excuse to keep seeing you while I tried to summon up the courage, and every single time I prattled on about the job I was trying to figure out if you were going to say no, or laugh in my face. Obviously headhunting someone doesn’t usually bring me to their house for dinner.’

‘Or to help with their water fountain.’

He laughs. ‘Or that. Or help them spy on their neighbour.’

‘You weren’t too shy to organise this,’ I say.

‘I’m more of a grand gestures kind of man,’ he says, and we laugh. ‘The ex-boyfriend thing gave me the kick up the arse I needed.’