Cecelia Ahern - The Time of My Life

‘Nigel,’ she said, shocked.

He turned around. ‘Claire.’ I recognised him as the man in Claire’s photographs: her husband, Conor’s father. He looked at the number on her door and then at the number on mine. ‘Am I at the wrong apartment?’

‘No, this is Lucy, our … my neighbour. She’s going to babysit.’

He looked at me in such a way that I wanted to curl up and die. I knew he was thinking that I was taking advantage of her but what could I do, tell her that there was no child? Surely she knew that, deep down in her heart.

‘For free,’ I blurted out just so that he would at least forgive me for that. ‘And she wouldn’t go otherwise.’

He nodded once, understanding, then his eyes moved back to her. His voice was gentle. ‘I’ll drive you there. Okay?’

I closed the door behind them.

‘Hi again,’ I said, to the empty space in the buggy. ‘Mummy and Daddy won’t be long.’

Then I put my head in my hands and sat slumped across the counter. Mr Pan leaped up and I felt his cold nose near my ear. I Googled people’s dreams and ambitions, and instantly bored, I closed the laptop. Twelve forty-five came and went and then I had an idea. I took a photograph of Gene Kelly’s face on the poster on my bathroom door and sent it to Don Lockwood with a text:

– Saw this and thought of you.

Then I waited. And waited. Anxiously. Then hopefully. Then with deep disappointment. Then with a hurt so deep it cut me like a knife. I didn’t blame him. I’d told him never to call me again but still I hoped. Then the hope faded and I was depressed. And alone, and empty, and lost. And not even one minute had passed by.

I opened the fridge-freezer and stared at the empty shelves. The longer I stared, the more the food didn’t appear. Then my phone beeped. I slammed the door and dived on the phone. Typically, simultaneously, the door buzzed too. I decided to savour the text and answered the door first. A red Magic Carpet stared back at me. It was emblazoned on the chest of the man who faced me. I looked up; he was wearing a blue cap with another picture of a carpet on it, low over his face. I looked behind him: nobody else, no tools or equipment.

‘Roger?’ I asked, stepping aside for him to come in.

‘Roger is my dad,’ he said, entering the flat. ‘He doesn’t work weekends.’

‘Okay.’

He looked around. Then at me.

‘Do I know you?’ he asked.

‘Eh. I don’t know. My name is Lucy Silchester.’

‘Yeah, I have it on the …’ He lifted his clipboard in the air but didn’t finish his sentence. But he kept staring at me, right into my eyes. Searching and curious. It made me nervous. I looked away and took a few steps to the kitchen so that the counter would separate us. He realised this and took a few steps back, which I appreciated.

‘So where are the others?’ I asked.

‘The others?’

‘The cleaning people,’ I said. ‘Isn’t there a team?’

‘No, just me and my dad. But he doesn’t work weekends as I said, so …’ He looked around. ‘Is it okay if it’s just me?’

His asking made it easier.

‘Yes, sure.’

‘My stuff is in the van. I just wanted to come up and take a look before I brought it all the way up.’

‘Oh. Okay. Should I help you carry something?’

‘No, thanks. I’m sure you can’t leave the little one.’ He smiled and tiny dimples appeared and he was suddenly the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Then I thought of Blake, and then he wasn’t any more. It always happened like that.

I looked at the buggy. ‘Oh, that. It’s not mine. I mean, he. It’s a neighbour’s. I mean he is a neighbour’s. I’m minding him.’

‘How old is he?’ He smiled fondly, lifting his chin so he could see into the buggy.

I pushed the cover down further so he couldn’t. ‘Oh, one-ish. He’s asleep.’ As if that explained anything.

‘I’ll try to work as quietly as possible. Are there any areas in particular you want me to concentrate on?’

‘Just the floor.’ I meant it seriously but it came out funny. He laughed.

‘The entire floor?’

‘Just the dirty bits.’

We both smiled. He was still cute, even when placed on the Blake barometer.

‘So that’s probably the entire thing,’ I said.

He looked around at the floor and I was suddenly aware of a handsome man standing in my little private hovel. I was embarrassed. Suddenly he got down on his knees and examined an area on the floor. He rubbed it with his hand.

‘Is that—?’

‘Oh yes, I just wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget. I couldn’t find any paper.’

He looked at me with a big grin. ‘Did you use permanent marker?’

‘Eh …’ I rooted in the drawer in the kitchen for the marker. ‘Here.’

He studied it. ‘This is permanent, you know.’

‘Oh. Can you get it out? Because if you can’t, my landlord will roll me up in it and throw me out.’

‘I’ll try.’ He looked at me, amused. ‘I’ll get my equipment from the van.’

I sat back on the stool and intended to make the time pass by stalking Don Lockwood. I read his text.

– She rears her pretty head. So how has your week been?

–Haven’t been held at water-pistol point since Tuesday. How’s Tom?

I heard a phone beep in the corridor and sensed the cleaning guy was back. But he didn’t appear. I peeped my head around the corner and saw him reading his phone. ‘Sorry,’ he said, popping it into his pocket. He picked up a machine that looked like an oversized vacuum cleaner and carried it inside. The muscles in his arms puffed out to three times the size of my head. I tried not to stare but I failed.

‘I’m just going to sit here. If you need anything, if you get lost or anything, I’m here.’

He laughed, then studied the oversized couch.

‘It came from a bigger apartment,’ I explained.

‘It’s nice.’ He had his hands on his hips, inspecting it. ‘It might be a problem to move.’

‘It comes apart.’ Like everything else in here.

He looked around. ‘Do you mind if I put some of it on the bed and some in the bathroom?’

‘Of course, but if you find any money underneath, it’s mine. Anything else is yours.’

He lifted the couch and I stared at his muscles, which were so large they pushed out all thoughts from my head. ‘I won’t have much use for this,’ he laughed, looking at a dusty cerise pink bra on the floor. I tried to think of a funny response but instead I ran to pick it up, stubbed my toe on the corner of the kitchen counter and went flying onto the couch.

‘Sshhit.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes,’ I squeaked. I grabbed my bra and tried to crumple it into a ball, then I held my toe until the pain went away. ‘I’m sure you’ve never seen a bra before, I’m glad I dramatically dived onto the floor to get it,’ I said through gritted teeth.

He laughed. ‘What is it with this guy?’ he asked, passing Gene Kelly on the bathroom door and placing another part of the couch inside. ‘Girls love him.’

‘He was the working man’s dancer,’ I explained, rubbing my toe. ‘None of that pretentious top-’n’-tails stuff that Fred Astaire did. Gene was, you know, a real man.’

He seemed interested, then went back to his work and didn’t say another word. Finally I sensed no movement so I looked up. He was standing in the middle of the room with a piece of the couch in his arms, looking around, lost. I could see his dilemma: the bed was piled high, the bathroom including the bath was jam packed and there was nowhere else to place the couch.

‘We could put it out in the corridor,’ I said.

‘It will block the way.’