Cecelia Ahern - The Time of My Life

She was looking at me angrily.

‘What? What have I said?’

‘You don’t have a cat,’ she said, her eyes dark.

‘Oh! I forgot you didn’t know.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I’ve had him for years but if anyone finds out I’ll be evicted and it just doesn’t seem worth it,’ I joked then turned serious. ‘You don’t mind that I have a cat, do you?’

‘I’ve never seen him.’

‘He’s right behind me.’

‘No, he’s not. Lucy, whatever you’re doing, it’s not funny.’

‘I’m not doing anything. What are you talking about?’

‘Were you talking to Nigel?’

‘Nigel? Who’s Nigel? Should I have been?’

‘My husband,’ she said angrily.

‘No! I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. What …’ But I didn’t get a chance to finish my sentence because the door slammed in my face. ‘What the …?’ When I turned around to interrogate Mr Pan on what on earth he’d done to poor Claire, I finally understood. Mr Pan wasn’t there, he’d run off down the corridor leaving her to think I was asking her to mind an invisible cat. Feeling cruel, even though that hadn’t been my intention, I ran after him and found him, right at the feet of a grumpy neighbour who never spoke to me.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ I said in shock. ‘Is that a stray cat? How on earth did he get in here? Or maybe it’s a she? Who’s to know? Let me just get rid of him for you.’ I scooped Mr Pan up in my arms and hurried back to my apartment, mumbling, ‘Dirty, yucky, horrible stray cat,’ for anyone and everyone to hear.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I sat at the dining table in my parents’ home and fought the urge to fidget with everything. I clasped my hands on the table and contained the anxiety that I felt within. I hadn’t yet found the courage to tell them that once again I was lifeless, not because I had brushed it under the carpet as I used to do, but because Life disagreed with my decisions and had left me. I had stalked him with phone calls all afternoon in a pretend effort to apologise but really it was to see if we could cancel the family dinner. He hadn’t answered the phone and then after six tries his phone was switched off. I didn’t leave a message; I couldn’t find the words because I wasn’t near sorry enough to beg for his forgiveness and he would sense I wasn’t genuine. It wasn’t a good situation to be in; it was neither funny nor clever. It was one thing to ignore your life yourself, it was quite another for your own life to ignore – then abandon – you. If Life had given up on me, what chance did I have?

The evening was too chilly to eat outside and so Edith had decided to set up the dining room, my parents’ most formal room and used only for special occasions. Initially I had thought she was trying to get me back for stealing her cake and presenting it to Mum as my own home-baked gift, just like the bouquet of flowers last time, but on observing her that evening, I felt she was genuinely excited to meet the extra special guest and wanted him to receive the grandest of Silchester welcomes. Mum hadn’t held back on preparations either as every room leading off the entrance hall had a Waterford Crystal vase filled with fresh flowers, the dining table was cloaked in white linen, the finest silverware was laid out, her hair was freshly blowdried, and she was wearing a pink and turquoise tweed Chanel shift dress and jacket with one of her dozens of pairs of flat pumps. Most people called their dining rooms the dining room , or in some households the kitchen table ; we, however, called our dining room the Oak Room . Thanks to our great Literary Writer who came before us, the walls of the dining room were panelled floor to ceiling in oak, and crystal wall lights shone over the expensive eclectic collection of paintings – some abstract, some of men with tweed caps dipped low as they worked the bogs in Mayo.

‘Can I help?’ I asked Mum as she floated into the room for the third time, carrying a sterling silver tray to add to the table of condiments which totalled more than any human being would ever need in a lifetime let alone in one meal. There were tiny silver bowls of mint sauce, mustard – whole-grain and French – olive oil, mayonnaise and ketchup, all with tiny silver spoons displayed beside them.

‘No, dear, you are our guest.’ She surveyed the table. ‘Balsamic?’

‘Mum, it’s fine, really, I think there’s plenty on the table.’

‘He might like some balsamic for that lovely two-bean salad you brought for Mum, Lucy,’ Riley said, stirring it – the tension not the condiments.

‘Yes.’ Mum looked at Riley. ‘You’re right. I’ll get it.’

‘She likes salad,’ I defended my gift to her.

‘And that it came in a plastic container from your work canteen makes it all the more special,’ he smiled.

I hadn’t told them my life wasn’t coming for dinner partly because I didn’t know whether he would show or not but mostly because I rather stupidly thought it wouldn’t make much difference whether or not he turned up. I thought that when the time came I could think of a polite excuse for why he couldn’t make it, but I misjudged it. I hadn’t anticipated such eagerness on their part to be acquainted with my life. There was a buzz in the air, an excitement and surprisingly, almost a nervousness. That was it. My mum was nervous. She was rushing around trying to make sure everything was perfect in an effort to please my life. Edith was too, which astonished me. Technically it was me they were trying to please and I couldn’t help but feel flattered, but mostly I knew I was in trouble. The news wasn’t going to go down well and the later I left it the worse it was going to get.

The gate intercom buzzed and Mum looked at me like a deer caught in headlights. ‘Is my hair okay?’ I was so surprised by her behaviour – Silchesters didn’t get flustered – that I couldn’t answer so she rushed to the gilded mirror above the gigantic marble fireplace and stood on tiptoe to see the top of her head. She licked her finger and stuck a hair down in place. I looked around at the table settings for eight people, and suddenly I was nervous.

‘It may be the carpet man,’ Edith said, trying to calm Mum down.

‘Carpet man? What carpet man?’ I asked, my heartbeat beginning to quicken.

‘Your life friend kindly gave me the number of a carpet company whom he said did wonders in your apartment, though I wish he could have come after the dinner,’ she frowned as she examined the time again. ‘I must say, it was so pleasant speaking to him on the phone, I’m really looking forward to meeting him in person. I know I’m going to love him’ Mum scrunched up her face again and hunched her shoulders at me, lovingly.

‘The carpet man?’

‘No, your life,’ she laughed.

‘What happened to the carpet, Sheila?’ my grandmother asked.

‘Coffee on the Persian rug in the drawing room. Long story but I desperately need it cleaned by tomorrow because Florrie Flanagan is visiting.’ She looked at me. ‘Remember Florrie?’ I shook my head. ‘You do, her daughter Elizabeth just had a baby boy. They called him Oscar. Isn’t that nice?’

I wondered why she never asked Riley whether the birth of any child was ever nice. We heard footsteps coming towards the door. I watched as Mum took a deep breath and smiled in preparation, and I tried to think quickly what to do if either Don or my life walked in the door. I didn’t need to worry as Philip popped his head in the door. Mum exhaled.

‘Oh, it’s you.’

‘Well, thank you for the warm welcome,’ Philip said and as he stepped inside his seven-year-old daughter, Jemima, followed him. She was as serene as always, her face didn’t change, no expression but a calm look around the room and her eyes slightly widened and lit when she saw Riley and me.