Cecelia Ahern - The Time of My Life

‘Mind if I join you?’

She shook her head. I sat beside her with Mr Pan on my knee. Claire looked down at him.

‘I’m sorry I thought you were—’

‘I know,’ I interrupted. ‘It’s okay.’

He began to struggle and so I let him free to roam.

We sat in silence.

‘He loves the swings,’ she finally said, watching them. ‘I’ve never heard him laugh so much as when he’s on them.

‘I used to love the swings too,’ I said and we fell back into silence.

‘How is he?’

‘Pardon?’ She snapped out of her trance.

‘Conor. Yesterday you said he was sick, how is he now?’

‘He’s not getting any better,’ she said distantly.

‘Have you brought him to a doctor?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe you should.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘If he’s not well.’

‘It’s just … I hate doctors. I hate hospitals even more but with Mum sick, I just have to go. I haven’t been since …’ She trailed off, looking momentarily confused. Another few minutes passed before she spoke again. ‘My mum is improving.’

‘That’s great news.’

‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘It’s funny, it takes her going through all that to unite us all again.’

‘In my apartment the other day, that was your husband?’

She nodded. ‘We’re not together but …’

‘You never know,’ I finished for her.

She nodded. ‘He’s not sick sick.’

‘Your husband?’

‘No, Conor. He’s not sick, he’s just different.’

‘In what way?’

‘He’s quieter.’ She turned to me then, her eyes – wide and worried – were filled with tears. ‘He’s much quieter. I don’t hear him so much any more.’

We returned our gaze to the unmoving swing and I thought of Blake and the sounds of our memories that were getting quieter, and the feelings I had for him, which felt further and further away from my heart.

‘Maybe that’s not such a bad thing, Claire.’

‘He loved swings,’ she said again.

‘Yeah,’ I replied, noting her use of the past tense. ‘I loved swings too.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

‘Mum, are you awake?’

It was midnight. Mum was in my bed and I was on the couch and I was wide awake.

‘Yes, dear,’ she replied instantly, wide awake. The bedside lamp went on. We both sat up.

‘Why don’t you have a garden party, at the house? Invite close friends and family, keep the flowers you’ve ordered and the caterers you’ve booked.’

Mum thought about it, then clapped her hands and beamed. ‘Lucy, that’s a wonderful idea.’ Then her smile faded. ‘Problem is, I have to marry your father again.’

‘Good point. Well, that’s one thing I can’t help you with.’

She turned the light off and we lay in silence, both of our minds on overtime. I took my phone from the coffee table and stared at my screen saver. Don’s eyes still dominated the screen. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I wanted to contact him to apologise but I didn’t know what to say. I had been so disrespectful to him, had clearly chosen Blake over him and then cowered away from dealing with it by leaving it up to my life to tell him. I put the phone back on the table but as if she read my mind, Mum asked out of nowhere, ‘What happened to your boyfriend?’

‘Blake?’

‘No, not him, the young man who came for dinner on Monday.’

‘Oh. Don. He wasn’t exactly my boyfriend.’

‘Wasn’t he? You had such chemistry. And I just loved how he defended you in front of your father. Wasn’t that something?’

‘Yeah,’ I said quietly. Then, ‘What do you mean, we had chemistry?’

‘The way you looked at each other, you both looked like you were caught in a spell.’

My heart flipped.

‘Your father and I used to be like that or so people said. You know, we met at one of Daddy’s parties. I was still in school and your father was doing an internship with Daddy.’

‘I know, you told me.’

‘Yes, but I never told you how he chatted me up.’

‘Father chatted you up?’

‘Of course. I’d brought a friend along with me to the party but she went to the bathroom and so I was alone and this austere, serious-looking young man with a moustache approached me. He had a glass of water in his hand and he said to me, “You look lonely, would you like some company?”’

‘That was his chat-up line?’ I smirked.

‘Yes,’ she giggled. ‘But it worked because as soon as he sat beside me I was never lonely ever again.’

I swallowed, my eyes filled up. I turned on my side again, picked up the phone to look at Don’s eyes and immediately knew what I had to do. It was time to tell a few truths.

Life arrived later than usual the following day, letting himself in with his own key at lunchtime, lost behind a bundle of multicoloured ‘Happy Birthday’ balloons. ‘What on earth is happening in this building, it smells like – oh, my God.’ He stopped and looked around.

I didn’t stop, kept doing what I was doing which was rolling out pastry. My arms were tired and beads of sweat had broken out on my forehead but things had never been clearer in my mind. Everything in my life was crystal clear now, I knew what I had to do. The more pastry I rolled, the more I knew my fate.

‘Are you having a nervous breakdown?’ Life asked, with mock concern. ‘Because if you are, I’ll have to go back to the office and file some serious paperwork. And I’m just done with filing your nervous breakdowns. Typical,’ he huffed.

‘No, the opposite, in fact. I’m in the midst of a moment of enlightenment,’ I said, still busy with the pastry.

‘Have you been reading books again? I told you not to do that. They give you notions.’

I kept working.

‘Well, happy thirtieth birthday.’ He kissed my head. ‘I bought you balloons but my real present was to give you the morning away from me. Priceless.’

‘Thank you.’ I admired the balloons briefly, then got back to work.

‘Have you taken a break at all, crazy lady?’ he asked, moving a plate of muffins to the floor and sitting at the counter.

I finally paused for a moment to take in the scene and he had a point. Every available surface in the flat was filled with cupcakes and pies. On the hob more fruit bubbled in a pot: rhubarb and apple. I’d made blueberry muffins, apple tart and pecan and caramel pie slices. After spending the night sending out text messages to spread the word, I had gone to the supermarket early that morning in a quest to find food for my mother. It had been a few years since I’d been to the supermarket, a real one, not a fancy newsagent that had serviced my dinner-for-one appetite for the past two years. I had passed by the food and been pulled directly to the baking section and once there my mind had come alive, as though it had been dormant for quite some time and then there was an explosion of thoughts. Not just ideas, I always had them, but of actual decisions. I’d decided to make a chocolate biscuit birthday cake for myself but then as soon as I’d started, I couldn’t stop, it was as though baking was therapy enough for me, things were becoming clearer in my head.

‘The more I knead, the more I realise what I need,’ I told Life, as I frantically worked the dough. ‘I need to knead,’ I giggled.

He looked at me in amusement.

‘But I also need to speak to my friends, I need to speak to Don, I need to get a job – a proper job, a job that I kind of like, a job I’m qualified to do, I need to finally move on.’

I pushed a blackberry and apple crumble towards him, then I checked my mobile. Everybody else had returned my message but still no response from Don.