Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

I shake my head, smiling.

‘Have you met anyone lately who happens to have been turned into a swan?’

I laugh and whisper, ‘No.’

‘Yet look at it. This bloody thing has been famous the world over for centuries. We have non-believers, atheists, intellects, cynicists, him .’ He nods his head at the man who shushed us. ‘All kinds of what-have-yous in here tonight, but all of them want to see that fella in the tights end up with that swan girl, so she’ll be able to get out of that lake. Only with the love of one who has never loved before, can the spell be broken. Why? Who the hell cares why? Do you think your woman with the feathers is going to ask why? No. She’s going to say thank you because then she can move on and wear nice dresses and go for walks, instead of having to peck at soggy bread in a stinky lake every day for the rest of her life.’

I have been stunned to silence.

‘Now, whisht , we’re missing the performance. She wants to kill herself now, look? Talk about being dramatic.’ He places his elbows on the balcony and leans in closer to the stage, his left ear tilted towards the stage more than his eyes, quite literally eavesdropping.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

During the standing ovation, Justin spies Joyce’s father helping her into a red coat, the same one from their Grafton Street collision. She begins to move to her nearby exit with her father in tow.

‘Justin,’ Jennifer scowls at her ex-husband, who is more busy spying through his opera glasses up at the ceiling than at his daughter bowing on stage.

He puts the glasses down and claps loudly, cheering.

‘Hey, guys, I’m going to go to the bar and keep some good seats for us.’ He starts moving towards the door.

‘It’s already reserved,’ Jennifer shouts after him, over the applause.

He holds his hand up to his ear and shakes his head. ‘Can’t hear you.’

He escapes and runs down the corridors, trying to find his way upstairs to the lower slips. The curtains must have fallen for the final time as people begin to exit their boxes, crowding the corridors and making it impossible for Justin to push past.

He has a change of plan: he’ll rush to the exit and wait for her there. That way he can’t miss her.

* * *

‘Let’s get a drink, love,’ Dad says as we slowly amble behind the crowd exiting the theatre. ‘I saw a bar on this floor.’

We stop to read some directions.

‘There’s the Amphitheatre bar, this way,’ I say, looking out constantly for Justin Hitchcock.

A woman usher announces that the bar is open only for cast, crew and family members.

‘That’s great, we’ll have some peace and quiet so,’ Dad says to her, tipping his cap as he walks by. ‘Oh, you should have seen my granddaughter up there. Proudest day of my life,’ he says, putting his hand on his heart.

The woman smiles and allows us entry.

‘Come on, Dad.’ After we’ve bought our drinks, I drag him deep into the room to sit at a table in the far corner, away from the growing crowd.

‘If they try to throw us out, Gracie, I’m not leaving my pint. I just sat down.’

I wring my hands nervously and perch on the edge of my seat, looking around for him. Justin . His name rolls around in my head, plays around my tongue like a contented pig in muck.

People filter out of the bar until all that is left are family, crew and cast members. Nobody approaches us again to usher us out, perhaps one of the perks of being with an old man. Bea’s mother enters with the two unknown people from the box, and the chubby man I recognise. But no Mr Hitchcock. My eyes dart around the room.

‘There she is,’ I whisper.

‘Who?’

‘One of the dancers. She was one of the swans.’

‘How do you know? They all looked the same. Even the nancy boy thought they were the same. Sure, didn’t he profess his love to the wrong woman? The bloody eejit.’

There’s no sign of Justin and I begin to worry that this is another wasted opportunity. Perhaps he has left early and isn’t coming to the bar at all.

‘Dad,’ I say urgently, ‘I’m just going to take a look around for somebody. Please do not move from this chair. I’ll be back soon.’

‘The only moving I’ll be doing is this.’ He picks up his pint and moves it to his lips. He takes a gulp of Guinness, closes his eyes and savours the taste, leaving a white moustache around his lips.

I hurry out of the bar and wander around the huge theatre, not sure where to start looking. I stand outside the nearby gents’ toilets for a few moments but he doesn’t appear. I look over at the balcony he was seated in but it’s empty.

Justin gives up standing by the exit door as the last few people trickle by him. He must have missed her and he was stupid to think there was only one exit. He sighs with frustration. He wishes he could transport himself back in time to the day in the salon and relive the moment properly this time. His pocket vibrates, snapping him out of his daydream.

‘Bro, where the heck are you?’

‘Hi, Al. I saw the woman again.’

‘The Sky News woman?’

‘Yeah!’

‘The Viking woman?’

‘Yeah, yeah, her.’

‘The Antiques Roadshow wo—’

‘YES! For Christsake, do we have to go through this again?’

‘Hey, did you ever think that maybe she’s a stalker?’

‘If she’s a stalker, then why am I always chasing her?’

‘Oh, yeah. Well, maybe you’re the stalker and you don’t know it.’

‘Al …’ Justin grits his teeth.

‘Whatever, hurry back up here before Jennifer has a conniption fit. Another one.’

Justin sighs. ‘I’m coming.’

He snaps his phone shut and takes one last look down the street. Among the crowd something catches his eye, a red coat. Adrenalin surges. He races outside, pushes past the slowly filtering crowd, his heart pounding, his eyes not budging from the coat.

‘Joyce!’ he calls. ‘Joyce, wait!’ he shouts louder.

She keeps walking, unable to hear him.

He bumps and pushes, getting cursed at and prodded by people he pushes by until finally she’s just inches from him.

‘Joyce,’ he says breathlessly, reaching out and grabbing her arm. She spins around, a face twisted in surprise and fright. A face of a stranger.

She hits him over the head with her leather bag.

‘Ow! Hey! Jesus!’

Apologising, he slowly makes his way back to the theatre, trying to catch his breath, rubbing his sore head, cursing and grumbling to himself with frustration. He reaches for the main door. It doesn’t open. He tries it again gently, then rattles it slightly a few times. Within seconds, he pulls and pushes the door with full force, kicking at the door with frustration.

‘Hey, hey, hey! We’re closed! Theatre’s closed!’ a member of staff informs him from behind the glass.

When I return to the bar, I thankfully find Dad sitting in the corner where I’d left him. Only this time he’s not alone. Perched on the chair beside him, her head close to his as though in deep conversation, is Bea. I panic and rush over to them.

‘Hi.’ I approach them, terrified by what verbal diarrhoea may have slipped out of his mouth already.

‘Ah, there you are, love. Thought you’d abandoned me. This nice girl came to see if I was OK, seeing as someone tried to throw me out again.’

‘I’m Bea,’ she smiles, and I can’t help but notice how grownup she has become. How self-assured and confident she is. I almost feel like telling her that the last time I’d seen her she was ‘yay high’, but I stop myself from gushing at her extraordinary transformation into adulthood.

‘Hello, Bea.’