Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

As part of a mother/daughter bonding activity when I was seventeen years old, during my goth phase, when I had dyed black hair, a white face and red lips that were victim to a lip-piercing, Mum enrolled us both in a calligraphy class at the local primary school. Every Wednesday at seven p.m.

Mum read in a rather new-age book that Dad didn’t agree with that through partaking in activities with your children they would more easily, and of their own accord, open up and share things about their lives, rather than being forced to in a face-to-face, formal and almost interrogative-style sit-down, which Dad was more accustomed to.

The classes worked and, though I moaned and groaned when learning this uncool task, I opened up and told her all. Well, almost all. The rest she had the intuition to guess. I came away with a deeper love, respect and understanding of my mother as a person, a woman and not just as a mum. I also came away with a skill in calligraphy.

I find that when I put pen to paper and get into the rhythm of quick upward flicks, just as we were taught, it takes me back to those classes, transports me to those classrooms where I sat with my mother.

I hear her voice, I smell her scent and I replay our conversations, sometimes awkward as, because I’m seventeen, we dance around the personal, but we talk about it in our own way, finding a way of getting to the point in spite of that. It was a perfect activity for her to choose for me at seventeen, better than she ever knew. Calligraphy had rhythm, roots in Gothic style, it was written in the vigour of the moment and it had attitude. A uniform style of writing, but one that was unique. A lesson to teach me that conformity may not quite mean what I once thought that it had meant, for there are many ways to express oneself in a world with boundaries, without overstepping them.

Suddenly I look up from my page. ‘Trompe l’oeil,’ I say aloud with a smile.

Sam looks up from his crayon banging and regards me with interest.

‘What does that mean?’ Kate asks.

‘Trompe l’oeil is an art technique involving extremely realistic imagery in order to create the optical illusion that the depicted objects really exist, instead of being two-dimensional painting. It’s derived from French, trompe meaning “trick” and l’oeil meaning “eye”,’ Justin tells the room. ‘Trick the eye,’ he repeats, looking around at all the faces in the crowd.

Where are you?

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

‘So how did that go?’ Thomas the driver asks as Justin gets back into the car after his talk.

‘I saw you standing at the back of the room. You tell me.’

‘Well, I don’t know much about art but you certainly knew how to talk a lot about one girl writing a letter.’

Justin smiles and reaches for another free bottle of water. He’s not thirsty but it’s there, and it’s free.

‘Were you looking for somebody?’ Thomas asks.

‘What do you mean?’

‘In the crowd. I noticed you looking around a few times. A woman, is it?’ he grins.

Justin smiles, and shakes his head. ‘I have no idea. You’d think I was crazy if I told you.’

‘So, what do you think?’ I ask Kate as we walk around Merrion Square and she fills me in on Justin’s lecture.

‘What do I think?’ she repeats, strolling slowly behind Sam’s buggy. ‘I think that it doesn’t matter if he ate carpaccio and fennel yesterday because he seems like a lovely man anyway. I think that no matter what your reasons are for feeling connected to him or attracted to him, they’re not important. You should stop all this running around and just introduce yourself.’

I shake my head. ‘No can do.’

‘Why not? He seemed to be interested when he was chasing your bus down the road, and when he saw you at the ballet. What’s changed now?’

‘He doesn’t want anything to do with me.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I know.’

‘ How? And don’t tell me it’s because of some mumbo-jumbo thing you saw in your tea leaves.’

‘I drink coffee now.’

‘You hate coffee.’

‘ He obviously doesn’t.’

She does her best not to be negative but looks away.

‘He’s too busy looking for the woman whose life he saved; he’s no longer interested in me. He had my contact details, Kate, and he never called. Not once. In fact, he went so far as to throw them in a skip, and don’t ask me how I know that.’

‘Knowing you, you were probably lying in the bottom of it.’

I keep tight-lipped.

Kate sighs. ‘How long are you going to keep this up?’

I shrug. ‘Not much longer.’

‘What about work? What about Conor?’

‘Conor and I are done. There’s nothing more to say. Four years of separation and then we’ll be divorced. As for work, I’ve already told them I’m going back next week – my diary is already full with appointments – and as for the house – shit!’ I pull up my sleeve to find my watch. ‘I have to get back. I’m showing the house in an hour.’

A quick kiss and I run for the nearest bus home.

‘OK, this is it.’ Justin stares out of the car window and up to the second floor, which houses the blood donor clinic.

‘You’re donating blood?’ Thomas asks.

‘No way. I’m just paying somebody a visit. I shouldn’t be too long. If you see any police cars coming, start the engine.’ He smiles, but it is unconvincing.

He nervously asks for Sarah at reception and is told to wait in the waiting room. Around him men and women on their lunch breaks from work sit in their suits and read the newspapers, waiting to be called for their blood donations.

He inches closer to the woman beside him, who’s flicking through a magazine. He leans over her shoulder and as he whispers, she jumps.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

Everyone in the room lowers their papers and magazines to stare at him. He coughs and looks away, pretending somebody else said it. On the walls around him are posters encouraging those in the room to donate, and there are also thank you posters of young children, survivors of leukaemia and other illnesses. He has already waited half an hour and checks his watch every minute, conscious he has a plane to catch. When the last person leaves him alone in the room, Sarah appears at the door.

‘Justin.’ She isn’t icy, she isn’t tough or angry. Quiet. Hurt. That’s worse. He’d rather she was angry.

‘Sarah.’ He stands to greet her, is locked in an awkward half-embrace and a kiss on one cheek, which turns into two, a questionable third but is aborted and almost becomes a kiss on the lips. She pulls away, ending the farcical greeting.

‘I can’t stay long, I have to get to the airport for a flight, but I wanted to call by and see you face to face. Can we talk for a few minutes?’

‘Yes, sure.’ She enters the reception and sits down, arms still folded.

‘Oh.’ He looks around. ‘Don’t you have an office, or something?’

‘This is nice and quiet.’

‘Where is your office?’

Her eyes narrow with suspicion and he gives up that particular line of questioning and quickly takes a seat beside her.

‘I’m here, really, to apologise for my behaviour the last time we met. Well, every time we met and every moment after that. I really am sorry.’

She nods, waiting for more.

Damn it, that’s all I had! Think, think. You’re sorry and …

‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. I got very distracted that day with those crazy Vikings. In fact, you could say I’ve been distracted by crazy Vikings almost every day for the last month or two and, uh …’ Think! ‘Could I go to the men’s room? If you wouldn’t mind. Please.’