Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

‘Joyce, could we show you something for a moment?’

‘Sure.’

I put the coffee cup down, pass the ghost of Conor making his lasagne specialty in the kitchen, pass the ghost of Joyce sitting in her favourite armchair in her pyjamas, eating a Mars bar, and make my way to the hall. They are on their hands and knees examining the stain by the stairs. My stain.

‘I think it might be wine,’ Joe says, looking up at me. ‘Did the owners say anything about the stain?’

‘Eh …’ My legs wobble slightly and for a moment I think my knees are going to go. I lean out to hold on to the banister and pretend to lean down and look at it more closely. I close my eyes. ‘It’s been cleaned a few times already, as far as I know. Would you be interested in keeping the carpet?’

Linda makes a face while she thinks, looks up and down the stairs, through the house, examining my choice of décor with a ruffled nose. ‘No, I suppose not. I think wooden floors would be lovely. Don’t you?’ she asks Joe.

‘Yeah,’ he nods. ‘A nice pale oak.’

‘Yeah,’ she agrees. ‘No, I don’t think we’d keep this carpet.’ She turns her nose up again.

I haven’t intended to keep the owners’ details from them deliberately – there’s no point as they’ll see it on the contract anyway. I had assumed they knew that the property was mine, but it was their misunderstanding, and as they poked holes in the decorations, the choice of room layout, and funny noises and smells they weren’t used to but that I had stopped noticing by now, I didn’t think it would be necessary to make them uncomfortable by pointing it out now.

‘You seem keen,’ I smile, watching their faces aglow with warmth and excitement at finally finding a property they felt at home in.

‘We are,’ she grins. ‘We have been so fussy up till now, as you well know. But now the situation has changed and we need to get out of that flat and find somewhere bigger as soon as we can, seeing as we’re expanding, or I’m expanding,’ she jokes nervously, and it’s only then that I notice her small bump beneath her shirt, her belly button hard and protruding against the fabric.

‘Oh, wow …’ Lump to throat, wobble of knees again, eyes fill, please let this moment be over quickly, please make them look away from me. They have tact and so they do. ‘That’s fantastic, congratulations,’ my voice says cheerily, and even I can hear how hollow it is, so devoid of sincerity, the empty words almost echo within themselves.

‘So that room upstairs would be perfect.’ Joe nods to the nursery.

‘Oh, of course, that’s just wonderful.’ The 1960s surbuban housewife is back as I gosh, gee-whizz and shucks my way through the rest of the conversation.

‘I can’t believe they don’t want any of the furniture,’ Linda says, looking around.

‘Well, they’re both moving to smaller property and their belongings just won’t fit there any more.’

‘But they’re not taking anything? ’

‘No,’ I smile, looking around. ‘Nothing but the rose bush in the back garden.’

And a suitcase of memories.

Justin falls into the car with a giant sigh.

‘What happened to you?’

‘Nothing. Could you just drive directly to the airport now, please? I’m a little behind time.’ Justin places his elbow on the windowledge and covers his face with his hand, hating himself, hating the selfish miserable man he has become. He and Sarah weren’t right for one another but what right had he to use her like that, to bring her down with him into his pit of desperation and selfishness?

‘I’ve got something that will cheer you up,’ Thomas says, reaching for the glove compartment.

‘No, I’m really not in the—’ Justin stops, seeing Thomas retrieve a familiar envelope from the compartment. He hands it over to him.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘My boss called me, told me to give it to you before you got to the airport.’

‘Your boss.’ Justin narrows his eyes. ‘What’s his name?’

Thomas is silent for a while. ‘John,’ he finally replies.

‘John Smith?’ Justin says, his voice thick with sarcasm.

‘The very man.’

Knowing he’ll squeeze no information from Thomas, he turns his attention back to the envelope. He circles it slowly in his hand, trying to decide whether to open it or not. He could leave it unopened and end all of this now, get his life back in order, stop trying to use people, take advantage. Meet a nice woman, treat her well.

‘Well? Aren’t you going to open it?’ Thomas asks.

Justin continues to circle it in his hand.

‘Maybe.’

Dad opens the door to me, his iPod in his ears, the control pad in his hand. He looks my outfit up and down.

‘OOH, YOU LOOK VERY NICE TODAY, GRACIE,’ he shouts at the top of his voice, and a man walking his dog across the road turns to stare. ‘WERE YOU OUT SOMEWHERE SPECIAL?’

I smile. Light relief at last. I put my finger on my lips and take the earphones out of his ears.

‘I was showing the house to some clients of mine.’

‘Did they like it?’

‘They’re going to come back in a few days to measure. So that’s a good sign. But being back over there, I realised there are so many things that I have to go through.’

‘Haven’t you been through enough? You don’t need to sob for weeks just to make yourself feel OK about it.’

I smile. ‘I mean that I have to go through possessions . Things I’ve left behind. I don’t think they want a lot of the furniture. Would it be OK if I stored it in your garage?’

‘My woodwork studio?’

‘That you haven’t been in for ten years.’

‘I’ve been in there,’ he says defensively. ‘Oh, all right then, you can put your things in there. Will I ever get rid of you at all, at all?’ he says with a slight smile on his face.

I sit at the kitchen table and Dad immediately busies himself, filling the kettle as he does for everyone who enters the kitchen.

‘So how did the Monday Club go last night? I bet Donal McCarthy couldn’t believe your story. What was his face like?’ I lean in, excited to hear.

‘He wasn’t there,’ Dad says, turning his back to me as he takes a cup and saucer out for himself and a mug for me.

‘What? Why not? And you with your big story to tell him! The cheek of him. Well, you’ll have next week, won’t you?’

He turns around slowly. ‘He died at the weekend. His funeral’s tomorrow. Instead we spent the night talking about him and all his old stories that he told a hundred times.’

‘Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry.’

‘Ah, well. If he hadn’t have gone over the weekend, he would have dropped dead when he’d heard I met Michael Aspel. Maybe it was just as well,’ he smiles sadly. ‘Ah, he wasn’t such a bad man. We had a good laugh even if we did enjoy getting a rise out of one another.’

I feel for Dad. It is such a trivial thing compared with the loss of a friend, but he had been so excited to share his stories with his great rival.

We both sit in silence.

‘You’ll keep the rose bush, won’t you?’ Dad asks finally.

I know immediately what he’s talking about. ‘Of course I will. I thought that it’d look good in your garden.’

He looks out the window and studies his garden, probably deciding where he’ll plant it.

‘You have to be careful with moving, Gracie. Too much shock causes a serious, possibly a grave decline.’

I smile sadly. ‘That’s a bit dramatic, but I’ll be fine, Dad. Thanks for caring.’

He keeps his back turned. ‘I was talking about the roses.’

My phone rings, vibrates along the table and almost hops off the edge.

‘Hello?’