Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

I turn to the left and stride confidently toward the theatre. Inside the bustling entrance foyer, I purchase a programme and make my way to my seat. No time for pre-performance drinks; if he shows up early and sees I’m not here I would never forgive myself. Front-row tickets – I could not believe my luck but I had called the very moment the tickets had gone on sale to secure these precious seats.

I take my seat in the red velvet chairs, my red dress falling down either side of me, my purse on my lap, Kate’s shoes glistening on the floor before me. The orchestra are directly in front of me, tuning and rehearsing, dressed in black in their underworld of fabulous sounds.

The atmosphere is magical, the balconies drip from the side. Thousands of people buzzing with excitement, orchestra fine-tuning and striving for perfection, lots of bodies moving around, balconies like honeycombs, the air rich with perfumes and aftershaves, pure honey.

I look to my right at the empty chair and shiver with excitement.

An announcement explains that the performance will begin in five minutes, that those who are late will be forbidden entry until a break, but are able to stay outside and watch the performance on the screens until the ushers tell them it is an appropriate time to enter.

Hurry, Justin, hurry, I plead, my legs bouncing beneath me with nerves.

Justin speed-walks from his hotel and up Kildare Street. He is just out of the shower but already his skin feels moist, his shirt sticks to his back, his forehead glistens with sweat. He stops walking at the top of the road. The Shelbourne Hotel is directly beside him, the Gaiety Theatre two hundred yards to his right.

He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths. Breathes in the fresh October air of Dublin city.

Which way to go. Which way to go .

* * *

The performance has begun and I cannot take my eyes off the door to my right-hand side. Beside me is an empty seat whose very presence sends a lump to my throat. While onstage a woman sings with such emotion, much to my neighbours’ annoyance beside and behind me, I can’t help but turn my head to face the door. Despite the announcement, a few people have been permitted entry and have moved quickly to their seats. If Justin does not come now, he may not be able to be seated until after the interval. I empathise with the woman singing before me, for the mere fact that, after all this time, a door and an usher being the only things separating us, is an opera in itself.

I turn round once more and my heart skips a beat as the door beside me opens.

Justin pulls on the door and as soon as he enters the room, all heads turn to stare at him. He looks around quickly for Joyce, his heart in his mouth, his fingers clammy and trembling.

The maître d’ approaches. ‘Welcome, sir. How can I help you?’

‘Good evening. I’ve booked a table for two, under Hitchcock.’ He looks around nervously, takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs at his forehead nervously. ‘Is she here yet?’

‘No, sir, you are the first to arrive. Would you like me to show you to your table or would you rather have a drink before?’

‘The table please.’ If she arrives and sees he isn’t at the table, he will never forgive himself.

He is led to a table for two in the centre of the dining room.

He sits in the chair that has been held out for him and immediately servers flow to his table, pouring water, laying his serviette on his lap, bringing bread rolls.

‘Sir, would you like to see the menu or would you like to wait for the other party to arrive?’

‘I’ll wait, thank you.’ He watches the door and takes this moment of being alone to calm himself.

It has been over an hour. There have been a few moments when people have entered and been shown their seats but none of those people have been Justin. The chair beside me remains empty and cold. The woman next to it, glances occasionally at it and at me who is twisted round, eye obsessively and possessively on the door, and she smiles politely, sympathetically. It brings tears to my eyes, a feeling of utter loneliness, in a room full of people, full of sound, full of song, I feel utterly alone. The interval begins, the curtain lowers, the house lights are raised and everybody stands up and exits to the bar, outside for cigarettes or to stretch their legs.

I sit and I wait.

The more lonely I feel, the more hope that springs in my heart. He may still come. He may still feel this is as important to him as it is to me. Dinner with a woman he’s met once or an evening with a person whose life he helped save, a person who has done exactly what he wished and thanked him in all the ways he asked.

Perhaps it wasn’t enough.

‘Would you like to see the menu now, sir?’

‘Em,’ he looks at the clock. She’s a half-hour late and his heart sinks but he remains hopeful. ‘She’s just running a little late, you see,’ he explains.

‘Of course, sir.’

‘I’ll have a look at the wine menu, please.’

‘Of course, sir.’

The woman’s lover is ripped from her arms and she pleads for him to be let go. She wails and howls and hollers in song, and beside me the woman sniffles. My eyes fill too, remembering Dad’s face of pride when he saw me in my dress.

‘Go get him,’ he said.

Well, I didn’t. I’ve lost another one. I’ve been stood up by a man who’d rather have dinner with me. As nonsensical as it should be, it is crystal clear to me. I wanted him to be here. I wanted the connection I felt, that he caused, to be the thing that brought us together, not a chance meeting in a department store, a few hours before. It seems so fickle for him to choose me over something far more important.

Perhaps I am viewing this the wrong way, though. Perhaps I should be happy he chose dinner with me. I look at my watch. Perhaps he is there right now, waiting for me. But what if I leave here and he arrives, missing me? No. I am best to stay put and not confuse matters.

My mind battles on, as events do on stage.

But if he is at the restaurant now, and I am here, then he is alone, has been alone for over an hour. Why then, wouldn’t he give up on a date with me and run a few hundred yards to seek out the mystery date? Unless he has come. Unless he took one look through the door, saw that it was me and refused to come in. I am so overwhelmed by the thoughts in my head I tune out of the act, too muddled, completely ambushed by the questions in my head.

Before I know it, the opera is over. The seats are empty, the curtains are down on the stage, the lights are up. I walk out to the cold night air. The city is busy, filled with people enjoying their Saturday night out. My tears feel cold against my skin as the breeze hits them.

Justin empties the last of his second bottle of wine into his glass and slams it back onto the table unintentionally. He has lost all co-ordination by now, he can barely read the time on his watch but he knows it’s gone past a reasonable hour for Joyce to show.

He has been stood up.

By the one woman he’s had any sort of interest in since his divorce. Not counting poor Sarah. He had never counted poor Sarah.

I am a horrible person .

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,’ the maître d’ says politely, ‘but we have received a phone call from your brother, Al?’

Justin nods.

‘He wanted to pass on the message that he is still alive and that he hopes you are, em, well, that you’re enjoying your night.’

‘Alive?’

‘Yes, sir, he said you would understand, as it’s twelve o’clock. His birthday?’

‘Twelve?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m also sorry to tell you that we are closing for the evening. Would you like to settle your bill?’