Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

‘What’s so funny?’ Gabe asked, throwing the one remaining orange up and down in his hand, the other hand in his pocket.

‘Not such a good juggler, are you?’ he smirked.

‘Touché,’ Gabe smiled. ‘You’re very observant. Indeed, I’m not a good juggler, but it’s not really juggling if I’d already chosen to drop those two and keep this one in my hand, is it?’

Lou frowned at the peculiar response and busied himself at his desk, putting on his overcoat and preparing to leave.

‘No, Gabe, it’s certainly not juggling if you choose …’ He stopped suddenly, realising what he was saying and hearing Ruth’s voice in his head. His head snapped up, feeling that cold chill again, but Gabe was gone and the orange was before him on his desk.

‘Alison,’ Lou marched out of his office with the orange in his hand, ‘did Gabe just walk out of here?’

Alison lifted a finger up to signal for him to wait, while she took notes on a notepad and listened to the voice at the other end of the phone.

‘Alison,’ he interrupted her again, and she panicked slightly, writing faster, nodding quickly and holding up her full hand this time.

‘Alison,’ he snapped, holding his hand down over the receiver to end her call. ‘I don’t have all day.’

She stared at him with her mouth open, receiver dangling from her hand. ‘I can’t believe you just –’

‘Yeah, well, I did, get over it. Did Gabe walk by?’ he asked. His voice was rushed, running along, skipping and jumping to keep up with his heart.

‘Em …’ she thought slowly, ‘he came up to my desk about twenty minutes ago and –’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know all that. He was in my office a second ago and then he was gone. Just now. Did he walk by?’

‘Well, he must have, but –’

‘Did you see him?’

‘No, I was on the phone and –’

‘Jesus.’ He punched the desk with his already sore fist. ‘Ah, crap.’ He cradled it close to him.

‘What’s wrong, Lou? Calm down.’ Alison stood up and reached her hand out towards him.

Lou pulled away. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he dropped his voice and leaned closer again, ‘does any of my post ever come to me under a different name?’

‘What do you mean?’ she frowned.

‘You know –’ He looked left and right and barely moved his lips as he spoke. ‘Aloysius,’ he mumbled.

‘Aloysius?’ she said loudly.

He threw his eyes up. ‘Keep it down,’ he mumbled.

‘No.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I’ve never seen the name Aloysius on any of the mail.’ As though there were a time delay from her voice to her ears, she smiled, then snorted, and then started laughing. ‘Why the hell would there be Aloy—’ On his look, her words disappeared and her smile faded. ‘Oh. Oh dear. That’s a –’ her voice went an octave higher, ‘ lovely name.’

Lou walked across the newly constructed Seán O’Casey pedestrian bridge that linked the two rejuvenated north and south quays, the North Wall Quay to Sir John Rogerson’s Quay. One hundred metres across the bridge brought him to his destination, The Ferryman, the only authentic pub left on this stretch of quays. It wasn’t a place for cappuccinos or ciabattas, and because of that the clientele was specific. The bar contained a handful of Christmas shoppers who’d wandered off the beaten track to take a break and to wrap purple-fingered hands around their heated glasses. Apart from the few shoppers it was filled with workers, young and old, winding down after their day’s work. Suits filled the seats, pints and shorts filled the surfaces. Just after six p.m. and already people had escaped the business district and into their nearest place of solace to worship at the altar of beers on tap.

Bruce Archer was one such person, propped at the bar, Guinness in hand, roaring with laughter over something somebody beside him had said. Another suit. And then there was another. Shoulder pads to shoulder pads. Pin-striped suits and diamond socks. More polished shoes and briefcases containing spreadsheets, pie charts and forward-looking market predictions. None of them were drinking coffee after all. He should have known. He hadn’t known, but as he watched them backslapping and laughing loudly, he wasn’t in the least bit surprised, and so, at the very same time, he had known all along.

Bruce turned around and spotted him. ‘Lou!’ he shouted across the room in his heavy Boston accent, which caused heads to turn, not at Bruce but at the handsome and quite pristine man that he was shouting at. ‘Lou Suffern! Good to see ya!’ He stood from the stool, walked towards Lou with his hand extended, and then, gripping Lou’s hand firmly, he pumped it up and down while thumping him enthusiastically on the back. ‘Let me introduce you to the guys. Guys, this is Lou, Lou Suffern, works at Patterson Developments. We worked together on the Manhattan Building I was telling you about and had a real wild experience one night together, wait till we tell you about it, you’ll never believe it. Lou, this is Derek from …’ And so Lou was lost in a sea of introductions, forgetting each name the second they were introduced and pushing the image of his wife and daughter out of his head each time he shook a hand that either squeezed his too hard, was too clammy, limp, or pumped his shoulder up and down. He tried to forget that he had forsaken his family for this. He tried to forget as they poo-poohed his order of coffee and instead filled him with beer, as they ignored his attempt to leave after one pint. Then after the second. And after the third. Tired of a discussion each time a round came around, he let them change his order to a Jack Daniel’s, and as his mobile phone rang he also let their adolescent jeers convince him not to answer. And then, after all that, they needed to convince him no more. He was there with them for the long haul, with his phone on silent and vibrating every ten minutes with a call from Ruth. He knew at this point that Ruth would understand; if she didn’t then she was an extremely unreasonable person.

There was a girl catching his eye across the bar; there was another whisky and Coke on the counter. All sense and reason had gone outside with the smokers, and it was shivering outside, half thinking of hailing a taxi, the other half looking around for someone to take it home and love it. And then, too cold and frustrated, sense turned on reason and resorted to fisticuffs outside the bar, while Lou turned his back and took sole care of his ambition.

12. The Fast Lane

Lou realised he was far too drunk to chat up the attractive woman in the bar who had been giving him eyelashes all night when, in the process of joining her table, he stumbled over his own feet and without noticing managed to knock over her friend’s drink into her lap. Not the pretty one’s lap, just her friend’s. And while he mumbled something he regarded as highly smooth and clever, it seemed to her to come across as rather sleazy and offensive. For there was a fine line between sleazy and offensive and a sexy chat-up line when you’d had as much to drink as Lou Suffern. He appeared to have lost the swagger of charm and sophistication that he’d possessed in heaps when he had first walked in. The droplets of whisky and Coke that stained his crisp white shirt and tie appeared to be more of a fashion don’t for these sophisticated businesswomen, and his blue eyes, which usually caused women to feel like they were falling from a height directly into his aqua pools, were now bloodshot and glassy and so didn’t have the desired effect. When intending to undress her with his eyes, he’d instead appeared shifty, and so, too drunk to get anywhere with her – or her friend, whom he’d also tried to come on to after bumping into her coming back from the toilet, where she was trying to clean the red wine he’d spilled on her suit – the more sensible option seemed to be to walk back to his car. And drive home.