Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

Gabe.

He pulled on a robe and rushed downstairs, almost falling over the shoes and briefcase he’d left at the bottom step, before bursting through the door into the kitchen. There they were, the three usual suspects: Ruth, his mother and his father. Gabe wasn’t anywhere to be seen, thankfully. Egg was dribbling down his father’s grey stubbled chin, his mother was reading the newspaper, and both she and Ruth were still in their dressing gowns. Pud was the only one to make a sound as he sang and babbled, his eyebrows moving up and down with such expression it was as though his sentences actually meant something. Lou took this scene in, but at the very same time failed to appreciate a single pixel of it.

‘What the hell, Ruth?’ he said loudly, causing all heads to look up and turn to him.

‘Excuse me?’ She looked at him with widened eyes.

‘It’s nine a.m. Nine o-fucking-clock.’

‘Now, Aloysius,’ his father said angrily. His mother looked at him in shock.

‘Why the hell didn’t you wake me?’ He came closer to her.

‘Lou, why are you talking like this?’ Ruth frowned, then turned to her son. ‘Come on, Pud, a few more spoons, honey.’

‘Because you’re trying to get me fired is what you’re doing. Isn’t it? Why the hell didn’t you wake me?’

‘Well, I was going to wake you but Gabe said not to. He said to let you rest until about ten o’clock, that a rest would do you good, and I agreed,’ she said matter-of-factly, appearing unaffected by his attack in his parents’ presence.

‘Gabe?’ He looked at her as though she were the most ludicrous thing on the planet. ‘GABE?’ he shouted now.

‘Lou,’ his mother gasped. ‘Don’t you dare shout like that.’

‘Gabe the mailboy? The fucking MAILBOY?’ He ignored his mother. ‘You listened to him ? He’s an imbecile!’

‘Lou!’ his mother said once again. ‘Fred, do something.’ She nudged her husband.

‘Well, that imbecile,’ Ruth fought to stay calm, ‘drove you home last night instead of leaving you to drive to your death.’

As though just remembering that Gabe had driven him home, Lou rushed outside to the driveway. He made his way around the perimeter of the car, hopping from foot to foot on the pebbles, his concern for his vehicle so great that he couldn’t feel the occasional sharp corner breaking through his flesh. He examined his Porsche from all angles, running his fingers along the surface to make sure there weren’t any scratches or dents. Finding nothing wrong, he calmed a little, though he still couldn’t understand what had made Ruth value Gabe’s opinion so highly. What was going on in the world that had everybody eating out of Gabe’s palm?

He made his way back inside, where his mother and father threw him such a look, he couldn’t for once think of anything to say to them. He turned away from them and returned to the kitchen, where Ruth was still sitting at the table feeding Pud.

‘Ruthy,’ he cleared his throat and made an attempt at a Lou-style apology, the kind of apology that never involved the word sorry, ‘it’s just that Gabe is after my job, you see. You didn’t understand that, I know, but he is. So when he left bright and early this morning to get to work –’

‘He left five minutes ago.’ She cut him off straight away, not turning around, not looking at him. ‘He stayed in one of the spare rooms because I’m not too sure if he’s got anywhere else to go. He got up and made us all breakfast and then I called him a taxi, which I paid for so that he could get to work. He just left five minutes ago and so he, too, is late for work. So you can take your accusations and your behaviour and follow him in there, where you can act the bully-boy.’

‘Ruthy, I –’

‘You’re right, Lou, and I’m wrong. It’s clear from this morning’s behaviour that you’re totally in control of things and not in the least bit stressed,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I was such a fool to think you needed an extra hour’s sleep. Now, Pud,’ Ruth lifted the baby from his chair and kissed his food-stained face, ‘let’s go give you a bath,’ she smiled.

Pud clapped his hands and turned to jelly under her raspberry kisses. Ruth walked towards Lou with Pud in her arms, and for a moment Lou softened at the look on his son’s face, his smile so big it could light up the world if ever the moon lost its beam. He prepared to take Pud in his arms but it didn’t happen. Ruth walked right on by, cuddling Pud tight while he laughed uproariously as though her kisses were the funniest thing that had happened in his short life. Lou acknowledged the rejection. For about five seconds. And then he realised that was five seconds out of the time needed for him to get to work. And so he dashed.

In record time, and thankfully due to Sergeant O’Reilly not being present when Lou put his foot down and fired his way to work, Lou arrived at the office at ten fifteen a.m.; the latest he had ever arrived at the office. He still had a few minutes before the meeting ended, and so, spitting on his hand and smoothing down his hair, which hadn’t been washed, and running his hands across his face, which hadn’t been shaved, he shook off the waves of dizziness that his hangover had brought, took a deep breath and then entered the boardroom.

There was an intake of breath at the sight of him. It wasn’t that he looked so bad, it was just that, for Lou, he wasn’t perfect. He was always perfect. He took a seat opposite Alfred, who beamed with astonishment and absolute delight at his friend’s apparent breakdown.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ Lou addressed the table of twelve more calmly than he felt, ‘I was up all night with one of those tummy bugs, but I’m okay now, I think.’

Faces nodded in sympathy and understanding.

‘Bruce Archer has that very same bug,’ Alfred smirked, and he winked at Mr Patterson.

The switch was flicked and Lou’s blood began to boil, expecting any minute for a loud whistling to drift from his nose as he reached boiling point. He sat through the meeting, fighting flushes and nausea, while the vein in his forehead pulsated at full force.

‘And so, tonight is an important night, lads.’ Mr Patterson turned to Lou, and Lou zoned in on the conversation.

‘Yes, I have the audio-visual conference call with Arthur Lynch,’ Lou spoke up. ‘That’s at seven thirty, and I’m sure it will all go without a hitch. I’ve come up with a great number of responses to his concerns, which we went through during the week. I don’t think we need to go through them again –’

‘Hold on, hold on.’ Mr Patterson lifted a finger to stall him and it was only then that Lou noticed that Alfred’s cheeks had lifted into a great big smile.

Lou stared at Alfred to catch his eye, hoping for a hint, a give-away, but Alfred avoided him.

‘No, Lou, you and Alfred have a dinner with Thomas Crooke and his partner, this is the meeting we’ve been trying to get all year,’ Mr Patterson laughed nervously.

Crumble, crumble, crumble. It was all coming tumbling down. Lou shuffled through his schedule, ran shaky fingers through his hair and wiped the beads of sweat on his forehead. He ran his finger along the freshly printed schedule, his tired eyes finding it hard to focus, his clammy forefinger smudging the words as he moved it along the page. There it was, the visual conference call with Arthur Lynch. No mention of a dinner. No damn mention of a damn dinner.

‘Mr Patterson, I’m well aware of the long-hoped-for meeting with Thomas Crooke,’ Lou cleared his throat and looked at Alfred with confusion, ‘but nobody confirmed any dinner with me, and I made it known to Alfred last week that I have a meeting with Arthur Lynch at seven thirty p.m. tonight,’ he repeated with some urgency. ‘Alfred? Do you know about this dinner meeting?’