Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

She frowns.

‘Beds,’ I say quietly. ‘He means beds.’

‘Yes, they’re twin beds.’

‘Is it an en-suite?’ He leans in, trying to see her name badge. ‘Breda, is it?’ he asks.

‘Aakaanksha. And, yes, sir, all our rooms are en-suite,’ she says politely.

‘Oh,’ he looks impressed. ‘Well, I hope your lifts are working because I can’t take the apples, my Cadbury’s playin’ up.’

I squeeze my eyes together tightly.

‘Apples and pears, stairs . Cadbury snack, back ,’ he says with the same voice he used to say nursery rhymes to me as a little girl.

‘I see. Very good, Mr Conway.’

I take the key and head towards the elevator, hearing his little voice repeating a question over and over again as he follows me through the foyer. I hit the button for the third floor and the doors close.

The room is standard and it’s clean, and that’s good enough for me. Our beds are far enough apart for my liking, there’s a television and a mini-bar, which hold Dad’s attention while I run a bath.

‘I wouldn’t mind a drop of fine,’ he says, his head dis appearing into the mini-bar.

‘You mean wine.’

‘Fine and dandy, brandy .’

I finally slide down into the hot soothing bathwater, the suds rise like the foam atop an ice-cream float. They tickle my nose and cover my body, overflow and float to the ground, where they slowly fade with a crackling sound. I lie back and close my eyes, feeling tiny bubbles all over my body pop as soon as they touch my skin … There’s a knock on the door.

I ignore it.

Then it goes again, a little more loudly this time.

Still I don’t answer.

BANG! BANG!

‘What?’ I shout.

‘Oh, sorry, thought you’d fallen asleep or something, love.’

‘I’m in the bath.’

‘I know that. You have to be careful in those things. Could nod off and slip under the water and drown. Happened to one of Amelia’s cousins. You know Amelia. Visits Joseph sometimes, down the road. But she doesn’t drop by as much as before on account of the bath accident.’

‘Dad, I appreciate your concern but I’m fine.’

‘OK.’

Silence.

‘Actually, it’s not that, Gracie. I’m just wonderin’ how long you’ll be in there for?’

I grab the yellow rubber duck sitting at the side of the bath and I strangle it.

‘Love?’ he asks in a little voice.

I hold the duck under the water, trying to drown it. Then I let go, it bobs to the top again, the same silly eyes staring back at me. I take a deep breath, breathe out slowly.

‘About twenty minutes, Dad, is that OK?’

Silence.

I close my eyes again.

‘Eh, love. It’s just that you’ve been in there twenty minutes already and you know how my prostate is—’

I don’t hear any more, because I’m climbing out of the bath with all the gracefulness of a piranha at feeding time. My feet squeak on the bathroom floor, water splashes in all directions.

‘Everything OK in there, Shamu?’ Dad laughs uproariously at his own joke.

I throw a towel around me and open the door.

‘Ah, Willy’s been freed,’ he smiles.

I bow and hold my arm out to the toilet. ‘Your chariot awaits you, sir.’

Embarrassed, he shuffles inside and closes the door behind him. It locks.

Wet and shivering, I browse through the half-bottles of red wine in the mini-bar. I pick one up and study the label. Immediately an image flashes through my mind, so vivid, I feel like my body has been transported.

A picnic basket with this bottle inside, an identical label, red and white chequered cloth laid out on the grass, a little girl with blonde hair twirling, twirling in a pink tutu. The wine swirling, swirling in a glass. The sound of her laughter. Birds twittering. Children’s laughter far off, a dog barking. I am lying on the chequered cloth, barefoot, trousers rolled above my ankles. Hairy ankles. I feel a hot sun beating down on my skin, the little girl dances and twirls before the sun, sometimes blocking the harshness of light, other times spinning in the other direction to send the glare into my eyes. A hand appears before me, a glass of red wine in it. I look to her face. Red hair, lightly freckled, smiling adoringly. At me.

‘Justin,’ she’s singing. ‘Earth to Justin!’

The little girl is laughing and twirling, the wine is swirling, the long red hair is blowing in the light breeze …

Then it’s gone. I’m back in the hotel room, standing before the mini-bar, my hair dripping bath water onto the carpet. Dad is studying me, watching me curiously, hand suspended in the air as though he’s not sure whether to touch me or not.

‘Earth to Joyce,’ he’s singing.

I clear my throat. ‘You’re done?’

Dad nods and his eyes follow me to the bathroom. On the way there, I stop and turn. ‘By the way, I’ve booked a ballet show for tonight if you’d like to come. We need to leave in an hour.’

‘OK, love,’ he nods softly, and watches after me with a familiar look of worry in his eyes. I’ve seen that look as a child, I’ve seen it as an adult and a million times in between. It’s as though I’ve taken the stabilisers off my bicycle for the very first time and he’s running along beside me, holding on tight, afraid to let me go.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Dad breathes heavily beside me and links my arm tightly as we slowly make our way to Covent Garden. Using my other hand I pat down my pockets, feeling for his heart pills.

‘Dad, we’re definitely getting a taxi back to the hotel and I’m not taking no for an answer.’

Dad stops and stares ahead, he takes deep breaths.

‘Are you OK? Is it your heart? Should we sit down? Stop and take a rest? Go back to the hotel?’

‘Shut up and turn round, Gracie. It’s not just my heart that takes my breath away, you know.’

I spin round and there it is, the Royal Opera House, its columns illuminated for the evening performance, a red carpet lining the pavement outside and crowds filing through the doors.

‘You have to take your moments, love,’ Dad says, taking in the sight before him. ‘Don’t just go head first into everything, like a bull seeing red.’

Having booked our tickets so late we are seated in the lower slips almost at the top of the tremendous theatre. The position is unlucky, yet we are fortunate to have got tickets at all. The view of the stage is restricted, yet the view of the boxes opposite is perfect. Squinting through the binoculars situated beside the seat, I spy on the people filling the boxes. No sign of my American man. Earth to Justin? I hear the woman’s voice in my head and wonder if Frankie’s theory about seeing the world from his eyes was correct.

Dad is enthralled by our view. ‘We’ve got the best seats in the house, love, look.’ He leans over the balcony and his tweed cap almost falls off his head. I grab his arm and pull him back. He takes the photograph of Mum from his pocket and places her on the velvet balcony ledge. ‘Best seat in the house, indeed,’ he says, his eyes filling.

The voice over the intercom system counts latecomers down and finally the cacophony of the orchestra dies down, the lights dim and there is silence before the magic begins. The conductor taps and the orchestra play the opening bars of Tchaikovsky’s ballet. Apart from Dad snorting when the male principal dancer appears on stage wearing tights, it runs smoothly and we are both entranced by the story of Swan Lake . I look away from the prince’s coming-of-age party and study those sitting in the boxes. Their faces are lit, their eyes dancing along with the dancers they follow. It’s as though a music box has been opened, spilling music and light from it and all those watching have been enchanted, captured by its magic. I continue to spy at them through my opera glasses, moving from left to right, a row of unfamiliar faces until … My eyes widen as I reach the familiar face, the man from the hair salon I now know from Bea’s biography in the programme, to be Mr Hitchcock. Justin Hitchcock? He watches the stage, entranced, leaning so far over the balcony it looks as though he’ll topple over the ledge.