Cecelia Ahern - P.S. I Love You

Holly became serious. “I think I really need to be there.”

Daniel stopped laughing. “Well then, we shall go.”

Holly smiled at him. “I think it would be good for you too, Daniel,” she said softly.

His foot dropped from her chair and he turned his head away from her to pretend to survey the lounge. “Holly, I'm fine,” he said unconvincingly.

Holly hopped off her chair, held him by the cheeks and kissed him roughly on the forehead.

“Daniel Connelly, stop trying to be all macho and strong. It doesn't wash with me.”

They hugged each other good-bye and Holly marched back to her office, determined not to change her mind again. She banged loudly up the stairs and marched straight by Alice, who was still staring dreamily at her article. “John Paul!” Holly yelled. “I need a dress, quick!”

Forty-six

HOLLY WAS RUNNING LATE AS she rushed around her bedroom trying to get dressed for the ball. She had spent the past two hours applying her makeup, crying and smudging it and then reapplying it. She rolled the mascara brush over her eyelashes for the fourth time, praying the tear reservoir had run dry for the night. An unlikely prospect, but a girl could always hope.

“Cinderella, your prince has arrived!” Sharon yelled upstairs to Holly.

Holly's heart raced, she needed more time. She needed to sit down and rethink the idea of going to the ball all over again, as she had completely forgotten her reasons for going. Now she was faced with only the negatives.

Reasons not to go: She didn't want to go at all, she would spend all night crying, she would be stuck at a table full of so-called friends who hadn't talked to her since Gerry had died, she felt like shit, she looked like shit and Gerry wouldn't be there.

Reasons to go: She had an overwhelming feeling that she needed to go.

She breathed slowly, trying to prevent a whole new batch of tears from appearing.

“Holly, be strong, you can do this,” she whispered to her reflection in the mirror. “You need to do this, it will help you, it will make you stronger.” She repeated this over and over again until a creak at the door made her jump.

“Sorry,” Sharon apologized, appearing from around the door. “Oh Holly, you look fabulous!”

she said excitedly.

“I look like shit,” Holly grumbled.

“Oh, stop saying that,” Sharon said angrily. “I look like a blimp and do you hear me complaining? Accept the fact that you're a babe!” She smiled at her in the mirror, “You'll be fine.”

“I just want to stay home tonight, Sharon. I have to open Gerry's last message.” Holly couldn't believe the time had come to open the last one. After tomorrow there would be no more kind words from Gerry, and she still felt that she needed them. In all her excitement back in April, she couldn't wait for the months to pass so that she could rip the envelopes open and read that perfect handwriting, but she had wished the months away all too quickly and now it was the end. She wanted to stay in that night and savor their last special moment.

“I know,” Sharon said, understanding. “But that can wait for a few hours, can't it?”

Holly was just about to say no when John shouted up the stairs. “Come on, girls! The taxi's waiting! We have to collect Tom and Denise!”

Before Holly followed Sharon downstairs she slid open the drawer of her dressing table and took out the November letter from Gerry she had opened weeks ago. She needed his words of encouragement to help her out now. She ran her fingers over the ink and pictured him writing it.

She pictured the face he made when he wrote that she always used to tease him about. It was a face of pure concentration; his tongue even licked his lips as he wrote. She loved that face. She missed that face. She slid the card from the envelope. She needed strength from this letter, and she knew she would find it. Every day, she read:

Cinderella must go to the ball this month. And she will look glamorous and beautiful and have the time of her life just like always . . . But no white dresses this year . . .

PS, I love you . . .

Holly took a deep breath and followed Sharon downstairs.

“Wow,” Daniel said, his mouth dropping open. “You look fabulous, Holly.”

“I look like shit,” Holly grumbled, and Sharon shot her a look. “But thanks,” she quickly added.

John Paul had helped her choose a simple black halter-neck dress, with a split to the thigh up the middle. No white dresses this year.

They all piled into the seven-seater taxi, and as they approached each set of traffic lights Holly prayed that they would turn red. No such luck. For once the traffic on the streets of Dublin cleared, and after picking up Tom and Denise, they made it to the hotel in record time. Despite her prayers, a mud slide didn't cascade down the Dublin Mountains and no volcano erupted.

Hell refused to freeze over too.

They stepped up to the table just inside the door of the function room and Holly looked to the ground as she felt all eyes in their direction from the women eager to see how the newcomers were dressed. When they were satisfied that they were still the most beautiful people there, they turned away and continued their conversations. The woman sitting behind the desk smiled as they approached her. “Hello Sharon, hello John, hi Denise . . . oh gosh!” Her face might actually have gone whiter under her streaky fake-tanned face, but Holly couldn't be sure. “Oh hello, Holly, it's so good of you to come considering . . .” She trailed off and quickly flicked through the guest list to tick off their names.

“Let's go to the bar,” Denise said, linking her arm in Holly's and dragging her away from the woman.

As they walked across the room to the bar a woman Holly hadn't spoken to for months approached her. “Holly, I was sorry to hear about Gerry. He was a lovely man.”

“Thank you.” Holly smiled and was dragged away again by Denise. They finally reached the bar.

“Hi there, Holly,” a familiar voice behind her said.

“Oh hello, Paul,” she said, turning to face the large businessman who sponsored the charity. He was tall and overweight with a bright red face, probably due to the stress of running one of Ireland's most successful businesses. That and the fact that he drank too much. He looked like he was choking underneath the tightness of his bow tie and he pulled at it, looking uncomfortable. The buttons on his tuxedo looked like they were about to pop any moment.

Holly didn't know him very well; he was just one of the people she knew from meeting at the ball every year.

“You're looking as lovely as always.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Can I get you a drink?”

he asked, holding his hand up to attract the barman's attention.

“Oh no, thanks,” she smiled.

“Ah let me,” he said, taking his bulging wallet out of his pocket. “What'll you have?”

Holly gave in, “A white wine then, please, if you insist.” She smiled.

“I might as well get a drink for that miserable husband of yours,” he laughed. “What's he having?” he asked, searching the room for him.

“Oh, he's not here, Paul,” Holly said, feeling uncomfortable.

“Ah why not? The dryshite. What's he up to?” Paul asked loudly.

“Em, he passed away early in the year, Paul,” Holly said gently, hoping not to embarrass him.

“Oh,” Paul reddened even more and he cleared his throat nervously. He stared down at the bar.

“I'm very sorry to hear that,” he stuttered and looked away. He pulled at his bow tie again.

“Thank you,” Holly said, counting the seconds in her head till he made an excuse to leave the conversation. He left after three seconds, saying he had to bring his wife her drink. Holly was left standing at the bar alone, as Denise had made her way back to the group with their drinks.