Cecelia Ahern - If You Could See Me Now

I made my way down the hall to the analysis lab, holding the lid of the jar closed tightly so they wouldn’t escape. Oscar was running around the lab with a look of panic on his face when I walked to the entrance.

“Open the hatch!” Oscar yelled to me while passing the door, arms out in front of him, white coat flapping like a cartoon character.

I placed the jar away from danger and ran to the hatch. Oscar ran toward me and at the last minute jumped to the side, fooling what was chasing him so that it raced straight into the cage.

“Ha!” he exploded, turning the key and waving it at the cage. His forehead was glittered with perspiration.

“What on earth is that?” I asked, moving my head closer to the cage.

“Be careful!” Oscar shouted and I jumped back. “You are incorrect in asking what on earth it is, because it’s not,” Oscar said, dabbing his fore

head with a handkerchief.

“It’s not what?”

“On earth,” he replied. “Never seen a shooting star before, Ivan?”

“Of course I have.” I circled the cage. “But not up close.”

“Of course.” He added an overly sweet tone to his voice. “You just see them from afar looking so pretty and bright dancing across the sky and you make your wishes on them, but”—his tone turned nasty—“you forget about Oscar, who has to gather your wishes from the star.”

I looked at Oscar apologetically. “I’m sorry, Oscar, I really did forget. I didn’t think stars were so dangerous.”

“Why?” Oscar snapped. “Did you think a burning asteroid millions of miles away, which is visible from earth, is going to shoot down to me and kiss me on the cheek? Anyway, it doesn’t matter, what have you brought to me? Oh, great, a Jinny Joe jar, just what I needed after that ball of fire,” he shouted loudly at the cage. “Something with a bit of respect.”

The ball of fire bounced around angrily in response.

I stepped away from the cage. “What kind of wish was it carrying?” I found it hard to believe that this burning ball of light could be of any help to anyone.

“Funny you ask,” Oscar said, showing it wasn’t funny at all. “This particular one was carrying the wish to chase me around the lab.”

“Was that Tommy?” I tried not to laugh.

“I can only assume so,” he said angrily. “But I can’t really complain to him because that was twenty years ago, when Tommy didn’t know any better and was just starting out.”

“Twenty years ago?” I asked in surprise.

“It took that long to get here,” Oscar explained, opening the jar and lifting out a Jinny Joe with an odd-looking implement. “It is, after all, millions of light years away. I thought twenty years was doing rather well.”

I left Oscar studying the Jinny Joes and made my way to wardrobe. Olivia was in there being measured.

“Hello, Ivan,” she said in surprise.

“Hi, Olivia, what are you doing?” I asked, watching as a woman measured her tiny waist.

“Being measured for a dress, Ivan, poor Mrs. Cromwell passed away last night,” she said sadly. “The funeral’s tomorrow. I’ve been to so many funerals, my only black dress is worn out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said sadly, knowing how fond Olivia was of Mrs. Cromwell.

“Thank you, Ivan, but we must keep going. A lady who needs my help arrived at the hospice this morning, and now I must focus on her.”

I nodded, understanding.

“So, what brings you here?”

“My new friend Elizabeth is a woman. She notices my clothes.”

Olivia chuckled.

“You want a T-shirt in another color?” the woman who was measuring asked. She took a red T-shirt from a drawer.

“Em, no.” I shifted from foot to foot and looked around at the shelves reaching from floor to ceiling. Each of them was labeled with a name and I saw Calendula’s name underneath a row of pretty dresses. “I was looking for something a lot . . . smarter.”

Olivia raised her eyebrows. “Well then, you’ll have to be measured for a suit, Ivan.”

We agreed to make me a black suit to go with a blue shirt and tie, because they were my favorite colors.

“Anything else, or will that be all?” Olivia asked me with a twinkle in her eye.

“Actually,” I lowered my voice and looked around to make sure the woman was out of earshot. Olivia moved her head closer to mine. “I was wondering if you could teach me the soft-shoe shuffle?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Elizabeth stared at the blank wall, dirty with dried and patchy plaster that had been smoothly smeared. She sighed, already feeling at a loss. The wall wasn’t saying anything to her. It was nine a.m. on the building site and it was already overrun by men in hard hats, drooping jeans, checked shirts, and Caterpillar boots. They looked like an army of ants as they rushed around carrying all sorts of materials on their backs. Their cheers, laughter, songs, and whistling echoed around the cemented shell on top of the hill that had yet to be filled by the ideas in Elizabeth’s head. Their sounds rolled down the corridors like thunder and into what was to be the children’s playroom.

At the moment, the playroom was a blanched and pallid canvas, which only in a matter of weeks was to have children frolicking within it, while outside would be a cocoon of calm. Perhaps she should have suggested soundproofing the walls. She had no idea what she could add to these walls to bring a smile to the children’s faces when they walked in, feeling nervous and upset at being taken from their parents. She knew about chaise longues, plasma screens, marble floors, and wood of every kind. She could do chic, funky, sophisticated, and rooms of splendor and grandeur. But none of these things would excite a child, and she knew she had to do better than a few building blocks, jigsaw puzzles, and beanbags.

She knew it would be perfectly within her rights to hire a muralist, ask the on-site painters to do the job or even ask Poppy, but Elizabeth liked to be hands-on. She usually liked to get lost in her work and she didn’t want to have to ask for help. Handing the brush over to someone else would be a sign of defeat in her eyes.

She laid ten tubs of primary colors in a line on the floor, opened the lids, and placed the brushes next to them. She laid a white sheet on the floor in the center of the room and sat down to continue her staring. But all she could think of was the fact that she couldn’t think of anything except Saoirse. Saoirse was on her mind every second of every day.

She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting there; she had a vague recollection of builders entering and exiting the room, collecting their tools, watching her in wonder as she stared at a blank wall. She had a feeling she was suffering an interior designer’s version of writer’s block. No ideas would come, no pictures could be formed, and just as the ink would dry in a pen, the paint would not flow from her brush. Her head was filled with . . . nothing. It was as though her thoughts were being reflected onto that drab plastered wall and it was probably thinking the very same thing as she.

She felt someone’s presence from behind her. She gave up staring at the wall and turned around. Benjamin was standing at the door.

“I’m sorry, I would have knocked but”—he held his hands up—“there’s no door.”

Elizabeth gave him a welcoming smile.

“Admiring my handiwork?”

“You did this?” She turned back around to face the blank wall.

“My best work, I think,” he replied and they both looked at it in silence.

Elizabeth sighed. “It’s not saying anything to me.”

“Ah.” He took a step into the room. “You have no idea how difficult it is to create a piece of art that doesn’t say anything at all. Someone always has some kind of interpretation but with this . . .” He shrugged. “Nothing. No statements.”