Cecelia Ahern - How to Fall in Love

That night as I lay awake in the penthouse of the Gresham Hotel, all my worries started to pile up. The worry of having left Barry; the money woes that followed; what people thought of me; the fear of never meeting anyone ever again and being lonely for the rest of my life; Simon Conway … And now Adam, whose surname I didn’t know, who twenty-four hours ago had attempted to take his own life and was lying in the room next to mine on the couch beside a balcony with an impressive drop, beside a full mini-bar, and who was waiting for me to deliver on my promise of fixing his life before his thirty-fifth birthday in two weeks’ time or else he’d attempt to kill himself again.

Feeling nauseous at the prospect, I got out of bed and checked on him again. The TV was muted and the colours flickered and changed and danced through the room. I could see his chest lifting up and down. There were a number of options available to me, according to 42 Tips , to quiet my mind and get some sleep, but all I could manage while listening out for Adam was to drink camomile tea. I flicked the switch on the kettle for the fourth time.

‘Jesus, do you never sleep?’ he called.

‘Sorry, am I disturbing you?’

‘No, but the steam engine in there with you is.’

I pushed the door open. ‘You want a cuppa? Oh. I see you have enough to drink.’ Three small empty bottles of Jack Daniel’s sat on the coffee table.

‘I wouldn’t say enough ,’ he said. ‘You can’t watch me twenty-four hours a day. Sooner or later you’re going to have to sleep.’ He finally opened his eyes and looked up at me. He didn’t look remotely tired. Or drunk. Merely beautiful. Perfect.

I didn’t want to tell him the real reason, or reasons, for my insomnia.

‘I’d prefer it if I could sleep in here with you,’ I said.

‘Cosy. But it’s a bit too soon after my break-up, so if you don’t mind, I’ll pass.’

I sat down on the couch anyway.

‘I’m not going to jump off the balcony,’ he said.

‘But you’ve thought about it?’

‘Of course. I’ve thought about the plethora of ways I could kill myself in this room. It’s what I do. I could have set myself on fire.’

‘There’s a fire extinguisher, I’d have put you out.’

‘I could have used my razor in the bathroom.’

‘I hid it.’

‘Drowned in the bath, or taken a bath with the hairdryer.’

‘I’d watch you in the bath, and nobody can find hairdryers in hotels.’

‘I’d have used the kettle.’

‘It can barely heat water, it couldn’t electrocute a mouse. It’s all noise and no action.’

He laughed lightly.

‘And that cutlery can barely cut through an apple, never mind a vein,’ I said.

He looked at the cutlery beside the fruit bowl. ‘Thought I’d keep that one to myself.’

‘You think about killing yourself a lot?’ I tucked my legs up under me and snuggled into the corner of the couch.

He dropped the act. ‘I can’t seem to stop myself. You were right, what you said on the bridge: it’s become like a really sick hobby.’

‘I didn’t quite say that. But you know there’s probably nothing wrong with you thinking about it, as long as you don’t act on it.’

‘Thank you. At least you won’t take my thoughts away from me.’

‘Thinking about it comforts you, it’s your crutch. I’m not going to take your crutch away, but it shouldn’t be your only way of coping. Did you ever talk to anyone about it?’

‘Yeah sure, it’s the number one topic for speed-dating. What do you think?’

‘Have you thought about therapy?’

‘I’ve just had a night and day of it.’

‘I think you could do with more than a night and day.’

‘Therapy’s not for me.’

‘It’s probably the way to go at the moment.’

‘I thought you were the way to go.’ He looked at me. ‘Isn’t that what you said? Stick with me and I’ll show you how wonderful life can be?’

Again panic rose that he was placing all this trust in me.

‘And I’ll do that. I just wondered …’ I swallowed. ‘Did your girlfriend know how you were feeling?’

‘Maria? I don’t know. She kept saying I’d changed. I was distracted. Withdrawn. I wasn’t the same. But no, I never told her what I was thinking.’

‘You’ve been depressed.’

‘If that’s what you call it. It doesn’t help when you’re trying your best to be jolly and someone keeps saying you’re not the same, you’re down, you’re not exciting, you’re not spontaneous. Jesus, I mean, what else could I do? I was trying to keep my own bloody head above water.’ He sighed. ‘She thought it was to do with my father. And the job.’

‘It wasn’t those things?’

‘Ah, I don’t know.’

‘But they haven’t helped?’ I offered.

‘No. They haven’t.’

‘So tell me about the job that’s worrying you.’

‘This feels like a therapy session, me lying here, you sitting there.’ He stared up at the ceiling. ‘I was given leave by my job to go and help run my father’s company while he was sick. I hate it, but it was fine because it was temporary. Then Father got sicker, so I had to stay longer. It was hard to convince my job to extend the leave and now the doctor says Father’s not getting any better. It’s terminal. Then I found out last week that work are letting me go; they can’t afford for me to spend any more time away.’

‘So you lose your dad and your job. And your girlfriend. And your best friend,’ I summarised for him. ‘All in one week.’

‘Why, thank you so much for saying that all out loud for me.’

‘I have fourteen days to fix you, I don’t have time for tip-toeing,’ I said lightly.

‘Actually, it’s thirteen.’

‘When your dad passes away, you’re not expected to keep the position, are you?’

‘That’s the problem: it’s a family business. My grandfather left the company to my father, next it falls to me, and so on and so on.’

The tension was building just talking about it. Realising I needed to tread carefully, I asked, ‘Have you spoken to your father about not wanting the job?’

He laughed lightly, bitterly. ‘You clearly don’t know my family. It doesn’t matter what I tell him; the job is mine whether I like it or not. My grandfather’s will states that the company is my father’s for life, then it falls to my father’s children, and if I don’t join the business, then it reverts to my uncle’s son and his family inherit it.’

‘Surely that saves you.’

He buried his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes with frustration. ‘It screws me even more. Look, I appreciate you trying, but you don’t understand the situation. It’s too complicated for me to explain, but let’s just say it involves years and years of family shit and I’m smack bang in the middle of it.’

His fingers were trembling. He rubbed them on his jeans, up and down, up and down. He probably wasn’t even aware that he was doing it. Time to lift the mood.

‘Tell me about your job, the job you love.’

He looked at me, a rare playful look in his eye. ‘What do you think it is that I do?’

I studied him. ‘A model?’

He swung his legs off the couch and sat up. It was so quick I thought he was going to dive on me; instead he looked at me in shock. ‘Are you kidding?’

‘You’re not a model?’

‘Why the hell would you say that?’

‘Because …’

‘Because what?’

He was flabbergasted. It was the first time I’d seen him so animated.

‘Don’t tell me no one has ever said that to you before?’

He shook his head. ‘No. No way.’

‘Oh. Even your girlfriend?’