Cecelia Ahern - How to Fall in Love

‘Come on,’ I called to him.

He stared at me with dark eyes.

‘Come on,’ I said more firmly, trying not to be intimidated, trying to keep things moving. I was in control here, I needed him to listen to me. Reluctantly, he followed.

‘I have six eggs here, with words representing things that are making you angry right now. Throw them. Throw them anywhere you want. As hard as you want. Crush them. Get rid of your anger.’ I handed him the carton and indicated the open door.

‘I’m tired of your tasks ,’ he spoke through his teeth.

‘Fine.’ I put the carton down on the counter and left the kitchen, going to my bedroom. Though I wanted very much to lock my door, I didn’t like the message it would send him. Instead I sat on my Spider-Man duvet and stared at the magnolia wall, at the grid-shaped shadow the moon was casting through my window pane, and tried to think what I should do next. I had a huge task ahead of me and no idea how to proceed. Somehow I needed to make him see a therapist. I thought about ways I could get him to go. Maybe pretend we were going somewhere else and arrive at a practice? But if I did that, fooled him or tried to trick him in any way, I would lose his trust for good. Then he wouldn’t even have me to help him, useless as I was.

For the first time since I’d agreed to this challenge, I was beginning to think I might not be able to deliver. Thoughts of him killing himself made me physically ill and I rushed to the toilet and locked the door. As I crouched in there, bent double, I heard him groan as if he was in pain, as if he’d been punched. Startled, I composed myself, splashed my face with water and hurried out. I stopped at the kitchen door. The light behind me spilled out into the black garden, which had been neglected since my green-fingered great-aunt Christine passed away. Now there was nothing but a long rectangular patch of grass, which hadn’t been properly tended in at least a decade, and not at all in these winter months. I remembered how my great-aunt used to feed us strawberries plucked straight from the vines, edible flowers, wild garlic and mint, eating more for the token of it than the taste. I could picture her, picking gooseberries for her jam, her wide-brimmed straw hat shielding her face from the sun, her wrinkled skin drooping on her neck and chest, creasing and wobbling as she worked, and all the while her raspy voice breathless from emphysema explained what she was doing. The garden was a long way from that now, yet the memory was there in a corner of my mind, the brightness of my youth on a sunny day when I felt warm and safe, contrasted with this cold dark night with fear and panic locked in my heart.

Out in the garden, Adam was looking down at the tray of eggs in his hand, choosing thoughtfully. He picked one up and gave it an almighty throw down the end of the garden. He let out a yell and it crashed against the end wall. Looking more motivated, he went back to the egg carton and picked another. He threw it, screaming as he released it into the air, watching as it smashed against the back wall. He repeated the process three more times. When he had finished, he stormed back into the house and slammed the bathroom door behind him. I ducked into the bedroom to give him space. The shower went on. I heard his angry sobs getting lost beneath the falling water.

I went outside to the carton. There was one egg left. I crouched down, picked up the egg and tears sprang to my eyes. The name on the remaining egg was ‘Christine’.

I was in bed, propped up on pillows, tense and alert, unable to relax while he was in that mood, when he appeared in my bedroom doorway. Instinctively, I pulled the covers around me, fearing for my safety. Seeing my reaction, he winced, hurt by my fear of him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently. ‘I promise not to behave like that again. I know you’re trying to help.’

I saw this was a different Adam from the one who’d raged at me earlier and I relaxed.

‘I’ll try harder,’ I said.

‘Ignore what I said. You’re doing fine. Thank you.’

I smiled.

He returned the smile.

‘Good night, Christine.’

‘Good night, Adam.’

11

How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found

At four a.m., I had an epiphany. Adam had been right the night before: I needed to do better. He hadn’t said it but he’d intimated it. I could see how vulnerable he was. I had to do better. Wide awake, my mind too wired now for sleep, I got up and threw on a tracksuit, then made my way as quietly as possible through the living room. The room was dark but Adam was sitting up, his troubled face illuminated by the glow of his laptop.

‘I thought you were asleep.’

‘I’m watching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.’

It was one of the things we had listed on his crisis plan as a distraction for when he dipped.

‘Are you okay?’ I tried to study his face but the computer screen didn’t give off enough light to reveal his innermost thoughts.

‘Where are you going?’ He ignored my question.

‘To my office. I’ll be back in a few minutes – if that’s okay?’

He nodded.

When I returned, his computer was overturned on the floor, the cord from the charger was wrapped around his neck and he was hanging off the edge of the couch, his eyes closed and his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

‘Very funny.’ I kept walking, my arms overloaded with paper, pens, highlighters, and a whiteboard, which I set up in my bedroom.

Adam claimed he didn’t want emotional help, insisting his needs were material, tangible physical ones. He wanted to get his job with the Irish Coast Guard back, he wanted his girlfriend back, he wanted his family off his back. I had assumed I could tackle this by helping him emotionally, but I had very little time. Perhaps what I needed to do was to treat his physical needs as I would his emotional. Emotionally he had his tools, he had his crisis plan. What was missing was a set of tools to cope with the physical needs, and I was going to give them to him.

Too curious to hold out any longer, Adam appeared at the door.

‘What are you doing?’

I was making plans, charting things in a frenzy. Drawing grids, mood boards, highlighters, bubbles, all kinds of things were flying around on large white boards.

‘How much coffee have you had?’

‘Too much. But there’s no point wasting time. Neither of us sleep anyway, so why not get started now? There are twelve days left,’ I said, urgency in my voice. ‘That’s two hundred and eighty-eight hours. Most people sleep eight hours a night – not us, but people do. That gives us sixteen hours a day to do what we have to do, which leaves us with only one hundred and ninety-two hours. Not that much time. And it’s four a.m. so officially we’ve eleven days left.’

I crossed out the figures and began feverishly working them out again. We had work to do in Dublin and pretty soon we would have to go to Tipperary to deal with the rest of Adam’s problems.

‘I think you’re having a nervous breakdown,’ he said, amused, arms folded as he watched me.

‘No. I’m having an epiphany. You want my services full-on, one-on-one? That’s what you’re going to get.’ I opened the wardrobe and pulled out a torch, checked to see if the batteries were working. I stuffed a bag with towels and a change of clothes. ‘I’d suggest you get something warm on and bring a change of clothes because we’re going out.’

‘Out? It’s freezing and it’s four in the morning. Where are we going?’

‘We, my friend, are going to win Maria back.’

He almost smiled. ‘And how are we going to do that?’

I pushed by him in the doorway and he had no choice but to throw on his coat and follow me.