Cecelia Ahern - How to Fall in Love

I stood on the altar and placed my reading on the stand. Amelia had asked me to read and had left it to me to choose a piece I found appropriate. It was going to take an act of will for me to say these words; they had very special meaning to me and I had never read them aloud before, only to myself and rarely with dry eyes, but I couldn’t think of a more appropriate time to read them. I smiled at Amelia, then looked over her shoulder, first at my family, then at Adam. I took a long shaky breath and directed my words at him.

‘ Where would we be without tomorrows? What we’d have instead are todays. And if that was the case, with you, I’d hope for the longest day for today. I’d fill today with you, doing everything I’ve ever loved. I’d laugh, I’d talk, I’d listen and learn, I’d love, I’d love, I’d love. I’d make every day today and spend them all with you, and I’d never worry about tomorrow, when I wouldn’t be with you. And when that dreaded tomorrow comes for us, please know that I didn’t want to leave you, or be left behind, that every single moment spent with you were the best times in my life.’

‘Did you write that?’ Adam asked me as we sat at the function after the funeral with cups of milky tea and a plate of ham sandwiches in front of us. Neither of us ate.

‘No.’

We left a long silence and I waited for him to ask me who did write it, and I prepared what I was going to say, but he surprised me by not asking.

‘I think I need to go see my dad,’ Adam said suddenly.

It was enough for me.

Adam’s father was staying at St Vincent’s private hospital. He had gone in for a short procedure for his liver disease one month previously and he was still there. Mr Basil happened to be the rudest individual anybody could ever possibly meet but, despite the fact that without him life in the wards would be easier for everyone involved, they were still using the best of modern medicine to try to keep him alive. His room was not one anybody chose to enter, thanks to the fear of being abused, verbally for everyone, and physically for the young – or as he called them, ‘ripe’ – nurses. For the unripe ones, he resorted to other types of physical abuse, even throwing his urine at one nurse who’d interrupted his phone call. He would only permit a handful of the female nursing staff to look after him, and they had allowed him to think he actually had a choice in the matter. He wanted to be surrounded by women because he believed they were better at getting the job done on account of their ability to multi-task, their innate coldness and no-nonsense minds, but mostly because, as the perceived inferior sex, they felt the need and the desire to prove themselves more than men. Men’s eyes wandered; he needed people who could concentrate on one thing at a time, and that thing was him. He wanted and needed to get better. He had a multi-billion international business to run and until they fixed him he would run it from the sparse room that had been transformed into Basil Confectionery’s nerve centre.

As we followed the dinner lady, who pushed open the door to enter, I caught a glimpse of the old man and saw a full head of fine wispy grey curls and a long wispy grey beard, which extended only from the chin, not from the cheeks, and finished in a fine point as if it were an arrow pointing downward to the depths of hell. There was nothing soothing about this room, which he’d been sent to to heal. Instead there were three laptops, a fax machine, an iPad, more than enough BlackBerries and iPhones for the disintegrating figure in the bed and the two women in suits who huddled by his side. It wasn’t a room that hinted at the possibility of goodbye to the world; it was a room that was alive, busy, ready to create; kicking and screaming and raging against the dying light. This was a room whose occupant wasn’t finished with the world and would go down fighting if need be.

‘I heard they were giving out Bartholomew tubs on the plane,’ he snapped to the older woman. ‘A little tub of ice-cream for everyone, even in economy.’

‘Yes, they’ve done a deal with Aer Lingus. For one year, I believe.’

‘Why don’t they have Basil’s on the plane? It’s ludicrous that Bartholomew would get there and not us. Who’s responsible for this fuck-up? Is it you, Mary? Honestly, how many times do I have to tell you to keep your eye on the ball? You’re so busy with those damn horses I’m beginning to worry you’ve lost your ability to function.’

‘Of course I spoke to Aer Lingus, Mr Basil, on many occasions, and have done so for years, but it is thought by them that Bartholomew are a more luxury brand, while we’re a family brand. Ours are available—’

‘Not ours, mine ,’ he interrupted.

She continued calmly as if he hadn’t spoken: ‘—to purchase from the inflight shopping, and I can tell you our exact revenue from this …’ She flicked through some papers.

‘Out!’ he suddenly yelled at the top of his lungs, and everyone jumped except the cool, calm Mary, who once again behaved as though she hadn’t heard him. ‘We’re having a meeting, you should have called first.’ How he’d seen us enter was beyond my comprehension, given we were trapped behind a trolley and I could barely see him.

‘Come on,’ Adam said, turning on his heel.

‘Wait.’ I reached out and grabbed his arm. I blocked the door and trapped him in the room. ‘We’re doing this today,’ I whispered.

The dinner lady placed the tray on the table in front of Mr Basil.

‘What is this? It looks like shit.’

The woman with the hairnet looked at him, bored, seemingly accustomed to the insults. ‘It’s shepherd’s pie, Mr Basil.’ She spoke in a thick Dublin accent, then changed her tone to a more sarcastic, superior one: ‘Accompanied by a side salad of lettuce and baby tomatoes, accompanied by a slice of bread and butter. For dessert you have jelly and ice cream, followed by your enema – so please do give Nurse Sue a call for that.’ She smiled sweetly for a nanosecond then her original scowl returned.

‘Shepherd’s shit, more like, and that side salad looks like grass. Do I look like a horse to you, Mags?’

The dinner lady wasn’t wearing a name badge. Despite the insults, she might have felt mildly complimented by the fact he knew her name. Unless her name was Jennifer.

‘No, Mr Basil, you certainly don’t look like a horse. You look like a skinny, angry old man who needs his dinner. Now eat up.’

‘Yesterday’s dinner looked like food and tasted like shit. Maybe this shit will actually taste like food.’

‘And then hopefully today the enema will help you have a shit,’ she said, picking up the tray from earlier and carrying it out of the room, head held high.

I thought I saw Mr Basil smile but the glimmer of possibility disappeared as quickly as it had come. His voice was gravelly, weak but authoritative. If he was this tough on his deathbed, I could only imagine what he had been like in the office. And as a father. I looked at Adam; his expression was unreadable. This visit was important, this was where I would have to appeal to Mr Basil’s paternal instincts, to see how forcing Adam to take over the company was damaging his son’s health. This was the basket in which I placed all of my eggs. Already I was concerned they’d decided to crush themselves on the way into the room.

‘Actually, come back here,’ the old man called.

Mags halted.

‘Not you, the pair of them.’

Mags patted my hand sympathetically as she passed and said gently, ‘He’s a right fucker.’

Adam and I approached the bed. No loving words were shared between father and son, not even a greeting of any kind.

‘What do you have to do today?’ Mr Basil barked.