Cecelia Ahern - How to Fall in Love

‘Like …’

‘Like, narrow down what you want, be yourself, expand your social circle, be realistic about setbacks, laugh a lot, listen, be witty, tell some secrets, keep it fun. She teaches us about it in class and then we have practical work, exercises after class.’

‘What kind of exercises?’

‘Last week we had to go on a date and practise the listen technique, where you speak for twenty per cent of the time and listen for eighty per cent.’

‘Listening’s a technique now?’ Adam asked, amused.

‘You’d be amazed how many people don’t do it,’ she said. ‘Well, I went on a date with someone from the class and it didn’t go well. We were both trying to listen and nobody was doing any talking.’

Adam laughed.

‘Chef! Are we concentrating?’ the good-natured instructor called him out. A few heads turned and Adam tried to look busy.

‘The next lesson is secrets ,’ Elaine whispered excitedly. ‘We’ll play a game of “Never Have I Ever”. And then we’ll ask questions like what’s your most embarrassing moment, favourite childhood memory, greatest fear, any hidden talents, what things do you do only when you’re all alone, what would your perfect day be? You know the kind of thing.’

‘So that’s your next class?’ Adam asked, looking at her date who was doing all the work so far, as was I for him.

She nodded enthusiastically.

Adam looked as if he was about to come out with a sarcastic remark, but he stopped himself. ‘Good luck with that, Elaine.’

‘Thank you. You too,’ she smiled.

He looked at me, all red in the face from battling with the batter, and he smiled.

‘She’s going to find out a secret or two about Marvin, that’s for sure,’ I whispered. Adam chuckled.

‘I didn’t think you were listening,’ he said.

‘Twenty per cent listening. Eighty per cent trying to make batter.’

‘I’ll help.’ He reached for an egg.

‘Make sure you don’t throw it at the wall,’ I muttered.

Adam smiled and cracked an egg. ‘You’re witty.’ Then he looked at me, thoughtful for a moment.

‘What, have I got flour on my face?’

‘No.’

‘You have to separate them.’ I pushed the bowl across to him.

‘I don’t know how to do that. You’re separated, you can do it.’

‘Ha ha,’ I said, unimpressed. ‘You keep getting funnier and funnier.’

‘It’s all this joyful living you’re making me do.’

Elaine watched us, amused.

‘You do three and I’ll do three,’ I said, and it was agreed.

Adam cracked the egg and moaned about the feel of the white on his fingers. He put the broken yolk in one bowl, white and egg shells in the other. He was worse on the second, better on the third. I tried to fish the shells out of the white. Instead of putting the sugar into the egg yolk, I emptied it into the egg white. When I noticed what I’d done, I immediately started scooping it out and spooned it into the other bowl hoping the instructor wouldn’t see. Adam sniggered. I poured vanilla and lemon extract in. Then I started to fluff the egg whites while Adam went into a daydream, no doubt thinking of his precious Maria. I couldn’t help it, I dipped my chin into the fluffed egg whites, making a long thin beard, and turned to Adam. I put on the voice of his father, low and croaky.

‘My son, you must take control of the company. You’re a Basil, Dazzle !’

He looked at me in surprise then threw his head back and laughed, properly, louder than I had ever heard him before, such a joyous, free sound. The instructor stopped talking, the class turned around to stare at us. Adam apologised to everyone but couldn’t quite manage to keep it together.

‘Excuse me, I’ll be back in a moment,’ he said, and made his way down the quiet kitchen, laughing to himself, unable to stop, holding his stomach as if it was sore from laughing.

They all looked at me. The egg white dripped from my chin and I smiled at them all.

‘Your cake is in the oven; it will take twenty minutes. Here,’ I said, joining Adam outside. I handed him his coat, then revealed a glass of champagne. ‘We have a ten-minute break and then we’re icing.’ I took a glug of the champagne.

He watched me, his eyes alight, and then he laughed again, another fit taking hold of him. It was a contagious laugh and soon I was joining in, though I was laughing at him laughing at … I wasn’t sure exactly. After a while he stopped, then started again a little, then stopped.

‘I haven’t laughed this much in a long time,’ he said, his breath travelling on the cold air.

‘And it wasn’t even that funny.’

He cracked up again. ‘It was,’ he managed to squeak.

‘If I’d known putting egg whites on my chin would fix you, I’d have done it days ago,’ I smiled.

‘You,’ he looked at me, his face alive, his eyes bright. ‘You’re a tonic. They should prescribe you for depression instead of pills.’

I was truly flattered by the compliment. It was the nicest thing he’d said to me and the closest I’d come to feeling I wasn’t in the way of his life. Instead of saying something nice, I switched into therapist mode. ‘Have you ever been on anti-depressants?’

He took a moment to think about it, reverting back to the client, the questioned one. ‘Once. I went to a GP, told him how I was feeling, and he prescribed them. But it didn’t quite help me in the way I wanted. I stopped taking them after a month or two.’

‘Because they didn’t deal with the root of the problem,’ I said.

He looked at me and I could tell he was annoyed by my comment. He knew I was going to urge him to see a therapist again and so I held back.

‘And cake-making is the perfect way to get to the root.’ I smiled.

‘Of course, because you know exactly what you’re doing,’ he said gently.

‘Of course.’

We were silent for a while and I wondered whether this was the moment to admit that I felt way out of my depth, or whether him hinting at it was acknowledgement enough. As if sensing what was coming, he snapped out of his trance and broke the silence.

‘Right, let’s get icing.’

Before decorating our cakes, we first had to take them out of the oven. Ours was the only cake in the whole class to collapse in the middle. Almost magically, before our very eyes as soon as it hit the air, the centre collapsed in a little poof .

In turn, we collapsed into such hysterics that I almost wet myself and we were politely but swiftly asked to leave.

15

How to Reap What You Sow

En route to Maria’s birthday celebration dinner in Dublin’s city centre we stopped at a Spar to decorate her cake. We were still giddy, almost in a drunken state, laughing at every minor amusing thing that happened, both of us having been starved of such emotions for too long. Adam carried the heart-shaped sponge cake with the collapsed uncooked mushy centre and a burned ring on the outside.

‘This is the ugliest cake I’ve ever seen,’ Adam said, laughing.

‘It needs a little face-lift, that’s all,’ I said, prowling the aisles. ‘A-ha!’ I picked up a can of spray cream and shook it.

‘Hey!’ the shopkeeper called out angrily. Adam immediately whipped out a wad of notes, and the shopkeeper silenced his protestations.

Adam held the cake while I sprayed. The first application was a disaster; I hadn’t shaken the can enough and the cream exploded in a disappointing puff of air, spattering the cake and Adam’s face and hair.

‘I’d say that’s twenty per cent on the cake, eighty per cent in my face.’

This sent me into stitches and it took a good few minutes before I could steady my hand enough to have another go. I was more successful with the second attempt and covered the top in spray cream. When I’d finished, Adam looked at it thoughtfully. Then he brought the cake over to the pick-a-mix and scooped up some milky teeth, then with a not-so-steady hand, he sprinkled them across the surface.