Читать книгу Postscript - Cecelia Ahern, Cecelia Ahern - Страница 10

‘Holly!’ Ciara shouts my name again. Her tone has gone from patience to concern to sheer shrill anger. ‘Where the hell are you?’

I’m in the stockroom behind boxes, perhaps crouched down behind them, perhaps with some clothes draped over the top like a little den. Perhaps hiding.

I look up and see Ciara’s face peering in.

‘What the fuck? Are you hiding?’

‘No. Don’t be ridiculous.’

She throws me a look; she doesn’t believe me. ‘I’ve been calling you for ages. Angela Carberry was looking for you, she was insistent that she speak to you. I told her I thought you’d stepped out for a coffee. She waited for fifteen minutes. You know what she’s like. What the hell, Holly? You made me look like I didn’t even know where my own staff member was, which I didn’t.’

‘Oh. Well now you do. I’m sorry I missed her.’ It’s been a month since we recorded the podcast and Angela Carberry’s advocacy for me sharing my story has developed into stalking, in my opinion. I stand up and stretch my legs with a groan.

‘What’s going on with you and Angela?’ Ciara asks, worried. ‘Is it something to do with the shop?’

‘No, not at all. Nothing to do with the shop, don’t worry. Didn’t she just deliver another bag full of clothes?’

‘Vintage Chanel,’ Ciara says, relaxing, relieved. Then she’s confused again. ‘So what is going on? Why are you hiding from her? Don’t think I haven’t noticed – you did the same thing when she came by last week.’

‘You’re better with her on the floor. I don’t know her. I find her very bossy.’

‘She is very bossy, she has a right to be: she’s giving us thousands of euro worth of stuff. I’d display her necklace on my own naked body on a mechanical bull, if that’s what she wanted.’

‘Nobody wants that.’ I push past her.

‘I’d like to see that,’ Mathew calls from the other room.

‘She asked me to give you this.’ She holds out an envelope.

There’s something about this that makes me uncomfortable. Me and envelopes have a history. It’s not the first time in six years that I’ve opened an envelope, but there is a sense of foreboding about this one. I expect it to be an invitation to speak about grief at a ladies’ lunch or something like it, organised by Angela. She has asked me several times if I’d continue my ‘talk’, or if I’d write a book. With each visit to the shop she has given me a phone number for a speaking events agent, or a contact number for a publishing agent. The first few times I politely thanked her, but on her last visit I shut her down so directly I wasn’t sure if she’d ever come back. I take the envelope from Ciara, fold it and shove it into my back pocket.

Ciara glares at me. We have a stand-off.

Mathew appears at the door. ‘Good news. Download statistics reveal ‘How to Talk about Death’ was the most successful episode to date! It had more downloads than all the others put together. Congratulations, sisters.’ He enthusiastically lifts his two hands for high-fives from both of us.

Ciara and I continue to glower at each other; me angry because her podcast has made me the target of Angela’s almost obsessive attention, her angry that I’m annoying her greatest donator for reasons unknown.

‘Ah, far out, don’t leave me hanging.’

Ciara slaps his raised palm half-heartedly.

‘Not what I was expecting,’ he says, looking at me with concern and lowering his hand. ‘I’m sorry, was that insensitive of me? I wasn’t high-fiving Gerry, you know—’

‘I know,’ I say and offer him a smile. ‘It’s not that.’

I can’t celebrate the podcast’s success; I wish nobody had listened to it, I wish I hadn’t done it. I never want to hear or speak of Gerry’s letters ever again.

Gabriel’s house in Glasnevin, a single-storey Victorian terraced cottage that he patiently and lovingly restored to life himself, is a cosy eclectic home that, unlike mine, oozes with character. We lie on the floor, on a monstrous velvet bean bag atop a comfortable shagpile rug, drinking red wine. The living room is an internal room and so light, albeit dull February light, streams down on us from the roof light. Gabriel’s furniture is a mixture of antique and contemporary, whatever he liked and collected along the way. Every item has a story, even if it’s not a moving one, or has any value, but everything’s come from somewhere. The fireplace is the focus of the room; he doesn’t have a TV, and instead entertains himself with obscure music on his record player, or reads from his copious book collection, the current read being the art book Twenty-Six Gasoline Stations, made up of black-and-white photographs of gasoline stations in the US. The music mood is Ali Farka Touré, a Malian singer and guitarist. I stare up at the evening sky through the skylight. It’s wonderful, it really is. He’s what I need, when I need it.

‘When is the first house viewing?’ he asks, growing impatient at how slowly things have been progressing since we made the decision well over a month ago. My distraction since the podcast has knocked me off course.

My house hasn’t officially gone on the market yet, but I can’t bring myself to own up to that, so instead I tell him, ‘I’m meeting the estate agent at the house tomorrow.’ I lift my head to sip my wine and then return to resting on his chest, as strenuous a duty as this day commands. ‘Then you will be mine, all mine,’ I laugh maniacally.

‘I am already. By the way, I found this.’ He puts his glass down and retrieves a crumpled envelope from between a messy pile of books by the fireplace.

‘Oh yes, thanks.’ I fold it over and squeeze it behind my back.

‘What is it?’

‘A guy heard me speak at the shop. Thinks I’m a sexy widow and gave me his number.’ I sip my wine, serious.

His frown makes me laugh.

‘A woman in the audience at the podcast recording wants me to continue telling my story. She keeps pestering me to do more events, or to write a book.’ I laugh again. ‘Anyway, she’s a pushy rich woman that I don’t know very well and I told her I’m not interested.’

He looks at me with interest. ‘I listened to it in the car the other day. You spoke very movingly. I’m sure your words helped a lot of people.’ This is the first time he’s spoken positively about the podcast. I suppose my words were nothing he didn’t already know – our early days and months were spent in respective intimate soul-digging as we got to know each other – but I want to leave it all behind me.

‘I was helping Ciara.’ I shut his compliment down. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to start talking about my ex-husband for a living.’

‘I’m not worried about you talking about him, it’s what constantly reliving it could do to you.’

‘Not going to happen.’

He squirms on the bean bag and wraps his arm around me, I think for a hug, but his hand goes down beneath me and he grabs the envelope instead. He pulls it free.

‘You haven’t opened it. Do you know what’s inside?’

‘No. Because I don’t care.’

He studies me. ‘You do care.’

‘I don’t. Otherwise I would have opened it.’

‘You do care. Otherwise you would have opened it.’

‘It can’t be important anyway, she delivered it to me weeks ago. I forgot I had it.’

‘Can I at least see?’ He rips the top.

I attempt to grab it from him and instead I spill my wine on the rug. I clamber up out of his arms, pull myself up from the bean bag on the floor with a groan and hurry to the kitchen to retrieve a damp towel. I can hear him ripping the envelope open while I run the cloth under the tap. My heart is pounding. The prickles are rising on my skin again.

‘Mrs Angela Carberry. The PS, I Love You Club,’ he reads aloud.

‘What?!’

He raises the card in the air and I move closer to him to read it, the damp cloth drips and trickles on his shoulder.

‘Holly,’ he moves, agitated.

I take the card from his hand. A small business card with elegant print. ‘The PS, I Love You Club,’ I read aloud, feeling curious and furious at once.

‘What does that mean?’ he asks, wiping the sloppy mess from his shoulder.

‘I have no idea. I mean, I know what PS, I Love You means, but … is there anything else in the envelope?’

‘No, just this card.’

‘I’ve had enough of this nonsense. It’s like stalking.’ I grab my phone from the couch and move away from him for privacy. ‘Or plagiarism.’

He laughs at my abrupt change of mood. ‘You’d have to have written it down somewhere for it to be remotely so. Try to tell her to fuck off nicely, Holly.’ He turns his attention to his art book.

It rings for a long time. I drum my fingers on the counter, impatiently constructing a firm dialogue in my head about how she needs to leave this alone, back off, fuck off, kill it immediately. Whatever this club is, I will have nothing to do with it, and I insist that nobody else does either. I was helping my sister, and all I felt afterwards was exhausted and used. And those words belong to my husband, in my letters; they are not hers to use. My anger intensifies with each new ring, and I’m about to hang up when a man finally answers.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello. Could I speak with Angela Carberry, please?’

I feel Gabriel’s eyes on me, he mouths be nice. I turn my back to him.

The man’s voice is muffled as though he’s moved his mouth from the mouthpiece. I hear voices in the background and I’m not sure if he’s talking to them or me.

‘Hello? Are you there?’

‘Yes, yes. I’m here. But she’s not. Angela. She’s gone. She passed away. Just this morning.’

His voice cracks.

‘They’re here with me, the funeral people. We’re planning it at the moment. So I have no information for you as yet.’

I brake hard, careen into a ditch, anger crashed and burned. I try to catch my breath.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ I say, sitting down, noticing as I do that I have Gabriel’s full attention. ‘What happened?’

His voice is coming and going, weak and strong, wobbly, away from the receiver, back again. I can sense his disorientation. His world is upside down. I don’t even know who this man is and yet his loss is palpable and like a weight on my shoulders.

‘It was very sudden in the end, took us by surprise. They thought she had more time. But the tumour spread, and that was … well.’

‘Cancer?’ I whisper. ‘She died of cancer?’

‘Yes, yes, I thought you knew … I’m very sorry, who is this? Did you say? I’m sorry I’m not thinking very clearly …’

He talks on, confused. I think of Angela, thin and needy, holding on to my arm, squeezing me so tightly it hurt. I thought she was odd, I found her irritating, but she was desperate, desperate for me to visit with her – and I didn’t. I didn’t even call her. I barely gave her time. Of course she was moved by my talk, she was dying of cancer. She was holding on to my arm that day as though she was clinging to life.

I must be making a noise, I must be doing something because Gabriel is down on his knees beside me and the man on the other end of the phone is saying, ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. I should have worded it better. But I haven’t had to … this is all very new and …’

‘No, no,’ I try to keep it all together. ‘I’m very sorry for disturbing you at this time. My sincere condolences to you and yours,’ I say quickly.

I dissolve the call.

I dissolve.