Cecelia Ahern Untitled Novel 1

POSTSCRIPT

Cecelia Ahern

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Cecelia Ahern 2019

Jacket design by Holly MacDonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Jacket illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Cecelia Ahern asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008194871

Ebook Edition © September 2019 ISBN: 9780008194895

Version: 2019-07-18

Dedication

For fans of PS, I Love You, all around the world, with heartfelt gratitude

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Cecelia Ahern

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Shoot for the moon and even if you miss you’ll land among the stars.

It’s engraved on my husband’s stone at the graveyard. It was a phrase he often used. His optimistic, cheery inflection oozed positive self-help phrases as though they were fuel for life. Positive words of reinforcement like that had no effect on me, not until he died. It was when he spoke them to me from his grave that I really heard them, I felt them, I believed them. I clung to them.

For a full year after his death, my husband Gerry continued his life by giving me the gift of his words in surprise monthly notes. His words were all I had; no more spoken words, but words, written from his thoughts, from his mind, from a brain that controlled a body with a beating heart. Words meant life. And I gripped them, hands clasped tightly around his letters until my knuckles went white and my nails dented my palms. I hung on to them like they were my lifeline.

It’s 7 p.m. on 1 April, and this fool is revelling in the new brightness. The evenings are stretching and the short, shocking, sharp sting of winter’s slap is being nursed by spring. I used to dread this time of year; I favoured winter when everywhere was a hiding place. The darkness made me feel that I was concealed behind gauze, that I was out of focus, almost invisible. I revelled in it, celebrating the shortness of the day, the length of the night; the darkening sky my countdown to acceptable hibernation. Now I face the light, I need it to prevent me from being sucked back.

My metamorphosis was similar to the instant shock the body experiences when dipped into cold water. On impact there’s the overwhelming urge to shriek and leap out, but the longer you remain submerged, the more you acclimatise. The cold, like the darkness, can become a deceptive comfort you never want to leave. But I did; feet kicking and arms sweeping, I pulled myself up to the surface. Emerging with blue lips and chattering teeth, I thawed and re-entered the world.

Transitioning day to night, in transitional winter to spring, in a transitional place. The graveyard, considered a final resting place, is less peaceful beneath the surface than above. Below the soil, hugged by wooden coffins, bodies are altering as nature earnestly breaks down the remains. Even when resting, the body is perpetually transforming. The giddy laughter of children nearby shatters the silence, unaware of or unaffected by the in-between world they stand on. Mourners are silent but their pain is not. The wound may be internal, but you can hear it, you can see it, you can feel it. Heartbreak is carried around bodies like an invisible cloak; it adds a load, it dims eyes, it slows strides.

In the days and months after my husband’s death, I searched for some elusive transcendental connection to him, desperate to feel whole again, like an insufferable thirst that needed to be quenched. On days when I was functioning, his presence would creep up behind me and tap me on the shoulder, and suddenly I’d feel an unbearable emptiness. A parched heart. Grief is endlessly uncontrollable.

He chose to be cremated. His ashes are in an urn slotted into a niche behind a Columbarium Wall. His parents reserved the space beside his. The empty space in the wall beside his urn is for me. I feel as though I’m staring death in the face, which is something I would have embraced when he died. Anything to join him. I would have gladly climbed into that niche, folded myself up like a contortionist and cradled my body around his ashes.

He’s in the wall. But he’s not there, he’s not here. He’s gone. Energy elsewhere. Dissolved, besprinkled particles of matter around me. If I could, I would deploy an army to hunt down his every atom and put him together again, but all the king’s horses and all the king’s men … we learn it from the beginning, we only realise what it all means in the end.

We were privileged to have not just one but two goodbyes; a long illness from cancer followed by a year of his letters. He let go secretly knowing that there would be more of him for me to cling to, more than memories; even after his death he found a way to make new memories together. Magic. Goodbye, my love, goodbye again. They should have been enough. I thought that they were. Maybe that’s why people come to graveyards. For more goodbyes. Maybe it’s not about hello at all – it’s the comfort of goodbye, a calm and peaceful, guilt-free parting. We don’t always remember how we met, we often remember how we parted.

It’s surprising to me that I’m back here, both in this location and in this frame of mind. Seven years since his death. Six years since I read his final letter. I had, have moved on, but recent events have unsettled everything, rattled my core. I should move forward, but there’s a hypnotic rhythmic tide, as though his hand is reaching for me and pulling me back.

I examine the stone and read his phrase again.

Shoot for the moon and even if you miss you’ll land among the stars.

So this must be what it’s like then. Because we did, he and I. We shot straight for it. We missed. This right here, all that I have, and all that I am, this new life that I’ve built up over the past seven years, without Gerry, must be what it’s like to land among the stars.

1

Three Months Earlier

‘Patient Penelope. The wife of the King of Ithaca, Odysseus. A serious and diligent character, a devoted wife and mother, some critics dismiss her as a symbol of marital fidelity, but Penelope is a complex woman who weaves her plots as deftly as she weaves a garment.’ The tour guide leaves a mysterious pause while his eyes run over his intrigued audience.

Gabriel and I are at an exhibition in the National Museum. We’re in the back row of the gathered crowd, standing slightly away from the others as though we don’t belong, or don’t want to be a part of their gang, but aren’t too cool to risk missing what’s being said. I’m listening to the tour guide while Gabriel leafs through the brochure beside me. He will be able to repeat what the guide has said later, word for word. He loves this stuff. I love that he loves this stuff more than the stuff itself. He’s somebody who knows how to fill time, and when I met him that was one of his most desirable traits because I had a date with destiny. In sixty years, max, I had a date with someone on the other side.

‘Penelope’s husband Odysseus goes to fight in the Trojan War, which is fought for ten years and it takes him a further ten years to return. Penelope is in a very dangerous situation when one hundred and eight suitors in total begin demanding her hand in marriage. Penelope is clever, and concocts ways to delay her suitors, leading on each man with the promise of possibility but never submitting to any one.’

I suddenly feel self-conscious. Gabriel’s arm draped loosely over my shoulder feels too heavy.

‘The story of Penelope’s loom, which we see here, symbolises one of the queen’s cunning tricks. Penelope worked at weaving a shroud for the eventual funeral of her father-in-law Laertes, claiming she would choose a husband as soon as the shroud was completed. By day, she worked on a great loom in the royal halls, at night she secretly unravelled what she had done. She persisted for three years, waiting for her husband to return, deceiving her suitors until they were reunited.’

It grates on me. ‘Did he wait for her?’ I call out.

‘Excuse me?’ the tour guide asks, eyes darting to find the owner of the voice. The crowd parts and turns to look at me.

‘Penelope is the epitome of conjugal fidelity, but what about her husband? Did he save himself for her, out there in the war, for twenty years?’

Gabriel chuckles.

The tour guide smiles and talks briefly about the nine other children Odysseus had with five other women, and his long journey to return to Ithaca from the Trojan War.

‘So, no then,’ I mumble to Gabriel as the group move on. ‘Silly Penelope.’

‘It was an excellent question,’ he says, and I hear the amusement in his voice.

I turn again to the painting of Penelope while Gabriel flicks through the brochure. Am I Patient Penelope? Am I weaving by day, unravelling by night, deceiving this loyal and beautiful suitor while I wait to be reunited with my husband? I look up at Gabriel. Gabriel’s blue eyes are playful, not reading into my thoughts. Amazingly deceived.

‘She could have just slept with them all while she was waiting,’ he says. ‘Not much fun, Prudish Penelope.’

I laugh, rest my head on his chest. He wraps his arm around me, holds me tight and kisses the top of my head. He’s built like a house and I could live inside his hug; big, broad and strong, he spends his days outdoors climbing trees as a tree surgeon, or arborist to use the title he prefers. He’s used to being up at a height, loves the wind and rain, all elements, an adventurer, an explorer, and if not at the top of a tree, he can be found beneath one, with his head in a book. In the evening after work, he smells of peppery watercress.

We met two years ago at a chicken wing festival in Bray, he was beside me at the counter, holding up the line behind him while he ordered a cheeseburger. He caught me at a good moment, I liked the humour, which was his intention; he’d been trying to get my attention. His chat-up line I suppose.

Me mate wants to know if you’ll go out with him.

I’ll have a cheeseburger, please.

I’m a sucker for a bad chat-up line, but I’ve good taste in men. Good men, great men.

He starts to move one way and I pull him in the opposite direction, away from Patient Penelope’s gaze. She’s been watching me and she thinks she recognises her type when she sees one. But I’m not her type, I’m not her and I don’t want to be her. I will not pause my life as she did to wait for an uncertain future.

‘Gabriel.’

‘Holly.’ He matches my serious tone.

‘About your proposition.’

‘To march on the government to prevent premature Christmas decorations? We’ve just taken them down, surely they’ll go up again soon.’

I have to arch my back and crane my neck to look up at him, he’s so tall. His eyes are smiling.

‘No, the other one. The moving in with you one.’

‘Ah.’

‘Let’s do it.’

He punches the air and makes a quiet stadium-sized-crowd-cheering sound.

‘If you promise me that we’ll get a TV, and that every day when I wake up you will look like this.’ I stand on tiptoe to get closer to his face. I place my hands on his cheeks, feel his smile beneath the Balbo beard he grows, trims and maintains like a pro; the tree man who cultivates his own face.

‘That is a prerequisite of being my flatmate.’

‘Fuck-mate,’ I say and we laugh, childishly.

‘Were you always so romantic?’ he asks, wrapping his arms around me.

I used to be. I used to be very different. Naïve, perhaps. But I’m not any more. I hug him tightly and rest my head on his chest. I catch Penelope’s judgemental eye. I lift my chin haughtily. She thinks she knows me. She doesn’t.

2

‘Are you ready?’ my sister Ciara asks me quietly as we take our positions on bean bags at the head of the shop while the crowd hums, waiting for the show to begin. We’re sitting in the window of her vintage and second-hand shop, Magpie, where I’ve worked with Ciara for the past three years. Once again, we’ve transformed the shop to an event space where her podcast, How to Talk about …, will be recorded in front of an audience. Tonight, however, I’m not in my usual safe place, servicing the wine and cupcake table. Instead, I have given in to the persistent requests of my beleaguering yet adventurous and fearless little sister, to be a guest on this week’s episode, ‘How to Talk about Death’. I regretted my yes as soon as the word left my lips and that regret has reached astronomical intensity by the time I sit down and am faced by the small audience.

The rails and display stands of clothing and accessories have been pushed to the walls and five rows of six fold-up seats fill the shop floor. We cleared the front window so Ciara and I could sit at an elevated height while, outside, people racing home from work throw passing glances at the moving mannequins sitting on bean bags in the window.

‘Thanks for doing this.’ Ciara reaches out and squeezes my clammy hand.

I smile faintly, assessing the damage control of pulling out this minute, but I know it’s not worth it. I must honour my commitment.

She kicks off her shoes and pulls her bare feet up on to the bean bag, feeling perfectly at home in this space. I clear my throat and the sound reverberates around the shop through the speakers, where thirty expectant, curious faces stare back at me. I squeeze my sweaty hands together and look down at the notes I’ve been furiously compiling like a frazzled student before an exam ever since Ciara asked me to do this. Fragmented thoughts scribbled as inspiration seized me, but none of them make sense at the moment. I can’t see where one sentence begins and another one ends.

Mum is sitting in the front row, seats away from my friend Sharon who is in the aisle seat, where she has more space for her double buggy. A pair of little feet, one sock hanging on for dear life, one sock off, peeks out from beneath a blanket in the buggy, and Sharon holds her six-month-old baby in her arms. Her six-year-old son Gerard sits on one side of her, eyes on his iPad, ears covered by headphones, and her four-year-old son is dramatically declaring he’s bored and has slumped so low in the chair only his head rests against the base of the back of the chair. Four boys in six years; I appreciate her coming here today. I know that she’s been up since the crack of dawn. I know how long it took her to leave the house, before entering it again three more times for something she forgot. She’s here, my warrior friend. She smiles at me, her face a picture of exhaustion, but ever the supportive friend.

‘Welcome, everybody, to the fourth episode of the Magpie podcast,’ Ciara begins. ‘Some of you are regulars here – Betty, thank you for supplying us all with your delicious cupcakes; and thanks to Christian for the cheese and wine.’

I search the crowd for Gabriel. I’m quite sure he’s not here, I specifically ordered him not to attend, though that wasn’t necessary. As someone who keeps his private life to himself and has a firm check on his emotions, the idea of me discussing my private life with strangers boggled his mind. We may have strongly debated it but right now, I couldn’t agree with him more.

‘I’m Ciara Kennedy, owner of Magpie, and recently I decided it would be a good idea to do a series of podcasts titled ‘How to Talk about …’ featuring the charities that receive a percentage of the proceeds of this business. This week we’re talking about death – specifically grief and bereavement – and we have Claire Byrne from Bereave Ireland with us, and also some of those who benefit from the wonderful work that Bereave do. The proceeds of your ticket sales and generous donations will go directly to Bereave. Later, I’ll be talking to Claire about the important, tireless work they do in assisting those who have lost loved ones, but first I’d like to introduce my special guest, Holly Kennedy, who just so happens to be my sister. You’re finally here!’ Ciara exclaims excitedly, and the audience applaud.

‘I am,’ I laugh nervously.

‘Ever since I started the podcast last year, I’ve been pestering my sister to take part. I’m so glad you’re doing this.’ She reaches across and takes my hand, holds it. ‘Your story has touched my life profoundly, and I’m sure that so many people will benefit from hearing about the journey you’ve been on.’

‘Thank you. I hope so.’

I notice my notes quivering in my hand and I let go of Ciara’s hand to still it.

‘“How to Talk about Death” – it’s not an easy topic. We are so comfortable with talking about our lives, about how we are living, about how to live better, that often the conversation about death is an awkward one, and not fully explored. I couldn’t think of anyone else that I would rather have this conversation about grief with. Holly, please tell us how death affected you.’

I clear my throat. ‘Seven years ago I lost my husband Gerry to cancer. He had a brain tumour. He was thirty years old.’

No matter how many times I say it, my throat tightens. That part of the story is still real, still burns inside me hot and bright. I look quickly to Sharon for support and she rolls her eyes dramatically and yawns. I smile. I can do this.

‘We’re here to talk about grief, so what can I tell you? I’m not unique, death affects all of us, and as many of you here today know, grief is a complex journey. You can’t control your grief, most of the time it feels like it’s in control of you. The only thing you can control is how you deal with it.’

‘You say that you’re not unique,’ Ciara says, ‘but everybody’s personal experience is unique and we can learn from one another. No loss is easier than another, but do you think because you and Gerry grew up together that it made his loss more intense? Ever since I was a child, there was no Holly without Gerry.’

I nod and as I explain the story of how Gerry and I met, I avoid looking at the crowd, to make it easier, as if I’m talking to myself exactly as I rehearsed in the shower. ‘I met him in school when I was fourteen years old. From that day on I was Gerry and Holly. Gerry’s girlfriend. Gerry’s wife. We grew up together, we learned from each other. I was twenty-nine when I lost him and became Gerry’s widow. I didn’t just lose him and I didn’t just lose a part of me, I really felt like I lost me. I had no sense of who I was. I had to rebuild myself.’

A few heads nod. They know. They all know, and if they don’t know yet, they’re about to.

‘Poo poo,’ says a voice from the buggy, before giggling. Sharon hushes her toddler. She reaches into a giant bag and emerges with a strawberry-yoghurt-covered rice cake. The rice cake disappears into the buggy. The giggling stops.

‘How did you rebuild?’ Ciara asks.

It feels odd telling Ciara something she lived through with me and so I turn and focus on the audience, on the people who weren’t there. And when I see their faces, a switch is flicked inside me. This is not about me. Gerry did something special and I’m going to share it on his behalf, with people who are hungry to know. ‘Gerry helped me. Before he died he had a secret plan.’

‘Dun, dun, dun!’ Ciara announces to laughter. I smile and look at the expectant faces.

I feel excitement at the reveal, a renewed reminder of how utterly unique the year after his death was, yet over time its significance has faded in my memory. ‘He left me ten letters, to be opened in the months after his passing, and he signed off each note with “PS, I Love You”.’

The audience are visibly moved and surprised. They turn to each other and share looks and whispers, the silence has been broken. Sharon’s baby starts to cry. She hushes him and rocks him, tapping on his soother repetitively, a faraway look in her eyes.

Ciara speaks up over the baby’s grumbling. ‘When I asked you to do this podcast, you were very specific about the fact you didn’t want to concentrate on Gerry’s illness. You wanted to talk about the gift he gave you.’

I shake my head, firmly. ‘No. I don’t want to talk about his cancer, about what he had to go through. My advice, if you want it, is to try not to fixate on the dark. There is enough of that. I would rather talk to people about hope.’

Ciara’s eyes shine at me proudly. Mum clasps her hands together tightly.

‘The path that I took was to focus on the gift he gave me, and that was the gift that losing him gave me: finding myself. I don’t feel less of a person, nor am I ashamed to say that Gerry’s death broke me. His letters helped me to find myself again. It took losing him to make me discover a part of myself that I never knew existed.’ I’m lost in my words and I can’t stop. I need them to know. If I was sitting in the audience seven years ago, I would need to hear. ‘I found a new and surprising strength inside of me, I found it at the bottom of a dark and lonely place, but I found it. And unfortunately, that’s where we find most of life’s treasures. After digging, toiling in the darkness and dirt, we finally hit something concrete. I learned that rock bottom can actually be a springboard.’