Cecelia Ahern Short Stories Read online

  Gerard watched him—his grey and wrinkled face full of concern—expecting him to scream, shout and fire the stapler at his head. The strip lighting buzzed loudly in the silence that ensued. But Steven smiled, a big broad smile that Gerard hadn’t seen for years.

  ‘No worries, Gerard, I understand,’ he beamed, his eyes lighting up.

  Gerard looked confused. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yep,’ he chirped, leaning back in his bony chair, looking around his closet-sized office proudly. He repeated confidently, ‘Yep. Absolutely.’

  ‘OK.’ Gerard nodded quickly, confused by his reaction. ‘Well, that’s a great attitude to have, I must say. Do you want to take a break or anything, get a breath of fresh air?’ He studied his face closely.

  Steven laughed. ‘Yes, actually, I will in a while, but in the meantime I’ll get back to work on this lot. He picked up a pile of papers and banged them down on front of him, the dust bouncing up from the old table.

  ‘Right.’ Gerard paused. ‘OK.’ He stood up and got ready to leave. ‘I’m very sorry, Steven,’ he said sincerely, holding out his hand.

  Steven looked up from the stack of papers and took Gerard’s hand. ‘Thanks, Gerard.’ He grasped his hand tighter, holding on that little bit longer. ‘Thanks for everything.’ His voice was gentle.

  ‘No problem, Steven. It’s my pleasure.’ He gulped lightly, not liking the change in atmosphere. ‘It’s not the end of the world, remember, it’s just a job,’ he stressed.

  Steven picked up the phone and called his parents.

  Twenty minutes later he put on his suit jacket, turned off the buzzing strip lighting and exited his office. He waved at Gerard down the hall, who hesitantly gave him the thumbs-up. With a spring in his step he hadn’t felt for years, he walked the forty-eight steps to the ground floor and outside into the fresh air.

  He walked the two thousand six hundred and four steps to the train station, the streets quieter now with everyone buried at work. As he entered the station his head felt light, no longer heavy and pounding. A haze had lifted from his mind, a weight from his shoulders, and he experienced a sensation of floating he’d never had before. He was happy, clear in his mind of what he wanted to do. He didn’t want to worry any more, he didn’t want to feel scared, and he didn’t want his mind to keep torturing him. He knew what he needed to do and he wouldn’t feel a thing.

  He entered his train ticket into the machine and pushed his way through the barrier, relieved that for once in his life his destination was unknown. Anywhere but here. Arriving on the platform, hands trembling and heart pumping with adrenaline, he was glad to see that the station was empty. His mind was focused. There was only one way for him to go. He glanced up at the sign hanging over the platform. The next train would be in twenty-four minutes. Twenty-four minutes was a long time to wait. He needed to do it now. Angrily, he kicked a can and sent it flying off the platform and onto the tracks. He watched it lie there, knowing its destiny. He had nothing to do but pace the yellow line he had obediently stayed behind his whole life. Today he would cross it. His skin grew clammy and a chill ran through his body. He could do this.

  Twenty minutes. What would Gerard think when he didn’t get back to work? He pictured his friendly boss staring down the hall, making sure Steven had returned. He had known something was up, he had felt it in his handshake and seen it in his eyes. It wouldn’t be long before he entered his office and saw the note. Steven played out the scene. Gerard would panic, call the gardaí, and they would immediately set out looking for him. But they wouldn’t find him. Not the way they wanted to anyway.

  He glanced up at the sign. Sixteen minutes. He paced the yellow line, clenching and unclenching his fists. What would the lads think when he didn’t turn up to football on Sunday? They’d be angry he’d let them down, at having to take Rory Malone off the bench for the first time since he scored an own goal in last year’s final. He could imagine them all bitching about him over a few pints after the game, blaming Rory Malone and Steven’s no-show for their loss. Maybe the next day they’d find out what happened and hopefully understand.

  If only they knew how his days were covered in darkness, as if someone had turned off the light switch in his mind; if only they knew how his waking up in the morning was the first disappointment of every day. He was tired, he had nothing left to give, no more ideas to try. If they could understand that, then they could understand his decision.

  Nine minutes left. The crowd at the train station. How would they feel? Would they even notice he wasn’t there? The lady with the torn briefcase and the man in the brown suede coat, would they notice him missing from the middle of their daily queue. Would they notice that one more person than usual could squeeze into the train? Would they be looking out of the dirty window as the train pulled away, waiting for him to run onto the platform, out of breath and panicked at having missed the train? When the platform was empty, would they even notice? Would they remember the previous day’s talk about the man jumping in front of the train and would that woman, that same woman, think, He wouldn’t have felt a thing, just to make herself feel better, so she could sleep well that night and rest easy in her bubble?

  Four minutes. His granddad. What would he think? Would he even know what had happened, or understand? He could imagine him being told by the nurse that his only grandson had passed away. He could imagine him asking, ‘What grandson? Steven who?’ and settling down to watch his geraniums blow in the breeze on his windowsill. Steven smiled as he walked faster and faster to the end of the platform, his head dizzy with relief. He needed to get off the platform now and onto the tracks so that he caught the train before it slowed down. He wanted to have to do this only once.

  He crossed the yellow line and jumped down off the platform. He could see a man on the opposite platform waving frantically but he couldn’t hear a word he said. His mind was focused on the sounds of the train as it approached the bridge over the city, the wail of the horn, the vibrations on the tracks, the hiss and squeal of the wheels. His heart beat faster, his throat dried up and he loosened his tie. He glanced back at the board. One minute. His parents. What would they think? This would destroy them. He pictured them receiving the news, remembering their last conversation on the phone when he told them both he loved them, how they had joked and laughed together and how he had sounded happier than they could remember in a long time. As he walked along the edge of the track towards the train, high above the city, the Liffey below him, he thought about what they would be doing now. His father would be out in his garden on this fine day and his mother would be on the phone. She was always on the phone. His father would be calling things to her, giving her a step-by-step narration of the state of the garden while she waved at him wildly, trying to signal to him that she was on the phone. But he’d keep talking anyway.

  He noticed he had stopped walking and was midway over the bridge. The train was coming; the ground beneath his feet was shaking. It was time to look up to the sky and admit defeat. He had had enough. Now was his time. If he was going to do it, he had to step out now.

  His hair blew wildly as he pressed his eyes together fiercely, holding his breath. His heart beat faster and the blood in his veins pumped violently around his body. He could feel his pulse beating in his throat. The sound was unbearable, a loud thunderous sound, like the sky falling down around him. And then the wind stopped. His hair stopped blowing and his chest relaxed.

  Steven opened his eyes, breathed deeply, peeled himself from the side of the bridge and shakily climbed back up onto the platform.

  Twenty-four minutes. A long time to have to wait to die. Exactly how long it took him to figure out he didn’t want to.

  3 Next Stop: Table for Two

  Lucy leaned her head against the window and felt the vibrations as the DART pulled away from the station. Her head repeatedly bumped against the glass as the carriage trembled. Like her, it seemed tired and fed up as it rattled along the tracks, shuddering occasionall
y as if almost falling asleep and then suddenly jerking awake in fright. Lucy tried to keep her eyes open. She sank down into the uncomfortable seat and looked around the carriage.

  Couples.

  Everywhere.

  She decided to keep her eyes closed. The rhythmic rocking of the train comforted her and she felt herself drifting away. The train shuddered, Lucy’s head jerked and her eyes flew open. They were stopping again. There was something about the train that she felt she connected with. It felt to her as if it too was tired of doing the same thing every day; tired of going up and down the same route all day, only being permitted to stop and start, stop and start and never fully gather speed. The monotony of it all made Lucy yawn.

  She understood how it felt being surrounded by crowds of people every day, never physically being alone but all the time feeling it. She knew what it was like being used to get people from A to B, helping them get to where they wanted to go but never being able to join them.

  Lucy watched as a couple stood up from their seats and walked hand in hand from the train. Once on the platform, the man draped his arm over his partner’s shoulder and kissed the top of her head. She responded by wrapping her arm around his waist, tucking her hand into the back pocket of his jeans and resting her head on his shoulder. They fitted together perfectly. Like a jigsaw. They strolled towards the exit as if time didn’t exist. Beside them on the platform stood a smartly dressed man with a beautiful bouquet of flowers in his hand. He was looking at his watch anxiously and studying the train timetable. Lucy imagined the woman he was meeting, waiting for him elsewhere, nervously looking at her watch wondering if he was going to show.

  Go, Lucy screamed in her head to the train. There was urgency in the voice in her head. She didn’t want to see any more displays of love.

  As though the train were in tune with her thoughts, the doors slid closed slowly and it started moving again. Still not yet in the city, the train sped happily past golden fields, knowing that it didn’t have to stop for at least a few more minutes. Lucy smiled as she looked at the view, at the greens, browns and golds all blurring together with the speed. Minutes later the reins were pulled from behind and the train screeched on the tracks, its cry of frustration at having to slow down.

  Slow down, stop and start again.

  The doors slid open slowly, tiredly, and invited another couple inside. The man sat beside Lucy, the woman across from him. She seemed the same age as Lucy. She smiled at her partner, her eyes twinkled. He blew her a butterfly kiss and winked. Her face softened even more and she continued to watch him as if he was the most interesting thing in the world. Their knees touched in the centre of the booth; they were touching and smiling so much that Lucy had to close her eyes again.

  Finally it was Lucy’s stop. She jumped up before the train began to slow down, pushed her way through the kissing knees and waited at the doors. They opened slowly for her. Thanks, see you again tomorrow, she whispered quietly to the train, and stepped out into the cold afternoon. She buttoned up her coat to protect herself from the bite of the cold February wind, she felt the breeze slap her across the face, sting her ears and numb her nose. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets, kept her head down and made her way to work.

  The day was 14 February. Valentine’s Day. Lucy worked as a waitress in a French cuisine restaurant in Dublin’s city centre. They were going to be incredibly busy that evening, and there had been the annual argument about who would work that night. Everybody wanted the night off to spend with their loved ones but they knew better than to ask Lucy. Of course she would work. Her position was the same every night but especially tonight, on a night that celebrated the joy of loving. Everyone knew that.

  Lucy had never been in love before. She would be thirty-one next month and she had never been in love. She had never had that look the girl beside her on the train had painted all over her face; she had never had anyone blow her kisses or wait anxiously with a bouquet of flowers while worrying that being late would mean precious time being stolen away, like the man at the train station. She had never received a bouquet of flowers. She had never known what it was like to feel a kiss on the top of her head through her hair. She had never shared that look. Never shared that feeling. She had never looked into anyone’s eyes and seen forever with him, never felt such a connection that made her want to be with him and only him for the rest of her life. She had never been with anyone who immediately made her start thinking of her future babies’ names. She didn’t dream of fairytale wedding days with princess brides and handsome Prince Charmings.

  But she knew about all these things. She knew they existed. She read about them in books and saw them on trains. She listened to friends and grew up with parents in love. And better yet she believed in love. But the older she got, with every passing year that failed to bring her a soulmate, she believed less and less that love was for everyone. Just for the lucky ones. And the longer she went without it, the more she saw it every day until it smothered her, wrapping its arms around her, like great big bear hugs of loneliness.

  She hurried down Grafton Street and ignored the men and women standing together but alone outside Bewley’s Café, stamping their feet to stay warm and looking at their watches nervously. She pushed through the crowd gathered around the flower stall outside the Westbury Hotel and received mouthfuls of orchids, lilies and roses as people bumped into her in their rush to get home. She scurried by the entrance to Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre hearing loud greetings, hugs and kisses as other halves arrived at the meeting place. Everywhere people looked at their watches. They all had somewhere to be.

  People spilled out of card stores, with little paper bags in their hands. Big red love hearts hung in shop windows grabbing at the heartstrings of passers-by and pulling them in as though they were puppets. Lucy’s head and heart sank, her heavy heart causing her feet to drag against the ground. She turned right into her restaurant along Stephen’s Green. A Valentine’s Day special menu was displayed outside the door. More big red bubbly hearts.

  At 6.30 p.m. the door opened as the evening’s first customers arrived. Lucy greeted them at the desk with a smile bright enough to light the room.

  ‘Hello and welcome,’ she smiled happily at them.

  ‘Thank you. Table for two?’ the man asked politely looking around the empty restaurant.

  ‘Have you a reservation?’ she smiled.

  ‘Yes. McCullough for six thirty.’

  Lucy scanned through the list. ‘Of course, Mr McCullough. May I take your coats?’ She took their coats, led the couple to the table and handed them their menus. Always bringing people from A to B but never being able to join them.

  The door opened and shut again as man and woman stepped inside, their cheeks and noses rosy from the cold.

  ‘Hello and welcome,’ Lucy said perkily.

  ‘Thanks. A table for two, please,’ the man said, looking around the practically empty restaurant.

  Lucy smiled through gritted teeth. ‘Have you a reservation?’

  ‘Yes, it’s under O’Hanlon,’ he said peering over the desk onto her page. She scanned down through the list and ticked their names.

  ‘May I take your coats?’ She took their coats, led the couple to their table and handed them their menu. The same routine all day every day.

  The door opened and closed.

  ‘Hello.’ Lucy smiled.

  Stopping and starting, stopping and starting all over again. Never allowed to go at her own speed or take another route.

  ‘Table for two, please,’ the lady said, and a lump formed in Lucy’s throat. Her hand began to shake as her finger leafed through the reservations book. Table for two. The words taunted her.

  ‘Have you a reservation?’ she asked as happily as she could.

  ‘The name’s Cooper,’ she replied.

  Lucy ticked their names. ‘May I take your coats?’ she asked the pair. She took their coats, led them to their table and handed them their menus. The door o
pened and closed.

  ‘Welcome.’ Lucy smiled at the boy and girl before her. She guessed they were around sixteen.

  ‘Thanks,’ the boy said shyly. There was a silence as they all just looked at each other. The girl nudged the boy in the ribs. ‘Ow!’ he yelped, and then realized he was supposed to speak. ‘We were wondering if we could eat here.’

  The girl smirked.

  ‘I mean, can we have a table?’

  ‘For …?’ Lucy couldn’t say it. She couldn’t say the words.

  They looked at each other confused by the question. ‘Well … for us.’ He pointed at himself and the girl.

  Lucy smiled.

  Then the girl added, ‘A table for two, please.’ He looked at her proudly for saying that.

  Lucy’s smile faded. ‘What’s the name?’

  They looked at each other uncertainly again and he spoke. ‘Eh, Shane and Michelle.’

  Lucy smiled again. ‘OK, Shane do you have a reservation?’

  He looked shocked, ‘Ah, shit no. Did I need one?’

  Michelle elbowed him in the ribs again and hissed, ‘I told ya to book it, ya eejit.’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ Lucy said, studying the reservations. ‘I can give you a table, but we have a reservation for eight p.m. It’s six forty-five p.m. now, which doesn’t give you very much time,’ she explained.

  Shane’s eyes widened. ‘Sure it never takes me more than an hour to eat me dinner at home.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Lucy grinned. ‘Can I take your coats?’

  Michelle looked at Shane uncertainly. ‘Eh, yeah,’ Shane finally decided for the two of them, and they peeled off their denim jackets. Lucy led them to their table in the centre of the dining room and handed them their menus.

  She went around the tables lighting the candles. What was it about candles that was supposed to be romantic? Could a flickering flame add an atmosphere of love? Lucy wondered if a candle should be lit for a table for one, or, if one person sat down at a table for two, should she extinguish the flame? She of all people should know.