If You Could See Me Now

by Cecelia Ahern

  It was just like the road leading from Elizabeth’s childhood home; she found it impossible to leave in a hurry. But something about the town kept dragging her back and she had spent years trying to fight it. She had successfully moved to New York at one time. She had followed her boyfriend, and the opportunity to design a nightclub, over. She had loved it there. Loved that no one knew her name, her face or family history. She could buy a coffee, a thousand different types of coffee, and not receive a look of sympathy for whatever recent family drama had occurred. Nobody knew that her mother had left her when she was a child, that her sister was wildly out of control and that her father barely spoke to her. She had loved being in love there. In New York she could be whoever she wanted to be. In Baile na gCroíthe she couldn’t hide from who she was.

  She realised she had been humming to herself the entire time, that silly song that Luke was trying to convince her that ‘Ivan’ had made up. Luke called it ‘the humming song’, and it was annoyingly catchy, chirpy and repetitive. She stopped herself singing and spun her car into the empty space along the road. She pushed back the driver’s seat and reached in to grab her briefcase from the back seat of the car. First things first: coffee. Baile na gCroíthe had yet to be educated on the wonders of Starbucks – in fact, it was only last month Joe’s had finally allowed Elizabeth to take away her coffee, but the owner was growing increasingly tired of having to ask for his mugs back.

  Sometimes Elizabeth thought that the entire town needed an injection of caffeine; it was as though some winter days the place still had its eyes closed and was sleepwalking. It needed a good shake. But summer days like today were always busy with people passing through. She entered the purple painted Joe’s, which was virtually empty all the same. The concept of eating breakfast outside their own homes had yet to be grasped by the townspeople.

  ‘Ah, there she is, the very woman herself,’ boomed the singsong voice of Joe. ‘No doubt spittin’ feathers for her coffee.’

  ‘Morning, Joe.’

  He made a show of checking his watch and tapping the clock face. ‘Bit behind time this morning, aren’t we?’ He raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Thought maybe you were in bed sick with a bout of the summer flu. Seems like everyone’s got it this week.’ He tried to lower his voice but only succeeded in lowering his head and raising his voice. ‘Sure didn’t Sandy O’Flynn come down with it right after disappearing the other night from the pub with P. J. Flanagan, who had it the other week. She’s been in bed all weekend.’ He snorted. ‘Walking her home me arse. I’ve never heard such nonsense before in my life.’

  Irritation rose within Elizabeth. She didn’t care for tittle-tattle about people she didn’t know, especially as she was aware for so many years that her own family had been the root of all the gossip.

  ‘A coffee, please, Joe,’ Elizabeth said crisply, ignoring his rambling. ‘To take away. Cream not milk,’ she said sternly, even though she had the same every day, while rooting in her bag for her wallet, trying to hint to Joe that she hadn’t time for yapping.

  He moved slowly towards the coffee pot. To Elizabeth’s utter annoyance Joe’s sold only one kind of coffee. And that was the instant kind. Elizabeth missed the variety of flavours that she used to get in other towns; she missed the smooth, sweet-tasting French vanilla in a Paris café, the creamy full-bodied flavour of hazelnut cream in a bustling café in New York, the rich velvety masterpiece of the macadamia nut in Milan and her favourite, the Coco Mocha-Nut, the mixture of chocolate and coconut that transported her from a Central Park bench to a sunbed in the Caribbean. Here in Baile na gCroíthe, Joe filled the kettle with water and flicked the switch. One measly little kettle in a café and he hadn’t even boiled the water. Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

  Joe stared at her. He looked like he was going to say –

  ‘So what has you so late then?’

  – that.

  ‘I’m five minutes later than usual, Joe,’ Elizabeth said incredulously. ‘I know, I know, and five minutes could be five hours for you. Sure don’t the bears plan their hibernation on your time?’

  That made Elizabeth smile, despite herself.

  Joe chuckled and winked. ‘That’s better.’ The kettle clicked as it boiled and he turned his back to make the coffee.

  ‘The coaches delayed me,’ Elizabeth said softly, taking the warm mug from Joe’s hands.

  ‘Ah, I saw that.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘Jaimsie did well to get himself out of that one.’

  ‘Jaimsie?’ Elizabeth frowned, adding a dollop of cream. It quickly melted and filled the cup to the top. Joe looked on with disgust.

  ‘Jaimsie O’Connor. Jack’s son,’ he explained. ‘Jack, whose other daughter, Mary, just got engaged to the Dublin boy last weekend. Lives down in Mayfair. Five kids. The youngest was arrested there last week for throwing a wine bottle at Joseph.’

  Elizabeth froze and stared back at him blankly.

  ‘Joseph McCann,’ he repeated, as though she were crazy for not knowing. ‘Son of Paddy. Lives up in Newtown. Wife died last year when she drowned in the bog. His daughter Maggie said it was an accident but sure weren’t the family suspicious on account of the row they’d being having about not letting her run off with that troublemaker from Cahirciveen.’

  Elizabeth placed her money on the counter and smiled, no longer wanting to be a part of his bizarre conversations. ‘Thanks, Joe,’ she said as she made her way to the door.

  ‘Well, anyway,’ he concluded his rambling, ‘Jaimsie was the one driving the coach. Don’t forget to bring that mug back,’ he called to her, and grumbled to himself, ‘Takeaway coffee, have you ever heard something so ludicrous in your life?’

  Before Elizabeth stepped outside she called from the door, ‘Joe, would you not think of getting a coffee machine? So you can make lattes and cappuccinos and espressos instead of all this instant stuff?’ She held up her mug.

  Joe crossed his arms, leaned against the counter and replied in a bored voice, ‘Elizabeth, you don’t like my coffee, you don’t drink it. I drink tea. There’s only one kind of tea I like. It’s called Tea. No fancy names for it.’

  Elizabeth smiled. ‘Actually, there are lots of different types of tea. The Chinese—’

  ‘Ah, be off with you.’ He waved his hand at her dismissively. ‘We’d all be drinking tea with chopsticks and putting chocolate and cream in our coffees like they’re desserts, if you have your way. But, if you’re at it, why don’t I make a suggestion too then: how’s about you buy yourself a kettle over there for your office and put me out of my misery?’

  ‘And out of business,’ Elizabeth smiled, and stepped outside.

  The village had taken a big stretch and a yawn and was wandering sleepily from its bed to the bathroom. Soon it would be showered, dressed and wide awake. As usual she was one step ahead of it, even if she was running late today.

  Elizabeth was always the first in; she loved the silence, the stillness that her office brought at that time of day. It helped her focus on what lay ahead before her noisy colleagues rattled around and before the major traffic hit the road. Elizabeth wasn’t the chatty giggly type. Just as she ate to keep herself alive, she spoke to say only what she had to say. She wasn’t the type of woman that she overheard in restaurants and cafés, chuckling and gossiping over what someone said someday about something. Conversations about nothing just didn’t interest her.

  She didn’t break down or analyse conversations, glares, looks or situations. There were no double meanings with her; she meant what she said at all times. She didn’t enjoy debates or heated discussions. But sitting in the silence of her small office she supposed that was why she didn’t have a group of friends. She had tried to be involved before, especially during her college days with her attempts to settle in, but, just as she did then, she would quickly tune out of the mindless nattering.

  Since childhood she hadn’t pined for friendship. She liked her own company and liked her own thoughts, and then later, in her te
ens, she had Saoirse as a distraction. She liked the orderly way in which she could depend on herself and manage her time more effectively without friends. When she returned from New York she had tried to host a dinner party in her new home with the neighbours. She thought she would try a fresh beginning, try to make friendships, like most people did, but Saoirse as usual burst into the house and in one fell swoop managed to offend every single person at the table. She accused Ray Collins of having an affair, Bernie Conway of having a boob job and sixty-year-old Kevin Smith of looking at her in a sexual way. The result of Saoirse’s ranting and raving was a crying nine-month-old Luke, a few red faces at the table and a burned rack of lamb.

  Of course her neighbours wouldn’t be as close-minded as to think that Elizabeth was responsible for her family’s behaviour, but she gave up after that. She didn’t desire company enough to be able to cope with the embarrassment of having to explain and apologise all the time.

  Her silence was worth more to her than a thousand words. In that silence she had peace and clarity. Apart from during the night, when her own jumbled thoughts would keep her awake, sounding like a thousand voices jumping in, out and interrupting each other so much that she could barely close her eyes.

  She was worried about Luke’s behaviour right now. This Ivan character had been hanging around her nephew’s head for too long. She had watched Luke all weekend walking, talking and playing games by himself. Laughing and giggling as though he were having the time of his life. Maybe there was something she should be doing. And Edith wasn’t there to witness his odd behaviour and deal with it in the wonderful way she always succeeded in doing. Perhaps Elizabeth was supposed to know automatically what to do. Once again the mysteries of motherhood reared their ugly head and she had no one to ask for advice. Nor had she any example to learn from. Well, that wasn’t strictly true – she had learned what not to do, a lesson just as good as any. So far she had followed her gut instinct, had made a few mistakes along the way, but overall thought Luke had turned out to be a polite and stable child. Or maybe she was doing it all wrong. What if Luke ended up like Saoirse? What had she done so wrong with Saoirse as a child that had caused her to turn out the way she was? Elizabeth groaned with frustration and rested her head on her desk.

  She turned on her computer and sipped on her coffee while it loaded. Then she went to Google, typed in the words ‘imaginary friend’, and hit Search. Hundreds of sites came up on her screen. Thirty minutes later she felt much better about the Ivan situation.

  To her surprise she learned that imaginary friends were very common and not a problem as long as they didn’t interfere with normal life. Although the very fact that having an imaginary friend was a direct interference with normal life, it didn’t seem to be an issue with the online doctors. Site after site told her to ask Luke what Ivan was thinking and doing as it would be a positive way of giving Elizabeth an understanding into what Luke was thinking. They encouraged Elizabeth actually to set a place for their phantom dinner guest and that there was no need to point out that Luke’s ‘friend’ existed only in his imagination. She was relieved to learn that imaginary friends were a sign of creativity and not of loneliness or stress.

  But even so, this was going to be difficult for Elizabeth to grasp. It went against everything she believed. Her world and the land of make-believe existed on two very different plains and she found it difficult to play-act. She couldn’t make baby noises to an infant, she couldn’t pretend to hide behind her hands or give life or a voice to a teddy, she couldn’t even role-play at college. She had grown up knowing not to do that, not to sound like her mother for fear of her father getting mad. It was instilled in her from an early age but now the experts were telling her to change all that.

  She finished the last of her cold coffee and read the final line on the screen.

  Imaginary friends disappear within three months, whether or not you encourage them.

  After three months she would be more than glad to see the back of Ivan and return to normal life again. She flicked through her calendar and circled August with a red marker. If Ivan wasn’t out of her house by then, she’d open the door and show him the way herself.

  Chapter 8

  Ivan laughed as he spun around in the black leather chair at the reception desk outside Elizabeth’s office. He could hear her in the other room on the phone, organising a meeting using her boring grown-up voice. But as soon as she hung up the phone he heard her humming his song again. He laughed to himself. It definitely was addictive; once you got the tune in your head there was very little you could do to stop.

  He swirled himself round in the chair faster and faster, doing pirouettes on wheels until his stomach danced and his head began to throb. He decided that chair spinning was his absolute favourite. Ivan knew that Luke would have loved to play the spin-the-chair game and, on picturing his sad little face pressed up against the car window from earlier that morning, his mind drifted and the chair slowed. Ivan wanted so much to visit the farm, and Luke’s granddad looked like he could do with a bit of fun. He was similar to Elizabeth in that way. Two boring old gnirobs.

  Anyway, at least this separation gave Ivan time to monitor Elizabeth so he could write a report on her. He had a meeting in a few days and would have to give a presentation to the rest of the team about who he was working with at the moment. They did it all the time. A few more days with her to prove that she couldn’t see him would be enough and then he could get back to concentrating on Luke. Maybe there was something he was missing with him, despite his years of experience.

  As Ivan’s head began to get dizzy he put his foot down on the floor to stop. He decided to leap from the whirling chair so he could pretend he was jumping from a moving car. He rolled dramatically across the floor just like they did in the movies and looked up from where he was crouched in a ball to see a teenage girl standing before him open-mouthed, watching her office chair spin out of control.

  Ivan saw her look around the office to see if anyone else was present. She frowned, approached the desk as if she were walking on landmines and placed her bag on the desk ever so quietly as if afraid to disturb the chair. She looked to see if anyone was watching and then tiptoed over to study it. She held out her hands as though trying to tame a wild horse.

  Ivan chuckled.

  Seeing that nothing was wrong Becca scratched her head in wonder. Perhaps Elizabeth had been sitting in the chair before she came in. She smirked at the thought of Elizabeth swinging around like a child, hair tied back tightly, dressed in one of her sharp black suits with her sensible shoes dangling in the air. No, the picture didn’t fit. In Elizabeth’s world chairs were made to be sat on. So that’s exactly what Becca did and got to work immediately.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ a high-pitched voice sang from the door later that morning. A plum-haired Poppy danced into the room, dressed in denim flares embroidered with flowers, platform shoes and a tie-dyed T-shirt. As usual, every inch of her body was splashed with paint. ‘Everyone have a nice weekend?’ She was always singing her sentences and dancing about the room, flinging her arms around with all the grace of an elephant.

  Becca nodded.

  ‘Great.’ Poppy stood in front of Becca with her hands on her hips. ‘What did you do, Becca, join a debating team? Go out on a date and talk the ear off some bloke? Huh?’

  Becca turned the page of the book she was reading and ignored her.

  ‘Wow, that’s fabulous, sounds like a blast. You know, I really do love the banter we have in this office.’

  Becca turned a page.

  ‘Oh, really? Well, that’s enough information for now, if you don’t mind. What the…?’ She whipped her body away from Becca’s desk and was silent.

  Becca didn’t look up from the book she was reading. ‘It’s been doing that all morning,’ she said in a quiet bored tone.

  It was Poppy’s turn to remain quiet.

  There was silence in the office for a few minutes while Becca read her boo
k and Poppy stared at the sight ahead of her. In her office, Elizabeth heard the long silence between the two and stuck her head out of her door.

  ‘Everything alright, girls?’ she asked.

  A mystery squeaking sound was all the reply.

  ‘Poppy?’

  She didn’t move her head as she spoke. ‘The chair.’

  Elizabeth stepped out of her office. She turned her head in the same direction. The paint-splattered chair behind Poppy’s desk, which Elizabeth had been trying to convince Poppy to get rid of for months, was flying around all by itself, the screws squeaking loudly. Poppy let out a nervous laugh. They both moved closer to examine it. Becca was still reading her book in silence as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

  ‘Becca,’ Elizabeth half laughed, ‘have you seen this?’

  Becca still didn’t lift her eyes from the page. ‘It’s been doing that for the past hour,’ she said softly. ‘It just stops and starts all the time.’

  Elizabeth frowned. ‘Is it some sort of new artistic creation of yours, Poppy?’

  ‘I wish it was,’ Poppy replied, still in awe.

  They all watched it spin in silence. Squeak, squeak, squeak.

  ‘Maybe I should call Harry. It’s probably something to do with the screws,’ Elizabeth reasoned.

  Poppy raised her eyebrows uncertainly. ‘Yeah, I’m sure the screws are making it spin out of control,’ she said sarcastically, gazing in wonder at the whirling multicoloured chair.

  Elizabeth picked an imaginary piece of fluff from her jacket and cleared her throat. ‘You know, Poppy, you really need to get your chair reupholstered; it’s not a very positive sight for when customers come to see us. I’m sure Gwen will do it quickly for you.’

  Poppy’s eyes widened. ‘But it’s supposed to be like that. It’s an expression of personality, an extension of myself. It’s the only item I can project myself onto in this room.’ She looked around in disgust. ‘This fucking beige room.’ She said the word like it was a disease. ‘And Mrs Bracken spends more time gossiping with those pals of hers that have nothing else to do but drop by everyday, than actual work.’