The Time of My Life

by Cecelia Ahern

  ‘I am. Riley.’ He reached out his hand and they shook, which was weird because I couldn’t even remember my neighbour’s name; I’d forgotten it the moment we met and it seemed rude as the time went by to ask so I just never addressed her, there was a lot of hey and hi and hello you and I had a strong suspicion it was Ruth but I’d never had the full confidence to go for it.

  ‘I’m Claire.’

  And it was just as well.

  ‘Hi, Claire.’

  Riley was giving her one of his best cute but sweet but strong and masculine, you-can-trust-me, flirtatious looks, which freaked me out but Claire wasn’t completely delusional, she untangled herself from his web of silent promises, and quickly said her goodbyes.

  ‘Must be losing your touch, Riley.’

  He looked at me, serious again.

  ‘Don’t worry, it happens to us all.’

  ‘No, not that …’

  ‘What, Riley?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He aborted the thought, and made his way to the elevator.

  ‘Thanks for the shoes,’ I said more gently.

  He didn’t turn around, just lifted his arm up in a salute and disappeared into the elevator. Just before I closed my door I heard my neighbour – whose name I’d already forgotten – open her door and quickly say, ‘If you ever want to come in for a coffee or anything, just come straight over. No notice needed, I’m always here.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ It felt awkward. It had been at least a year since I’d met her and apart from the chat in the elevator it was the longest sentence either of us had ever said to one another. She used to never speak when I saw her. Probably spending all that time cooped up inside had made her desperate to talk to anyone, including me.

  ‘Thanks. Eh … likewise.’ Then I couldn’t think of anything to say so I closed the door.

  Only I never wanted her to call over for a coffee and I never wanted Riley to come into the apartment. He’d never been in before, none of my family had. None of my friends had either. It was my space. But it was becoming an eyesore even to me. The carpet had to be cleaned. I would clean it myself without telling the landlord because I didn’t want him checking it and seeing the burns and then charging me for the damage. I searched for where I’d written the company name on the carpet and grabbed the phone and quickly dialled directory enquiries before I changed my mind. I knew something monumental was happening. I was doing something that needed to be done and I felt the burden of it every step of the way. As they connected me and the phone rang, I began to think of hanging up. It wasn’t just the phone call; it was having to follow through that bothered me. I’d have to stay in from work one day, I’d have to wait for some stranger to arrive hours after he’d promised and then I’d have to show him all the personal private stains that I wanted removed. How humiliating. It rang and rang, and then it sounded like it was about to be answered or go to an answer phone when it went through another bout of ringing. I was about to hang up and abort the situation when a man answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was noisy. Pub noisy. I had to move the phone away from my ear.

  ‘Sorry, just be a minute,’ the voice shouted and I wanted to shout back that it was okay, that I’d got the wrong number, partly because I’d changed my mind – I didn’t want the hassle of a stranger in my home – and partly because I was beginning to think I had genuinely been connected to the wrong number. I searched for the business card I’d been given by American Pie to see if it matched the number on my screen. But the phone wasn’t by his ear to hear me explain, it was being rubbed against his body or dozens of other bodies as he made his way to somewhere quieter.

  ‘Just a minute,’ he shouted again.

  ‘Actually it’s okay,’ I yelled despite being in a silent room. But he was gone again.

  Finally there was silence, I could hear footsteps, then laughter in the distance, then, ‘Hello? Are you still there?’

  I fell back on the couch. ‘Yes, hi.’

  ‘Sorry about that, who’s this?’

  ‘Em, actually this is going to annoy you seeing all you had to do to get outside but I think I’ve got the wrong number.’

  ‘After all that,’ he laughed.

  ‘Yep, sorry.’ I climbed over the back of the couch and was in the kitchen. I looked in the fridge. Nothing to eat as usual.

  He went quiet, then I heard a match and he inhaled. ‘Sorry, bad habit. My sister said if I took up smoking I’d meet someone.’

  ‘I pretend I’m a smoker at work to get more breaks.’ I was surprised I’d said it out loud.

  ‘What if they find you not smoking?’

  ‘If someone’s there, then I smoke.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s a long way to go for a break.’

  ‘I’ll do anything for a break.’

  ‘Like talk to wrong numbers?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Want to tell me your name or does that break the wrong-number code of ethics?’

  ‘I’ve no problem at all telling a complete stranger my name. It’s Gertrude.’

  ‘That’s a lovely name, Gertrude.’ I could hear the smile in his voice.

  ‘Why, thank you.’

  ‘I’m Giuseppe.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Giuseppe. How’s Pinocchio doing?’

  ‘Ah, you know, telling fibs and bragging about being unattached.’

  ‘He’s always at it.’ Then I realised that despite it being more comfortable than a phone conversation with my own father, this was weird. ‘Well, I’d better let you get back to the pub.’

  ‘Actually I’m at an Aslan gig.’

  ‘I love Aslan.’

  ‘We’re in Vicar Street, you should come.’

  ‘Who’s “we”?’

  ‘Me and Tom.’

  ‘Well, I would go but Tom and I had a falling-out and it would just be awkward if I showed up.’

  ‘Even if he apologised?’

  ‘Believe me, he’ll never apologise.’

  ‘Tom’s always putting his foot in his mouth, just ignore him. I have a spare ticket, I can leave it for you at the ticket desk.’

  His familiarity intrigued me. ‘I could be a toothless married woman with ten kids and an eye patch.’

  ‘Christ, are you a woman?’

  I laughed.

  ‘So are you coming?’

  ‘Do you always ask wrong numbers out?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Do they ever say yes?’

  ‘Once, and I got a toothless married woman with ten kids and an eye patch.’

  ‘Have they sung “Down on Me”?’

  ‘They haven’t started yet. Is that your favourite?’

  ‘Yep.’ I opened the freezer. Chicken curry or cottage pie. The chicken curry was a week out of date; the cottage pie would be out of date tomorrow. I reached for the chicken curry and stabbed the film with a fork.

  ‘Have you ever heard them live?’

  ‘No, but it’s on my list of things to do.’

  ‘What else is on your list?’

  ‘Eat dinner.’

  ‘You aim high, I like it. Want to tell me your real name now?’

  ‘Nope. Want to tell me yours?’

  ‘Don.’

  ‘Don what?’

  ‘Lockwood.’

  My heart did a funny thing. I froze. Mr Pan noticed my mood change and jumped up and looked around for what he needed to defend me against, or hide from.

  ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Did you say Don Lockwood?’ I asked slowly.

  ‘Yes, why?’

  I gasped. ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Nope. Born and bred. Actually that’s a lie, they called me Jacinta, then they found out I was a boy. It’s much easier to tell the difference now, I assure you. Why, is this not a wrong number after all?’

  I was pacing the kitchen, no longer interested in my chicken curry. I didn’t believe in signs because I couldn’t sign read but it was just a
n unbelievably exciting coincidence. ‘Don Lockwood … wait for it … is the name of Gene Kelly’s character in Singin’ in the Rain.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you are a fan of either Gene Kelly and/or of this movie so this is very exciting news to you.’

  ‘Only the biggest.’ I laughed. ‘Don’t tell me no one’s ever said that to you before.’

  ‘I can safely say, no one under the age of eighty-five has ever said it to me before.’

  ‘Not even any of your wrong numbers?’

  ‘Not even them.’

  ‘How old are you?’ I asked, suddenly afraid I was having a conversation with a fifteen-year-old and that the police were on their way.

  ‘I’m thirty-five and three-quarters.’

  ‘I can’t believe in all of your thirty-five and three-quarters years no one has ever said that to you before.’

  ‘Because most of the people I meet aren’t one hundred years old like you.’

  ‘I’m not going to be one hundred for at least two weeks.’

  ‘Ah. I see. Thirty? Forty? Fifty?’

  ‘Thirty.’

  ‘It’s all downhill from there, believe me.’

  And he went silent, and I went silent and then it wasn’t natural any more and we were just two strangers on a wrong number who both wanted to hang up.

  I got in there first. ‘It was nice talking to you, Don. Thanks for the offer of the ticket.’

  ‘Bye, toothless married woman,’ he said and we both laughed. I hung up and caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and I looked like my mother, just a face full of a smile. It faded fast at the realisation that I’d just spoken to an absolute stranger on the phone. Maybe they were right, maybe I was losing it. I went to bed early and at twelve thirty my phone rang, waking me in fright. I looked at the number flashing and didn’t recognise it, so I ignored it and waited for it to stop so I could go back to sleep. A few seconds later the phone rang again. I answered it, hoping it wasn’t bad news. All I could hear was noise, screams and shouts. I moved it away from my ear, then heard the music, then heard the singing, then recognised the song. He was calling me, Don Lockwood was calling me, so I could hear my favourite song.

  ‘If you think your life’s a waste of time, if you think your time’s a waste of life, come over to this land, take a look around. Is this a tragic situation, or a massive demonstration, where do we hide?’

  I lay back on the bed and listened to the song, then when it was finished, I stayed on the line to speak to him. As soon as the next song started, he hung up.

  I smiled. Then texted him.

  –Thanks.

  He texted back straight away.

  –One less thing on your list. Nite.

  I stared at those words for a long time then added his number into my phone. Don Lockwood. Just seeing it there made me smile.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A week later I awoke at seven a.m. in a stinker of a mood. I do believe that’s the technical term for it. I hadn’t been asleep for a week; it’s just the amount of time that passed until anything of note happened in my life. I knew I was in a bad mood as soon as I opened my eyes and realised that the apartment reeked of the prawn cocktail that I’d left out on the counter. I felt irritation to the very core of me; like that damp cold that goes right to the bone and is impossible to shake off. I also think that my body had sensed that a new envelope had arrived on the burned carpet even before I’d found it. I could tell it had recently been left there because it hadn’t been peed on and it had landed on top of the little pink marie-rose paw prints from when Mr Pan had knocked over the prawn cocktail and walked it around the carpet.

  I had received a letter every day since I’d met Life the previous Sunday. I had ignored all of them and nothing was going to change this Monday. I stepped over the envelope like a child whose only power is to exercise authority on a dolly. Mr Pan must have known what he’d done and sensed my mood because he stayed clear of me. I showered, pulled a dress down from the curtain pole and was ready in minutes. I gave Mr Pan his breakfast, ignored the letter for the second week running and left the apartment.

  ‘Morning, Lucy,’ my neighbour said, opening the door as I stepped outside. I was suspicious of her timing; if I didn’t know any better I’d have guessed she had been standing at her door waiting for me.

  ‘Morning,’ I said and searched my irritated brain for her name but there was no room for information, only frustration. I turned my back on her and locked the door.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask a favour?’ Her voice sounded shaky and I immediately turned around. Her eyes were red and swollen as if she’d been crying all night. I felt myself soften as my bad mood took time out. ‘Would you mind leaving this at security for me? I’ve organised a courier to collect it but they said they wouldn’t come upstairs. He’s sleeping so I couldn’t leave him …’

  ‘Of course, no problem.’ I took the sports bag from her.

  She wiped her eyes, and said thanks but her voice had given up on her and it came out as a whisper.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, thanks, I just … em …’ That shaky voice again while she tried to compose herself. She straightened her back and cleared her throat, tried to maintain some kind of dignity but her eyes kept filling up and she fought hard to control them. ‘My mother was taken to hospital yesterday. It’s not looking very good.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’

  She waved a hand dismissively to hide her embarrassment, tried to compose herself. ‘There are just a few things that I thought she’d need in there. I mean, what do you give a person who …’ She finished the sentence in her head.

  ‘They won’t let you visit?’

  ‘Oh, they will. I just can’t get in to her because …’ She looked back into the apartment to her baby.

  ‘Oh.’ I knew what I was supposed to say next but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to, wasn’t sure if it was right. I spoke reluctantly, ‘I could babysit for you, if you want. For …’ I didn’t know whether to say him or her, ‘the baby.’

  ‘Yes. Conor.’ She cleared her throat again. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer but I don’t really like leaving him …’

  ‘I completely understand,’ I jumped in, relieved. ‘I’ll leave these at the desk for you.’

  She whispered her thanks again. I was at the elevator when she raised her voice down the hall. ‘Lucy, if I change my mind, and do need you, if it’s, you know, an emergency, how will I contact you?’

  ‘Oh. Well. You could wait till I get back at around sevenish or …’ I didn’t want to do it, I didn’t want to give her my mobile. I knew it would lead to general annoyance down the line. ‘You could email me …’ I looked at her face, so distraught but hopeful. Her mother was possibly dying and I was telling her to email me. ‘Or you could call me.’ Her shoulders seemed to relax. I gave her my number and got out of there. I got a cappuccino from Starbucks at the end of my block; I bought a newspaper and had to miss seeing cute guy on the train in order to drive Sebastian to work. I had to bring him to the garage again that day and I was already dreading the bill. I used my ID card to get in through the turnstiles at the entrance to my office building. Mantic was outside the city in a new commercial outlet with architecture that looked like an extraterrestrial spaceship landing. Ten years ago they had moved the factory to Ireland and merged the offices together in a clever manoeuvre to increase productivity, and since moving here and paying extortionate rents, their profits had decreased and they’d had to lose one hundred employees from the twelve-hundred-strong company. Mantic was Greek for having prophetic and divine powers, which was ironic really, seeing all the trouble they were in, but no one was laughing at the joke. It seemed that, for the time being anyway, things had settled and we were assured that we were safe but most felt delicate after the shock of losing so many before. We were still surrounded by the empty desks and chairs of those who had already gone and though we h
eld sympathy for the people who had lost their jobs, we had also enjoyed finding better-positioned desks and more comfortable seats.

  I had been surprised I wasn’t one of the first to go. I worked as a translator in the instruction-manual section, which was now a team of six people. Translating instruction manuals for the company’s appliances into German, French, Spanish, Dutch and Italian may seem like an easy enough task and it was, only I didn’t speak Spanish, or I did, but not very well and so I outsourced that part of the job to a contact I had who spoke very good Spanish, in fact perfect Spanish because she was in fact from Madrid. She didn’t mind doing it and it was nothing that the gift of a bottle of poitín at Christmas didn’t sort. It had worked for me so far; however my contact was often lazy and slow and left me on tenterhooks by delivering the translations at the eleventh hour. I had received a first degree in business and languages and a masters in international business. I’d spent a year working in Milan, a year in Germany and I’d done my masters in a Paris business school; I’d taken night classes to learn Dutch as a kind of a personal project but it was on a friend’s hen night in Madrid where I’d met the woman who would become my Spanish alibi. Despite my not having studied law like my father and Riley or medicine like Philip I think my father was marginally proud of my university accomplishments and my knowledge of languages, until I moved to this job and whatever little delight he had for me went out the window.

  The first person in the office I met every morning was Nosy Bitch, but who was christened Louise by her parents. I shall name her Nosy in the interest of taste. She was the administrator, was getting married in twelve months’ time and had been planning her big day ever since Day One in the womb. When Fish Face, the boss, wasn’t around, she flicked through magazines and ripped out pictures to create mood boards of her perfect day. Not that I was a woman of absolute substance but I liked to think I possessed at least some and I was tired of her incessant chat about all things cosmetic, which would have been the same choices regardless of the man she married. Her inquiry into other people’s “special day” was endless. She wasn’t so much a magpie for information as a piranha because she devoured every word as soon as it was spoken. Conversations with her were interviews and I knew every question was designed to suit her making a decision about her own life but never out of courtesy to ask about mine. She would turn her nose up at things she didn’t like, and when she heard something that she found pleasing she would barely listen to the end of the sentence before scurrying back to her desk to document her new findings. I disliked her quite intensely and the fact that she wore tight T-shirts, with ridiculous logos, that failed to cover her love handles continued to annoy me more and more every day. It was the minutiae of any person that watered the seeds of dislike, though on the contrary the things I hated most about Blake, like his teeth grinding in his sleep, ended up being the very things I missed most about him. I wondered if Jenna the bitch minded his teeth grinding.