Postscript

by Cecelia Ahern

  But on the off chance I do hook up with somebody on the other side, please don’t get mad, I’ll drop her as soon as you arrive. If you’re not looking or waiting for someone else.

  Good luck with your new adventure, whatever it is.

  I love you, beautiful, and I’m still glad you said yes.

  Gerry

  PS – I’ll see you later?

  Inside the envelope is a note that, despite it sitting in an envelope for eight years, has a crumpled, wrinkled appearance. I smooth it out on the desk and, seeing the handwriting, I realise it’s the first letter Gerry wrote to me when we were fourteen years old.

  His words bring me back in time and take me forward with renewed hope for my future; they plant me in the earth, grounding me in reality, and they lift me up so that I feel like I’m floating.

  His letter gives me roots and wings.

  Tuesday morning. I hate Tuesdays because they’re worse than Mondays. I’ve already been through a Monday and the week still isn’t even half over. My school day begins with double Maths with Mr Murphy, who hates me as much as I hate Maths, which is a lot of hate in one room on a Tuesday. I’ve been moved right up to the front row in front of Mr Murphy’s desk so he can keep an eye on me. I’m quiet as a mouse, but I can’t keep up.

  It’s lashing rain outside, my socks are still wet from the walk from the bus stop to school. I’m freezing cold and to add to it Mr Murphy has opened all the windows to wake us up because one person yawned. The boys are lucky, they get to wear trousers, my legs are goose-pimpled and I can feel the hairs standing up. I shaved them up to my knee but cut my shin and it’s stinging through my grey woollen uniform sock. I probably shouldn’t have used Richard’s razor but last time I asked for my own razor, Mum said I’m too young to shave my legs and I can’t be bothered going through the mortification of asking her again.

  I hate Tuesdays. I hate school. I hate Maths. I hate hairy legs.

  The bell rings at the end of the first period and I should feel relief as the halls outside are flooded with students going to their next class, but I know we’ve another forty minutes to get through. Sharon is out sick and so the seat beside me is empty. I hate when she’s not beside me, it means I can’t copy her answers. She was moved beside me because she kept laughing, but she’s good at Maths so I can copy her. I can see the hallways through the glass panel beside the door. Denise waits until Mr Murphy isn’t looking and she presses her face up against the glass, opening her mouth and pressing her nose up like a pig. I grin and look away. Some people in the class laugh, but by the time Mr Murphy looks over, she’s gone.

  Mr Murphy leaves the classroom for ten minutes. We’ve to finish a problem he gave us. I know I won’t reach the solution because I don’t even understand the question. X and Y can kiss my arse. He’ll come back into the class stinking of smoke like he always does, and sit in front of me with a banana and a knife, looking at us all in a menacing way like he’s a badass. Someone slides into the seat beside me. John. I feel my face go red with embarrassment. Confused, I look over my right shoulder to the wall where he normally sits, with Gerry. Gerry looks away and down at his copybook.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I whisper, even though everybody else is talking, probably finished their work. Even if they’re not finished, it won’t matter, Mr Murphy will always ask me.

  ‘Me mate wants to know if you’ll go out with him,’ John says.

  My heart thuds and I feel my mouth dry up.

  ‘Which mate?’

  ‘Gerry. Who’d you think?’

  Thump, thump.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ I ask, annoyed and mortified at the same time.

  ‘I’m serious. Yes or no?’

  I roll my eyes. Gerry is the most gorgeous guy in class – correction, in the year. He can have anyone he wants and this is most likely a joke.

  ‘John, it’s not funny.’

  ‘I’m serious!’

  I’m afraid to turn around and look at Gerry again. My face is full on flaming red. I much preferred sitting in the back row where I could always stare at Gerry whenever I wanted. Everyone likes him, and he’s gorgeous, even with his new train tracks, and he always smells nice. Of course I fancy Gerry, most girls – and Peter – do. But me and Gerry? I didn’t think he even knew I was here.

  ‘Holly, I’m serious,’ John says. ‘Smurf will be back in a minute. Yes or no?’

  I swallow hard. If I say yes and it’s a joke then I’ll be mortified. But if I say no and it’s not a joke, I’ll never forgive myself.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, and my voice comes out all funny.

  ‘Cool,’ John grins and hurries back to his seat.

  I wait for jeering, for everyone to laugh and tell me it’s a joke. I wait to be humiliated, afraid to turn around, sure that everyone is silently laughing at me. There’s a bang on the open door and I jump with fright. Mr Murphy is back, with his banana and his knife, stinking of smoke.

  Everyone goes quiet.

  ‘Everyone finished?’

  There’s a chorus of yeses.

  He looks at me. ‘Holly?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then let’s go through it, shall we?’

  I’m so self-conscious that everybody’s eyes are on me that I can’t even think. And Gerry, he must be thinking I’m an absolute dunce.

  ‘OK, take the first part,’ Mr Murphy says, unpeeling the banana and slicing the tip. He never eats the tip, he hates the black pointy part. He cuts a thin slice of banana and eats it off the knife.

  ‘John has thirty-two chocolate bars,’ he says slowly, patronisingly, and a few people laugh. ‘He eats twenty-eight. What does he have now?’

  ‘Diabetes, sir!’ Gerry shouts out, and everybody cracks up laughing.

  Even Mr Murphy laughs. ‘Thank you for that, Gerry.’

  ‘No problem, sir.’

  ‘Since you think you’re so smart, finish this off for us.’

  And he does. Easy as that. I’m saved. I’m grateful but too embarrassed to turn around. Something hits against my leg and lands at my feet. I look down and see a scrunched-up piece of paper. I pretend to be leaning down to get something from my bag and while Mr Murphy has his back turned and is writing on the board, I open the ball of paper and smooth it open on my lap.

  It wasn’t a joke. Promise. Wanted to ask you for ages.

  Glad you said yes.

  Gerry

  PS, see you later?

  I grin, my heart pounding, my stomach alive with butterflies. I shove the letter into my bag and as I do, I sneak a glance behind me. Gerry is watching me, big blue eyes, kind of nervous. I smile, and he smiles. Like a private joke only the two of us are in on.

  EPILOGUE

  I’m in Magpie, at my favourite area with the trinkets and the chest of drawers, polishing and sorting, kind of playing, when Ciara interrupts my thoughts. She’s standing in the window dressing the mannequins.

  ‘I’m thinking of naming the mannequins. The longer I spend with them, the more I’m certain they each have a personality.’

  I laugh.

  ‘If I listen to them, I can utilise them to their best advantage. Maybe sell more. For example, this here is Naomi.’ She turns the model around and waves her hand at me. ‘She’s a window girl. She likes being centre of attention. On stage. Unlike … Mags over there, who hates the attention.’ She jumps off the raised platform and makes her way to the mannequin in the accessory area. ‘Mags likes to hide. She likes wigs, sunglasses, hats, gloves, bags, scarves, you name it.’

  ‘That’s because Mags is on the run,’ I say.

  ‘Yes!’ Ciara’s eyes widen and she studies the mannequin. ‘You’re not shy at all, are you? You’re on the run.’

  The bell rings as the door opens.

  ‘Who are you running from, Mags? Is it something you’ve seen or something you’ve done? Let me look you in the eye.’ Ciara lowers her glasses and stares at her. She gasps. ‘What have you done, you naughty thing?’

&nbs
p; The customer clears their throat and we turn our attention to the door, where there’s a young man standing, with a half-filled black bin liner in his hand.

  My heart pounds wildly. I hold on to the chest of drawers. Ciara looks at me in surprise and then back to the man. I know by her reaction that she sees it too; he’s the image of Gerry.

  ‘Hello,’ Ciara says. ‘I’m sorry … you’ve caught us … we’re talking to … my goodness, you look very like somebody we know. Used to know. Know.’ She tilts her head, and examines him.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Holly Kennedy,’ he says. ‘From the PS, I Love You Club?’

  ‘I’m Ciara. This is Mags. If that is in fact her real name,’ she says, smiling. ‘She has a dark history. Oh, and that’s Holly.’

  I try to snap myself out of it. It’s not Gerry. It’s definitely not him. Just a young, handsome, incredibly similar guy, so similar he managed to take both Ciara’s and my breath away. Black hair, blue eyes, a common Irish look, but my God, he’s cut from the same cloth.

  ‘I’m Holly.’

  ‘Hi. I’m Jack.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Jack,’ I say, shaking his hand. He’s so young, I’m guessing ten years younger than me now, but the way Gerry was, before the end. ‘Come this way.’

  I lead him to the stockroom that I’ve renovated to include an inviting space for the club, and we sit down at the couch area. He looks around. I’ve framed photographs on the wall of the original members of the PS, I Love You Club: Angela, Joy, Bert, Paul and Ginika. I added Gerry to the group, as seemed fitting, considering he’s the original founder. Jack’s eyes settle on Gerry. I wonder if he sees the resemblance too. I hand him a bottle of water. He nervously downs half of it immediately.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I read about the PS, I Love You letters in a magazine – while I was waiting at the hospital, ironically.’

  I know the magazine piece he saw; we’re a new foundation, not many profile pieces to be confused about. It was in a health magazine, complete with a photograph of Gerry and me. Perhaps it was Gerry who drew him to the club.

  ‘I have cancer,’ he says, his eyes filling. He clears his throat and looks down. ‘I want to do something for my wife. We only got married last year. I read about your story. I want to do something fun for her, every month for a year, like your husband did.’

  I smile. ‘I’d be honoured to help.’

  ‘Did you … did he … was it …’ he struggles with the question. He sighs. ‘You obviously think it’s a good idea or you wouldn’t have started this. Will she like it?’ he eventually asks.

  There’s so many levels to this experience, so many layers to explain. His wife will feel so many things about these letters and tasks that her husband will surprise her with, I find it difficult to put it into words. She will feel loss, and grief, but also connection and love, spirit and darkness, black and anger, light and hope, laughter and fear. Everything in between, a kaleidoscope of emotions that shine and flicker from one moment to the next.

  ‘Jack, so much of what’s to come will change her life forever,’ I say eventually. ‘These letters, planned in the right way, will ensure you’re by her side every step of the way. Do you think she’ll want that?’

  ‘Yeah. Definitely.’ He smiles, convinced. ‘Good. Let’s do it. Look, I told her I’d only be in here for a minute, that I was dropping off some old stuff for my mum.’ He glances down at the bin liner by his feet. ‘It’s old newspapers, sorry.’

  ‘Well, best not leave her waiting.’ I stand and lead him back to the shop. ‘We can meet again soon, and you can give me more of a sense of her personality. What’s her name?’

  ‘Molly,’ he says, with a smile.

  ‘Molly.’

  ‘Bye, Jack,’ Ciara says.

  ‘Bye, Ciara, bye, Mags,’ he says with a grin.

  The door closes and Ciara looks at me as though she’s seen a ghost. I rush to the window and watch him get into a car beside a pretty young woman. Molly. They’re chatting while he gets his keys ready.

  Molly catches sight of me, and she smiles. In that look, that quick connection we make, she transports me back, so far back, I feel like I’m speeding through a black hole and my heart can barely keep up with the travel. I feel protective of her, like a parent, like a friend. I want to mind her, reach out to her, embrace her. I want to tell her to squeeze him, hold him tight, breathe him in, treasure every single second. I want to leave her alone and give her the space she so desires, let her build a wall around herself while patiently listening from the other side. I want to help her build that wall, I want to help her tear it down. I want to warn her, I want to give her hope. I want to tell her to keep going, I want to tell her to turn around and go back the other way. I feel like I know her so well. I know who she is and where she is now, the journey she is about to embark on and the distance she will go. And yet, I know I have to step back and let her get there on her own.

  I may envy her a little at this moment, watching them together, but I don’t envy the journey ahead of her. I made it, I did it, and I’ll be rooting for her and waiting for her on the other side.

  I return the smile.

  And then they drive away.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you Lynne Drew, Martha Ashby, Karen Kostolynik, Kate Elton, Charlie Redmayne, Elizabeth Dawson, Anna Derkacz, Hannah O’Brien, Abbie Salter, Damon Greeney, Claire Ward, Holly MacDonald, Eoin McHugh, Mary Byrne, Tony Purdue, Ciara Swift, Jacq Murphy and the wonderful innovative teams at HarperCollins UK and Grand Central Publishing US. Andy Dodds, Chris Maher, Dee Delaney, Howie Sanders, Willie Ryan, Sarah Kelly. Thanks to all at Park and Fine Literary and Media especially Theresa Park, Abigail Koons, Emily Sweet, Andrea Mai, Ema Barnes and Marie Michels. To the booksellers far and wide. To the printers. To the readers. To the sources of my inspiration; the divine and the everyday.

  My parents, my sister, my family, my friends, my David, my Robin, my Sonny.

  Keep Reading …

  A story for every woman.

  A story for every moment.

  ‘Funny, wise and weighty, in a very good way … read one or two of Ahern’s fables at a time [to] truly appreciate their wit, pathos and imagination.’ Independent

  ‘Witty, playful, entertaining but also thought-provoking, salutary and empowering’ Daily Mail

  A Radio 2 Bookclub Choice.

  Click here to buy now 978-0-00-828351-3

  About the Author

  Cecelia Ahern’s debut novel, PS, I Love You, became one of the biggest-selling novels of recent years and was made into a hit Hollywood film. She is published around the world in forty-seven countries, in over thirty languages and has sold over twenty-five million copies of her books. She has written fourteen novels, two Young Adult novels and a highly acclaimed collection of stories, Roar.

  She and her books have won numerous awards, including the Irish Book Award for Popular Fiction for The Year I Met You in 2014. PS, I Love You was awarded two Platinum Awards at the 2018 Specsavers Bestseller Awards, for the UK and Ireland.

  Cecelia Ahern lives in Dublin with her family.

  For more information on Cecelia, her writing, books and events, follow her on Twitter @Cecelia_Ahern, join her on Facebook www.facebook.com/CeceliaAhernofficial or Instagram @official_ceceliaahern, and visit her website www.cecelia-ahern.com.

  Also by Cecelia Ahern

  PS, I Love You

  Where Rainbows End (also known as Love, Rosie)

  If You Could See Me Now

  A Place Called Here

  Thanks for the Memories

  The Gift

  The Book of Tomorrow

  The Time of My Life

  One Hundred Names

  How To Fall In Love

  The Year I Met You

  The Marble Collector

  Lyrebird

  Roar

  Young Adult

  Flawed

  Perfec
t

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