Postscript(84)

He shrugs it off, embarrassed perhaps at having done it. ‘You mean Gerry’s mug. I know you’re not a Star Wars fan. You said you’d throw it out, but I know you’re more inclined to keep things that are broken. Maybe I should have left it as it was. Maybe you wanted to fix it yourself. Maybe I was overthinking the mug.’

I smile. He’s right, I do keep things that are broken, but I also never fix them. I kept it there in the cupboard, a self-inflicted punishment, a reminder of what I had and what I’d lost. People not things, that’s what I should hold on to.

‘Are you still involved with the club? he asks.

I nod.

‘How are you doing?’ his blue eyes search me intensely, like an X-ray of my soul.

All of a sudden I want to cry. He sees it coming and puts the mug down, comes round to me, down on his knees and hugs me tightly, rubs his fingers through my hair as I let it all out and let it all go. The utter exhaustion takes over me and the months of work, worry, highs and lows, unleash themselves through my tears.

‘I was so afraid of this happening, Holly,’ he says, whispering into my hair.

‘It has been one of the best experiences of my life,’ I say, in an unnatural high-pitch, through my badly timed sob.

He lets go, pulls back and studies me, fingers still running hypnotically through my hair. ‘Seriously?’

I nod emphatically, through tears, though the sentiments may be hard to believe while he’s looking at me in this state.

‘I lost a friend yesterday. Ginika. She was seventeen years old. Her daughter is one. Denise and Tom are her guardians. I taught Ginika how to read and write.’

‘Wow, Holly,’ he says, wiping my tears. ‘You did that?’

I nod. Bert is gone. Ginika is gone. My time is finished with a diminishing Paul, I’m lingering with Joy despite her scrapbook of secrets for Joe being complete. ‘I don’t want it to end.’

He considers this, considers me, then lifts my chin gently with his fingers so that we’re looking each other in the eye, so close. ‘So don’t let it.’

‘How?’ I wipe my wet face.

‘Find more people. Keep it going.’

I look at him, surprised. ‘But you said getting involved was a mistake.’

‘And I was wrong. I was wrong about a lot of things. If you say it’s the best experience of your life—’

‘One of.’ I correct him, with a smile.

‘I was only trying to protect you. You told me not to let you do anything more, and I honestly thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t even wait to see.’

‘I know, and you were right. A little bit. I can’t hold you responsible, Gabriel. I did lose myself. I put the club first, when I should have put you first.’

‘I didn’t give you much of a choice,’ he says wryly. ‘I think we both made the same mistake. We chose one part of our life over us. I miss you so much,’ he says.

‘I miss you too.’

We smile, and he looks at me hopefully, but I’m not ready yet. I reach for my coffee and take a sip, try to compose myself. ‘How’s it going with Ava?’

‘Good,’ he says, pulling out the chair beside me. He turns it so he’s facing me, our legs touching, his hand on my thigh, all so familiar. ‘She’s calmed a lot. We’re figuring it out. But I made a really bad decision, a really big mistake losing you, Holly.’

‘I overreacted,’ I admit.

‘I didn’t support you. Can you give us another chance? Will you move in here? With me, and Ava?’

I look at him and wonder, but I’m tired of thinking, I only know what feels right and forgiveness is a gift. I feel so utterly relieved to be offered a second chance with him.

‘We have a TV,’ he offers, weakly.

I smile, and rest my head on his shoulder, and he covers me in gentle kisses.

I want to tell Ginika what has happened, that she was right, again. The tears roll. Bittersweet ones.





36


I lock my bike to the railings on Eccles Street, having cycled there directly from work on a bright Friday evening, inhaling the sunshine, the fresh summer air, vibrant and busy with people attending the Mater hospital and the Mater private. My destination is on the opposite side of the street; a line of grand Georgian buildings, once grand homes, then tenements, the home of Leopold Bloom in Ulysses, and currently a row of consultants’ offices, clinics, doctors and outpatient facilities. There is a positive air in the city on a Friday, the promise of the weekend, a relieved celebratory mood that we all made it through another loaded week. The weather is looking hot for the weekend, our Indian summer; the Met Office has given the thumbs up for barbecues. Supermarkets will be ambushed for burger patties and sausages, coast roads to the seaside will be gridlocked with top-down cars vibrating with music, ice-cream vans with hypnotic tunes will be prowling housing estates to lure customers, dogs will be walked, parks will be heaving with displayed flesh and dehydrated drunks. Monday morning may be filled with regret and sick-days, but this hour, today, Friday at 6 p.m., the air is ticklish with anticipation and scheming, a world of possibilities open ahead of everyone.

‘Hi, Holly,’ Maria Costas says with a professional warmth, greeting me at her office with a solid handshake.

She closes the door behind us and leads me to twin armchairs by a Georgian window. The room is calm and filled with light; a safe place for people to bear their souls. If these walls could talk … they’d owe a fortune to psychologist Maria. There’s a cactus on the table in the centre.