The Time of My Life. Cecelia Ahern

looked shocked. ‘I was up half the night with him screaming the place down. I was sure I’d have the building banging on my door. He’s teething, the poor thing, his cheeks are flaming red.’

      I looked down again. Didn’t say anything.

      She yawned. ‘Still, at least the weather is nice this summer, nothing worse than being cooped up inside with a baby.’

      ‘Yeah,’ I said when the doors finally opened. ‘Have a good day,’ and I ran out ahead of her before she took the conversation outside.

      I probably could have walked to the offices where I was due to meet Life but I got a taxi because the cute guy wouldn’t be on the train at this hour and I couldn’t rely on Sebastian to get me anywhere after yesterday’s trip up the mountains. Apart from that I wasn’t too sure where I was going and there was nothing worse than meeting your life with blistered feet and sweaty armpits. The building was visible from a mile away, it was a horrendous construction, a brown oppressive square high-rise block on stilts with steel windows, a giveaway to the age of the building when Lego architecture in the sixties was acceptable. As it was Sunday the building was deserted and the car park beneath the block was empty apart from one lonely car with a punctured wheel. The one that couldn’t get away. The security booth was unoccupied, the barrier was up. No one cared if the entire thing was airlifted and brought to another planet, it was so ugly and desolate. Once inside, the building smelled of damp and vanilla air freshener. A reception desk dominated the small lobby with a desk so high I could just make out the tip of a back-combed bouffant hair-sprayed head. As I neared I discovered that what I’d thought was air freshener was actually perfume. She sat painting thick nails with blood-red varnish, layering it so thickly it was gloopy. She was watching Columbo on a small TV monitor on the desk.

      ‘Just one more thing,’ I could hear Columbo say.

      ‘Here we go,’ she chuckled, not looking at me but acknowledging me. ‘He knows he did it already, you can tell.’ It was the American-pie woman I’d spoken to on the phone. While Columbo asked the murderer for his autograph for his wife she finally turned to me. ‘So what can I do you for?’

      ‘We spoke on the phone this week, my name is Lucy Silchester and I have an appointment with Life.’ I gave a high-pitched laugh.

      ‘Oh yes, I remember now. Lucy Silchester. Did you call that carpet-cleaning company yet?’

      ‘Oh … no, not yet.’

      ‘Well, here you go, I can’t recommend it no more than I already did.’ She placed the business card on the desk and slid it toward me. I wasn’t sure if she had brought it especially for me or if she was so enthusiastic about the company that she carried a suitcase of cards around with her to hand out to passers-by. ‘You promise me you’ll call now, won’t you?’

      Amused by her persistence, I agreed.

      ‘I’ll just let him know you’re here.’ She picked up the phone. ‘Lucy’s here to see you.’ I strained my ear to hear his voice but I couldn’t make anything out. ‘Yes indeedy, I’ll send her on up.’ Then to me, ‘Take the elevator and go up to the tenth floor. Take a right, then a left, you’ll see him then.’

      I made to leave then paused. ‘What’s he like?’

      ‘Oh, don’t you worry – you’re not scared, are you?’

      ‘No,’ I waved my hand dismissively. ‘Why would I be scared?’ Then I gave that same laugh that told everyone within a five-mile radius that I was scared, and made my way to the elevator.

      I had ten floors to prepare myself for my grand entrance. I fixed my hair, my posture, my lips all pursed in a sexy but I-didn’t-know-it way; my stance was perfect, a few fingers of one hand tucked into my pocket. It all said exactly what I wanted to say about me but then the doors parted and I was faced with a ripped leather chair with a tattered women’s magazine missing its cover and a wooden door in a wall of glass with uneven Roman blinds. When I went through the door I was faced with a room the size of a football pitch filled with a maze of cubicles separated by grey partition walls. Tiny desks, old computers, tattered chairs, photos of people’s kids, dogs and cats pinned around the desks, personalised mouse pads, pens with pink furry things stuck on top, holiday photos as screen savers, birthday cards, random cuddly toys and multicoloured mugs that said things that weren’t funny. All those things people do to make their squalid little square foot feel like home. It looked exactly like my own office and it immediately made me want to pretend to photocopy something to waste some time.

      I made my way down the maze of desks, looking left and right wondering what on earth I’d find, trying to keep the same cool friendly look while inside I was frustrated that my big meeting with Life was in this shithole. And suddenly there he was. My life. Tucked behind a grotty desk, head down scribbling on a ratty notepad with a pen that by the looks of his constant scribbles on a pad, wouldn’t work. He wore a wrinkled grey suit, a grey shirt and a grey tie with the triple spirals of life embossed on it. His hair was black and peppered with a little grey and was dishevelled, his face had a few days of stubble. He looked up, saw me, put down the pen, stood up, then wiped his hands on his suit leaving damp wrinkled marks. He had black rings around his eyes, his eyes were bloodshot, he sniffled and he looked like he hadn’t slept for years.

      ‘Are you …?’ I did a little playful smiley thing.

      ‘Yeah,’ he said blandly. ‘You’re Lucy,’ he held out his hand. ‘Hi.’

      I bounced over to him, long strides, pretending to be oh so excited by the moment. I reached out and shook his hand, gave him the biggest smile I could possibly muster, wanting to please him so much, wanting to prove to him that I was fine, that everything was absolutely fine. His handshake was limp. His skin was clammy. His hand quickly slid away from mine like a snake slithering out of my grasp.

      ‘So,’ I said, overenthusiastically, sitting down. ‘We finally meet,’ I said mysteriously, trying to catch his eye. ‘How are you?’ I could tell I sounded over the top. The room was too big, too empty, too bland, too depressing for my tone but I couldn’t stop.

      He looked at me. ‘How do you think I am?’

      He said it rudely. Very rudely, in fact. I was taken by surprise. I didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t how people spoke to each other. Where was the pretence that we liked each other, that we were both happy to be there, that we’d meet again? I looked around hoping that nobody was listening.

      ‘There’s no one here,’ he said. ‘No one works on Sundays. They have lives.’

      I fought my instinct to snap back. ‘But don’t other people’s lives work in this building too?’

      ‘No.’ He looked at me as though I were stupid. ‘I just rent this space. I don’t know what they do,’ he referred to the empty desks.

      Again, I was taken aback. This was not how it was supposed to go.

      He rubbed his face tiredly. ‘I didn’t mean to come across as rude.’

      ‘Well you did.’

      ‘Well I’m sorry.’ He said it without any amount of sincerity.

      ‘No you’re not.’

      Silence.

      ‘Look …’ He leaned forward and I really didn’t mean to, but I leaned back. He had bad breath. It was a bit of an awkward moment. He sighed, then continued, ‘Imagine you had a friend who was there for you all the time and you were there for them, but they stopped being there for you as much as they used to which you can understand a little because people have things to do, but then they’re around less and less no matter how much you try to reach out to them. Then suddenly one day – nothing – they’re gone. Just like that. Then you write to them, and you’re ignored and then you write to them again and you’re ignored and finally you write to them again for a third time and they barely even want to make the appointment, they’re so busy with their job, their friends