The Time of My Life. Cecelia Ahern

      ‘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