Thanks for the Memories. Cecelia Ahern

eyes back to the bed, where he and Sarah finally got to know one another intimately. All day he definitely felt like the big man on campus and he was just seconds away from interrupting his talk on Dutch and Flemish painting to give details of his previous night’s performance. First-year students in the midst of Rag Week, only three-quarters of the class had shown up after the previous night’s foam party and those that were in attendance he was sure wouldn’t notice if he launched into a detailed analysis of his lovemaking skills. He didn’t test his assumptions, all the same.

      Blood For Life Week is over, much to Justin’s relief, and Sarah has moved on from the college, back to her base. On his return to Dublin this month he coincidentally bumped into her in a bar, that he just happened to know she frequented, and they went from there. He wasn’t sure if he would see her again though his inside jacket pocket was safely padded with her number.

      He has to admit that while the previous night was indeed delightful – a few too many bottles of Château Olivier, which, until last night he’s always found disappointing despite its ideal location in Bordeaux, in a lively bar on the Green, followed by a trip to his hotel room – he feels much was missing from his conquest. He acquired some Dutch courage from his hotel mini-bar before calling round to see her, and by the time he arrived, he was already incapable of serious conversation or, more seriously, incapable of conversation – Oh, for Christ’s sake, Justin, what man do you know cares about the damn conversation? But, despite ending up in his bed, he feels that Sarah did care about the conversation. He feels that perhaps there were things she wanted to say to him and perhaps did say while he saw those sad blue eyes boring into his and her rosebud lips opening and closing, but his Jameson whiskey wouldn’t allow him to hear, instead singing over her words in his head like a petulant child.

      With his second seminar in two months complete, Justin throws his clothes into his bag, happy to see the back of his miserable musty room. Friday afternoon, time to fly back to London. Back to his daughter, and his younger brother, Al, and sister-in-law, Doris, visiting from Chicago. He departs the hotel, steps out onto the cobbled side streets of Temple Bar and into his waiting taxi.

      ‘The airport, please.’

      ‘Here on holidays?’ the driver asks immediately.

      ‘No.’ Justin looks out the window, hoping this will end the conversation.

      ‘Working?’ The driver starts the engine.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Where do you work?’

      ‘A college.’

      ‘Which one?’

      Justin sighs. ‘Trinity.’

      ‘You the janitor?’ Those green eyes twinkle playfully at him in the mirror.

      ‘I’m a lecturer on Art and Architecture,’ he says defensively, folding his arms and blowing his floppy fringe from his eyes.

      ‘Architecture, huh? I used to be a builder.’

      Justin doesn’t respond and hopes the conversation will end there.

      ‘So where are ye off to? Off on holiday?’

      ‘Nope.’

      ‘What is it then?

      ‘I live in London.’ And my US social security number is …

      ‘And you work here?’

      ‘Yep.’

      ‘Would you not just live here?’

      ‘Nope.’

      ‘Why’s that then?’

      ‘Because I’m a guest lecturer here. A previous colleague of mine invited me to give a seminar once a month.’

      ‘Ah.’ The driver smiles at him in the mirror as though he’d been trying to fool him. ‘So what do you do in London?’ His eyes interrogate him.

      I’m a serial killer who preys on inquisitive cab drivers.

      ‘Lots of different things.’ Justin sighs and caves in as the driver waits for more. ‘I’m the editor of the Art and Architectural Review, the only truly international art and architectural publication,’ he says proudly. ‘I started it ten years ago and still we’re unrivalled. Highest selling magazine of its kind.’ Twenty thousand subscribers, you liar.

      There’s no reaction.

      ‘I’m also a curator.’

      The driver winces. ‘You’ve to touch dead bodies?’

      Justin scrunches his face in confusion. ‘What? No.’ Then adds unnecessarily, ‘I’m also a regular panelist on a BBC art and culture show.’

      Twice in five years doesn’t quite constitute regular, Justin. Oh, shut up.

      The driver studies Justin now, in the rearview mirror. ‘You’re on TV?’ He narrows his eyes. ‘I don’t recognise you.’

      ‘Well, do you watch the show?’

      ‘No.’

      Well, then.

      Justin rolls his eyes. He throws off his suit jacket, opens another of his shirt buttons and lowers the window. His hair sticks to his forehead. Still. A few weeks have gone by and he still hasn’t been to the barber. He blows his fringe out of his eyes.

      They stop at a red light and Justin looks to his left. A hair salon.

      ‘Hey, would you mind pulling over on the left just for a few minutes?’

      ‘Look, Conor, don’t worry about it. Stop apologising,’ I say into the phone tiredly. He exhausts me. Every little word with him drains me. ‘Dad is here with me now and we’re going to get a taxi to the house together, even though I’m perfectly capable of sitting in a car by myself.’

      Outside the hospital, Dad holds the door open for me and I climb into the taxi. Finally I’m going home but I don’t feel the relief I was hoping for. There’s nothing but dread. I dread meeting people I know and having to explain what has happened, over and over again. I dread walking into my house and having to face the half-decorated nursery. I dread having to get rid of the nursery, having to replace it with a spare bed and filling the wardrobes with my own overflow of shoes and bags I’ll never wear. As though a bedroom for them alone is as good a replacement as a child. I dread having to go to work instead of taking the leave I had planned. I dread seeing Conor. I dread going back to a loveless marriage with no baby to distract us. I dread living every day of the rest of my life while Conor drones on and on down the phone about wanting to be here for me, when it seems my telling him not to come home has been my mantra for the past few days. I know it would be common sense for me to want my husband to come rushing home to me – in fact, for my husband to want to come rushing home to me – but there are many buts in our marriage and this incident is not a regular normal occurrence. It deserves outlandish behaviour. To behave the right way, to do the adult thing feels wrong to me because I don’t want anybody around me. I’ve been poked and prodded psychologically and physically. I want to be on my own to grieve. I want to feel sorry for myself without sympathetic words and clinical explanations. I want to be illogical, self-pitying, self-examining, bitter and lost for just a few more days, please, world, and I want to do it alone.

      Though that is not unusual in our marriage.

      Conor’s an engineer. He travels abroad to work for months before coming home for one month and going off again. I used to get so used to my own company and routine that for the first week of him being home I’d be irritable and wish he’d go back. That changed over time, of course. Now that irritability stretches to the entire month of him being home. And it’s become glaringly obvious I’m not alone in that feeling.

      When Conor took the job all those years ago, it was difficult being away from one another for so long. I used to visit him as much as I could but it was difficult to keep taking time off work. The visits