How to Fall in Love. Cecelia Ahern

      ‘Pity you’re in recruitment, you would make a good psychologist,’ he said, pulling himself up from the chair.

      ‘Yeah, well, I’m doing this for both of us. If you can manage to sit on the bus for more than four stops, it will broaden your job opportunities.’ I tried to hide the tension from my voice. Oscar was a highly qualified whizz-kid scientist who I could easily get a job for – in fact I had, three times already – but due to his travel issues, his job opportunities were limited. I was trying to help him overcome his fears so I could finally place him in a job that he would show up to every day. He was afraid to learn how to drive and I couldn’t stretch myself to becoming a driving instructor, but he had agreed to beat his public transport fear at least. I glanced at the clock over his shoulder. ‘Okay, make an appointment for next week with Gemma, and I look forward to hearing about how you got on.’

      As soon as the door closed behind him I dropped my smile and scoured the bookshelf for one of my ‘How to …’ collections. Clients marvelled at the amount of books I kept, and I believed I alone kept my friend Amelia’s small bookshop open. The books were my bibles, my go-to fix-it helpers when I was personally lost or needed solutions for troubled clients. I’d been dreaming of writing one for the past ten years but had never gotten any further than sitting at my desk and turning the computer on, ready, wired to tell my story, only to end up staring at the white screen and the flashing icon, the blankness before me mirroring my creative flow.

      My sister Brenda said I was more interested in the idea of writing a book than actually writing it, because if I really wanted to write, I just would, every day, by myself, for myself, whether it was a book or not. She said a writer felt compelled to write whether they had an idea or not, whether they had a computer or not, whether they had a pen and paper or not. Their desire wasn’t determined by a specific pen brand or colour or whether their latte had enough sugar in it or not – things that were distractions and obstacles to my creative process whenever I sat down to write. Brenda often came out with pathetic insights but I feared that for once her observation of me might be true. I wanted to write, I just didn’t know if I could, and if I ever made a start I was afraid I’d discover that I couldn’t. I’d slept with How to Write a Successful Novel by my bed for months but I hadn’t opened the pages once, afraid that not being able to follow the tips would mean I could never write a book, so I hid it in the bedside locker instead, parking that particular dream until the time was right.

      I finally found what I was looking for on the shelf. Six Tips on How to Fire an Employee (With Pictures).

      I’m not sure the pictures helped, but I’d had a go at standing in front of the bathroom mirror and trying to emulate the concerned look on the employer’s face. I studied the notes I’d made on a Post-it inside the front page, unsure whether I was going to be able to do this. My company, Rose Recruitment, had been in operation for four years and was a small practice of four people, and our secretary, Gemma, helped us function. I didn’t want to let her go, but due to increasing personal financial pressures I was having to consider it. I was reading my notes when there was a knock on the door, quickly followed by Gemma’s entry.

      ‘Gemma,’ I squeaked, fumbling guiltily with the book in an effort to hide it from her. As I was stuffing it into an already crammed shelf, I lost my grip and sent it plummeting to the floor, where it landed at Gemma’s feet.

      Gemma giggled and bent down to pick up the book. Noting the title, she flushed. She looked at me, surprise, dread, confusion and hurt all passing on her face. I opened and closed my mouth, no words coming out, trying to remember which order the book had told me to break the news, the correct phrasing, the correct facial expressions, the tips, clarity, empathy, not too emotional, communicate with candour or without candour? But it took me too long and by then she already knew.

      ‘Well, finally one of your stupid books worked,’ Gemma said, her eyes filling as she dumped the book in my arms and turned, grabbed her bag and stormed out of the office.

      Mortified, I couldn’t help but be insulted by the emphasis on finally. I lived by these books. They worked.

      ‘Maguire,’ the unwelcoming voice barked down the phone.

      ‘Detective Maguire, it’s Christine Rose.’ I put a finger in my free ear to block the sound of the ringing phone wailing through the wall from reception. Gemma still hadn’t returned after storming out, and as I hadn’t been able to bring everybody together to work out how to share Gemma’s duties, my colleagues Peter and Paul were refusing to do the job of someone who had been unfairly dismissed. It was everyone against me, regardless of how many times I told them it had been a mistake. ‘I didn’t mean to fire her … today’ was not a good defence.

      It was quite simply a disastrous morning. But although it was obvious I needed to keep Gemma on – something I was sure Gemma was trying to prove – my bank balance disagreed. I still had to pay half the mortgage on the home Barry and I owned together, and from that month on I would have to fork out an extra six hundred euro to rent a one-bedroom apartment while I waited for us to sort it all out. Considering we’d have to sell an apartment that nobody wanted, for an eventual price that neither of us could really survive on, I imagined I would be digging into my savings for a very long time. And even in the event desperate times called for desperate measures, Barry had already waged a war on my jewellery collection, taking every piece he had ever given me and keeping it for himself. That was the voicemail I’d woken up to that morning.

      ‘Yeah?’ was Maguire’s response, far from ecstatic to hear from me, though I was surprised he remembered my name.

      ‘I’ve been calling you for two weeks. I’ve left you messages.’

      ‘I got them all right, they clogged up my voicemail. There’s no need to panic. You’re not in any trouble.’

      That knocked me off. It hadn’t crossed my mind that I would be in any trouble. ‘That’s not why I was calling.’

      ‘No?’ He feigned surprise. ‘Because you still haven’t explained to me what you were doing in a deserted apartment block on private property at eleven o’clock at night.’

      I was silent as I mulled this over. Almost everybody I knew had asked me the same thing – those who hadn’t were clearly wondering about it – and I hadn’t given anybody an answer. I needed to change the subject quickly before he tried to pin me down on it again.

      ‘I had been calling to ask for further details on Simon Conway. I wanted to know the funeral arrangements. I couldn’t find anything in the papers. But that was two weeks ago, so I’ve missed it.’ I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. I was calling him for more information; Simon had left an enormous hole in my life and endless questions in my head. I couldn’t rest without knowing everything that had happened and had been said after that day. I wanted his family’s details so I could tell them all the beautiful things he’d said about them, how he loved them so much and how his actions had nothing to do with them. I wanted to look them in the eye and tell them I had done all that I could. To ease their pain or ease my guilt? What was wrong with wanting both? I didn’t want to sound so desperate as to ask Maguire those exact questions, and I knew he wouldn’t tell me anyway, but I couldn’t just draw a line under what I had experienced. I wanted, I needed more.

      ‘Two things. Firstly, you shouldn’t get so involved with any victim. I’ve been in this game a long time and—’

      ‘Game? I watched a man shoot himself in the head right before my very eyes. This is not a game to me.’ My voice cracked, which I took as a hint to stop.

      There was silence. I cringed and covered my face. I’d blown it. I gathered myself and cleared my throat. ‘Hello?’

      I waited for a smart response, something cynical and cold, but it didn’t come. Instead his voice was soft, the background wherever he was had gone quiet and I was worried everyone had stopped to listen to me.

      ‘You know we have people in here to talk to after an event like this,’ he said, gently for once. ‘I told you that night. I gave you