Postscript. Cecelia Ahern

new life. She works. She washes herself. She’s selling her house, she’s moving in with the sexy tree-man.’

      The more Denise speaks, the more nervous I get. These are all things I worked hard to achieve. They cannot become undone.

      Sharon is studying me, concerned. ‘How ill are they?’

      ‘Sharon,’ Denise elbows her. ‘Ill is ill.’

      ‘Ill is not ill. There’s ill and then there’s …’ she sticks her tongue out and closes her eyes.

      ‘Ugly?’ Denise finishes.

      ‘They aren’t all terminally ill,’ I admit, attempting a hopeful tone. ‘One guy, Paul, is in remission and Joy, has a life-long … deteriorating condition.’

      ‘Well, isn’t that a rosy picture,’ Sharon says, sarcastically. She doesn’t like it. She fixes me with one of her scary mummy faces that takes no nonsense. ‘Holly, you need to be prepared. You’d be helping these people because they’re sick and they’re dying. You’re going to have to say goodbye over and over again.’

      ‘But imagine, how beautiful it could be,’ Denise changes the tone, to our surprise. ‘When they write the letters. When they die knowing they achieved it. When their loved ones read their letters. Think ahead to that part. Remember how we felt, Sharon, when Holly would open an envelope on the first day of every month? We couldn’t wait to get to her. Holly, you received a gift from Gerry and you are in a position to pass it on. If you are able to, if you feel it’s good for you, you should do it; if you think it will set you back, then don’t and don’t feel guilty about it.’

      Wise words but a straight yes or no would have been more helpful.

      ‘What does Gabriel think?’ Sharon asks.

      ‘I haven’t told him yet, but I already know what he’ll say. He’ll say no.’

      ‘No?’ Sharon says, huffily. ‘You’re not asking him for his permission.’

      ‘I know but … I don’t even think it’s a good idea.’

      ‘Well then, there’s your answer,’ Sharon says in a final tone.

      So why am I still asking the question?

      I tune out of the rest of their conversation, my mind racing back and forth as it chases the options, grasping for a decision. I feel as though I should, I know that I shouldn’t.

      We part, back to our lives, back to our problems.

      To weave and unravel, to unravel and weave.