Postscript. Cecelia Ahern

local university provides plenty of students as customers, lured by the cheaper prices and the cool factor that comes with wearing vintage. Ciara is the star of the shop, hosting evening events, attending trade fairs, contributing to magazines, and a sometime-TV-presenter of breakfast television fashion slots, displaying the latest arrivals to the shop. If she is the heart of this shop, Mathew is the brains who handles the accounts, runs their online presence and oversees the technical side of the podcasts, and I’m the guts.

      ‘Hello,’ the customer, a woman replies.

      I can’t see her, I’m hidden behind a display unit, sitting on the floor. I’m already zoning out and allowing Ciara to do her thing.

      ‘I recognise you,’ Ciara says. ‘You spoke at Angela’s funeral.’

      ‘You were there?’

      ‘Yes, of course. Angela was a fantastic supporter of the shop. My sister and I were there. We’ll miss her, she was a powerhouse of a woman.’

      So now I’m listening.

      ‘Your sister was there too, you say?’

      ‘Yes. Holly, she’s … busy at the moment.’ Ciara uses her smarts and remembers that I will not wish to speak to this woman, as I have not wanted to speak about the entire funeral episode since it happened two weeks ago.

      I did what I said I would do. I returned to the shop, I went back to my life, I tried not to think of what happened at the funeral for one second, but inevitably I did. I can’t stop thinking about it. Angela was clearly inspired by my experience with Gerry’s letters to do the same for her family in her final weeks, this I understand, but what I don’t understand is her business card. What on earth was she intending on doing with the PS, I Love You Club? Over the past few weeks I’ve wanted to know and I didn’t want to know and yet, here I am, not wanting to be seen but wanting to hear at the same time.

      ‘Did Holly …’ The woman abandons her question. ‘My name is Joy, pleased to meet you. Angela loved this shop. Did you know this is the house she grew up in?’

      ‘No! She never mentioned it. Never, I can’t believe it.’

      ‘Yes. Well, it would have been like her not to say. She and I were school friends, I lived around the corner. We recently reconnected, but I know she would have enjoyed seeing her belongings in the place she grew up – not that we had such fine things back then. I still don’t.’

      ‘Wow! I can’t believe this,’ Ciara replies. Sensing this woman is not here to browse, she extends her usual wonderful and, in this instance, annoying, hospitality. ‘Would you like a tea or coffee?’

      ‘Oh, a tea would be lovely, thank you. With a small drop of milk, please.’

      Ciara goes into the back rooms, and I hear Joy walk around the shop. I pray that she won’t discover me but I know that she will. Her footsteps near me. They stop, I look up.

      ‘You must be Holly,’ she says. She has a cane.

      ‘Hello,’ I say, as though I hadn’t heard a word her and Ciara had said.

      ‘I’m Joy. A friend of Angela Carberry’s.’

      ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

      ‘Thank you. She went fast in the end. She declined so quickly. I wonder if she had a chance to speak with you.’

      If I was polite I would stand up. Stop this woman on a cane from having to lean down and talk to me. But I’m not feeling polite.

      ‘About?’

      ‘About her club.’ She reaches into her pocket and retrieves a business card. The same one that Gabriel had shown me.

      ‘I received the business card, but I have no idea what it’s about.’

      ‘She gathered – well, she and I both gathered a group of people who are fans of yours.’

      ‘Fans?’

      ‘We listened to your podcast, we were so moved by your words.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘I wonder if you could meet with us? I want to continue the good work Angela began …’ her eyes fill. ‘Oh, I’m very sorry.’

      Ciara returns with the tea. ‘Are you OK, Joy?’ she asks when she sees the woman with a cane crying, while I’m still sitting on the floor with a book in my hand. She throws me a look of confusion and horror. Her cold-hearted sister.

      ‘I’m fine. Yes, I am, thank you. I’m very sorry for the imposition. I think I’ll just … gather myself.’

      ‘There’s no need to leave, take a seat over here.’ Ciara guides Joy to an armchair beside the dressing room, a corner of the room with a mirror and dramatic draping, still in my line of vision. ‘You stay here and rest until you feel right. There’s your tea. I’ll get you a tissue.’

      ‘You’re very kind,’ Joy says, weakly.

      I remain on the floor. I wait for Ciara to leave before speaking, ‘What’s the club about?’

      ‘Did Angela not explain it to you?’

      ‘No. She left the business card here for me, but we never talked.’

      ‘I’m sorry she didn’t explain it to you. So please do let me. Angela was shining like a light after she attended your talk; she came to me with her idea, and when Angela Carberry got something in her head she was bound to it. She could be very persistent, and not always in the right ways. She was used to getting what she wanted.’

      I think of Angela’s hand squeezing my arm, her nails digging into my flesh. The urgency that I misread.

      ‘Angela and I were in school together but we lost contact, as you do. We met each other a few months ago and because of our illnesses I think we connected more than we ever had. After she heard you speak, she called me and told me all about it. I was as greatly inspired by your story as she was. I told a few others who I felt would benefit.’

      As Joy takes a breath I realise I’m holding mine. My chest is tight, my body is rigid.

      ‘There are five of us – well, four of us now. Your story filled us with light and hope. You see, dear Holly, we got together because we have something that bonds us.’

      My fingers are clenching the book so hard it’s almost bending.

      ‘We have all been diagnosed with terminal illnesses. We joined together not just because of the hope that your story inspired in us but because we have a shared goal. We want to write letters for our loved ones as your husband did for you. We desperately need your help, Holly. We’re running out of ideas and …’ she breathes in as if summoning the energy, ‘all of us are running out of time.’

      Silence as I pause, freeze, try to absorb that. I’m speechless.

      ‘I’ve put you on the spot and I’m very sorry,’ she says, embarrassed. She attempts to stand, with the cup of tea in one hand and her cane in the other. I can only watch her; I’m too stunned to feel anything but numb to the sadness of Joy and her fellow club members. If anything, I’m irritated that she would bring this back into my life.

      ‘Let me help you,’ Ciara says, rushing over to take the tea and hold her arm to assist her.

      ‘Perhaps I’ll leave my phone number for you, Holly. So that if you want to …’ She looks at me to finish her sentence but I don’t. I’m cruel and I wait.

      ‘I’ll get a pen and paper,’ Ciara says, jumping in.

      Joy leaves her details with Ciara and I call goodbye as she makes her exit.

      The bell rings, the door closes, Ciara’s footsteps click-clack across the wooden floors. Her 1940s vintage peep-toe heels, worn with fishnet stockings, come to a halt beside me. She stares at me, studies me, and I’m quite sure she has eavesdropped and heard it all.