The Time of My Life. Cecelia Ahern
coincidence. ‘Don Lockwood … wait for it … is the name of Gene Kelly’s character in Singin’ in the Rain.’
‘I see.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you are a fan of either Gene Kelly and/or of this movie so this is very exciting news to you.’
‘Only the biggest.’ I laughed. ‘Don’t tell me no one’s ever said that to you before.’
‘I can safely say, no one under the age of eighty-five has ever said it to me before.’
‘Not even any of your wrong numbers?’
‘Not even them.’
‘How old are you?’ I asked, suddenly afraid I was having a conversation with a fifteen-year-old and that the police were on their way.
‘I’m thirty-five and three-quarters.’
‘I can’t believe in all of your thirty-five and three-quarters years no one has ever said that to you before.’
‘Because most of the people I meet aren’t one hundred years old like you.’
‘I’m not going to be one hundred for at least two weeks.’
‘Ah. I see. Thirty? Forty? Fifty?’
‘Thirty.’
‘It’s all downhill from there, believe me.’
And he went silent, and I went silent and then it wasn’t natural any more and we were just two strangers on a wrong number who both wanted to hang up.
I got in there first. ‘It was nice talking to you, Don. Thanks for the offer of the ticket.’
‘Bye, toothless married woman,’ he said and we both laughed. I hung up and caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and I looked like my mother, just a face full of a smile. It faded fast at the realisation that I’d just spoken to an absolute stranger on the phone. Maybe they were right, maybe I was losing it. I went to bed early and at twelve thirty my phone rang, waking me in fright. I looked at the number flashing and didn’t recognise it, so I ignored it and waited for it to stop so I could go back to sleep. A few seconds later the phone rang again. I answered it, hoping it wasn’t bad news. All I could hear was noise, screams and shouts. I moved it away from my ear, then heard the music, then heard the singing, then recognised the song. He was calling me, Don Lockwood was calling me, so I could hear my favourite song.
‘If you think your life’s a waste of time, if you think your time’s a waste of life, come over to this land, take a look around. Is this a tragic situation, or a massive demonstration, where do we hide?’
I lay back on the bed and listened to the song, then when it was finished, I stayed on the line to speak to him. As soon as the next song started, he hung up.
I smiled. Then texted him.
–Thanks.
He texted back straight away.
–One less thing on your list. Nite.
I stared at those words for a long time then added his number into my phone. Don Lockwood. Just seeing it there made me smile.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A week later I awoke at seven a.m. in a stinker of a mood. I do believe that’s the technical term for it. I hadn’t been asleep for a week; it’s just the amount of time that passed until anything of note happened in my life. I knew I was in a bad mood as soon as I opened my eyes and realised that the apartment reeked of the prawn cocktail that I’d left out on the counter. I felt irritation to the very core of me; like that damp cold that goes right to the bone and is impossible to shake off. I also think that my body had sensed that a new envelope had arrived on the burned carpet even before I’d found it. I could tell it had recently been left there because it hadn’t been peed on and it had landed on top of the little pink marie-rose paw prints from when Mr Pan had knocked over the prawn cocktail and walked it around the carpet.
I had received a letter every day since I’d met Life the previous Sunday. I had ignored all of them and nothing was going to change this Monday. I stepped over the envelope like a child whose only power is to exercise authority on a dolly. Mr Pan must have known what he’d done and sensed my mood because he stayed clear of me. I showered, pulled a dress down from the curtain pole and was ready in minutes. I gave Mr Pan his breakfast, ignored the letter for the second week running and left the apartment.
‘Morning, Lucy,’ my neighbour said, opening the door as I stepped outside. I was suspicious of her timing; if I didn’t know any better I’d have guessed she had been standing at her door waiting for me.
‘Morning,’ I said and searched my irritated brain for her name but there was no room for information, only frustration. I turned my back on her and locked the door.
‘Do you mind if I ask a favour?’ Her voice sounded shaky and I immediately turned around. Her eyes were red and swollen as if she’d been crying all night. I felt myself soften as my bad mood took time out. ‘Would you mind leaving this at security for me? I’ve organised a courier to collect it but they said they wouldn’t come upstairs. He’s sleeping so I couldn’t leave him …’
‘Of course, no problem.’ I took the sports bag from her.
She wiped her eyes, and said thanks but her voice had given up on her and it came out as a whisper.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, thanks, I just … em …’ That shaky voice again while she tried to compose herself. She straightened her back and cleared her throat, tried to maintain some kind of dignity but her eyes kept filling up and she fought hard to control them. ‘My mother was taken to hospital yesterday. It’s not looking very good.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’
She waved a hand dismissively to hide her embarrassment, tried to compose herself. ‘There are just a few things that I thought she’d need in there. I mean, what do you give a person who …’ She finished the sentence in her head.
‘They won’t let you visit?’
‘Oh, they will. I just can’t get in to her because …’ She looked back into the apartment to her baby.
‘Oh.’ I knew what I was supposed to say next but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to, wasn’t sure if it was right. I spoke reluctantly, ‘I could babysit for you, if you want. For …’ I didn’t know whether to say him or her, ‘the baby.’
‘Yes. Conor.’ She cleared her throat again. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer but I don’t really like leaving him …’
‘I completely understand,’ I jumped in, relieved. ‘I’ll leave these at the desk for you.’
She whispered her thanks again. I was at the elevator when she raised her voice down the hall. ‘Lucy, if I change my mind, and do need you, if it’s, you know, an emergency, how will I contact you?’
‘Oh. Well. You could wait till I get back at around sevenish or …’ I didn’t want to do it, I didn’t want to give her my mobile. I knew it would lead to general annoyance down the line. ‘You could email me …’ I looked at her face, so distraught but hopeful. Her mother was possibly dying and I was telling her to email me. ‘Or you could call me.’ Her shoulders seemed to relax. I gave her my number and got out of there. I got a cappuccino from Starbucks at the end of my block; I bought a newspaper and had to miss seeing cute guy on the train in order to drive Sebastian to work. I had to bring him to the garage again that day and I was already dreading the bill. I used my ID card to get in through the turnstiles