Time of My Life by Cecelia Ahern Page B

from Starbucks at the end of your block, you buy the newspaper, sometimes you drive, sometimes you take the train to work, you do the crossword. You arrive at work between nine and nine thirty, you don’t get started on anything until ten. You take a cigarette and coffee break at eleven, even though you don’t smoke but think it’s unfair that smokers receive extra breaks. You take an hour lunch break at one p.m. You sit alone, you do the crossword. You are always late back to your desk. It takes you until two thirty to begin work again but for the afternoon you are diligent and complete your work. You finish at six p.m.’
    ‘Why are you telling me things that I already know?’ I spoke like I didn’t care but in truth it was disturbing to listen to. It was disturbing to know that all the little things I did in secret were being noted by somebody, and being logged in a computer for some stressed-out office nerd to read like I was some sort of solitaire game.
    ‘You go to the gym every day after work. You’re supposed to jog for twenty minutes but always stop at seventeen, you work out for thirty minutes more. You sometimes meet friends for dinner, you would always rather be at home, you always leave early. You go to bed, you do the crossword. You get up at seven a.m.’
    He left a silence.
    ‘You see a theme emerging?’
    ‘I’m prone to solving crosswords? So what? What’s your point?’
    He sat back then, studied me again with his tired unblinking eyes.
    ‘No. What’s yours?’
    I swallowed a large dry lump that had formed in my throat. ‘Well, that’s very profound.’
    ‘Not really. It’s just a question. Okay, why don’t I speak in a way that you understand. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to leave here in thirty minutes, exactly on time at the end of our meeting, then you’re going to try to forget everything we’ve talked about. You will succeed. I will be reduced to an annoying frustrating little man who made you waste a few hours of your Sunday and you’ll go back to living your life exactly the way you were.’
    He stopped. I waited for more, but there wasn’t anything. I was confused. He couldn’t possibly believe that. Then I got it. ‘That’s a lie.’
    ‘It’s not a lie if the outcome is exactly the same.’
    I didn’t want to ask but I had to. ‘And what’s the outcome?’
    ‘You’ll be as alone and as bored and as unhappy as you were before you met me, but this time it will be worse because this time you’ll know it. You’ll know it every second of every day.’
    And on that note, I grabbed my bag and left. With exactly thirty minutes to go, just like he’d said.



CHAPTER SIX
    Silchesters don’t cry. It was what my father had told me when I was five years old and I’d fallen off my bike after taking the stabilisers off for the first time. He had been beside me, guiding me along the driveway of our home, though he was further away than I’d have liked but I didn’t want to tell him that because I knew he would be disappointed. Even at five I knew that. I didn’t hurt myself, I was more in shock over the feel of the hard tarmac as my knee slammed down on it and as the bicycle got crushed between my legs. I’d held out my arms to him for help but in the end I got to my feet by myself under his instructions. I still remember his voice. Move the bike away from your leg. Now stand up, don’t make that noise, Lucy, stand up. I’d stood up, hunched as though my leg needed amputation, until I was told to stand up straight. I’d wanted a hug but I didn’t say so, knew that asking for and wanting one would be wrong in his eyes, but knowing in my heart that it wasn’t. It was just the way he was and that’s what I always understood. Even at five years old. Apart from the time Blake left me and when Life reminded me about it, I rarely cried and rarely felt the need to.
    In the end it had all ended so quickly. We were together for five years, we had a