fucked up everything, I’m so so sorry. Please, tell me what I can do to fix it.’
‘You didn’t do anything wrong, things happened, and it’s not your fault. But if Joy or anyone else from the club comes by, tell them I’m not interested, OK?’
‘Yeah. Of course. I told that guy yesterday not to come back.’
‘What guy?’
‘He said he was from the club. His name was … doesn’t matter what his name is. He’s not coming back, I made it very clear to leave you alone, especially at your place of work, it’s not right.’
My heart pounds with anger. ‘So they are coming here.’
‘They?’
‘The club members. There was a girl earlier. She’d been in here before, she was looking at me oddly. Accused me of accusing her of stealing. She must be with them too.’
‘No …’ Ciara studies me with concern. ‘I mean, you can’t think that everyone in here that looks at you is from the club.’
‘The woman said they had five members, four members left. My ghost of Christmas past, of present and today of future have all paid me a little visit. They’re never going to leave me alone, are they?’ I ask, the anger pumping through me at this invasion of my nice normal stable happy moving-on life. ‘You know what, I’m going to meet with them. I’m going to meet this little club and tell them in no uncertain terms to leave me alone. Where is that woman’s number?’ I start rifling through the drawers.
‘Joy?’ Ciara asks, concerned. ‘Maybe you’d be better to leave it, Holly, I think they’ll get the message eventually.’
I find the slip of paper and grab my phone. ‘Excuse me a minute.’ I hurry to the door, I need to make this call outside.
‘Holly,’ Ciara calls after me. ‘Remember, they’re sick. They’re not nasty people. Be kind.’
I step outside, close the door and walk away from the shop, dialling Joy’s number. I’m going to tell this club to leave me alone once and for all.
The PS, I Love You Club gather in Joy’s conservatory, the 1 April morning sun heating the glass room. Her blond Labrador snoozes on the hot tiles, in the path of the sunlight in the centre of the room. We have to step around him to get anywhere. I look at the club members seated in front of me, feeling awkward and annoyed. I’d arranged to meet with Joy to deliver my well-rehearsed, polite but firm refusal to her invitation to be involved, but I hadn’t bargained on everyone else being here. Clearly, she understood my request to meet as meaning entirely the opposite, and I wish now that I’d told her over the phone instead of opting to come here for an honourable face-to-face rebuff.
‘He’s a lazy lump, aren’t you, my old friend,’ Joy says, gazing fondly at the dog as she places a cup of tea and a heaped plate of biscuits on the table beside me. ‘We got him when we first heard my diagnosis, thinking he’d be company, a distraction for everyone, and he’s served us well. He’s nine,’ she says defiantly. ‘I have MS. Multiple Sclerosis.’
Bert, a big man in his late sixties, oxygen being fed to him through a nasal cannula, goes next. ‘Too handsome for my own good,’ he says, winking.
Paul and Joy chuckle, Ginika rolls her eyes, the teenager caught amongst the bad dad jokes. I’d been right about the girl in the shop, I’m not paranoid after all. I smile politely.
‘Lungs. Emphysema,’ Bert corrects himself, laughing at his joke.
Paul next. He’s younger than Bert and Joy, closer to my age. Handsome, deceivingly healthy-looking, and the second mystery person to have visited the shop, and turned away by Ciara. ‘A brain tumour.’
Young man, handsome man, brain tumour. Just like Gerry. It’s too close. I should leave, but when’s a good time to get up and leave when a young man is telling you about his cancer?
‘But my situation is a little different to the others,’ he adds. ‘I’m in remission.’
A slight weight lifts. ‘That’s great news.’
‘Yes,’ he says, not at all appearing like it’s great news. ‘This is my second time, in remission, it’s quite regular for brain tumours to recur. I wasn’t ready to go the first time round. If it recurs again, I want to be prepared for my family.’
I nod. My chest tightens a bit more; even in remission he is preparing for his death, in fear of the tumour recurring. ‘My husband had primary brain cancer,’ I feel the need to add, by way of conversation, but as soon as the words have left my mouth I realise it’s not a great talking point. We all know my husband died.
I came here to put an end to this before my involvement began, but as soon as I walked in the door and saw the group, I felt the hourglass had been flipped. Now that the grains of sand are falling, I wonder if perhaps my being here this once will be all I need to do. I can ease my guilt, try to be of help, then go back to my life. It will only take an hour.
I look to the teenager beside me, Ginika. Perhaps this visit will end their stalking of me. It will have to, because I will tell them in no uncertain terms to stop. Her baby, Jewel, is contently sitting on her lap, playing with the bangles around Ginika’s wrist. Feeling the attention on her, Ginika speaks without lifting her gaze from the floor.
‘Cervical cancer,’ she says, firmly, her back teeth pushed together as she forces the words out. She’s angry.
OK. OK. Tell them, get it over with. Tell them you don’t want to be here, that you can’t help them. A silence falls.
‘As you can see we’re all in various stages of our illnesses,’ Joy, the voice of the group says. ‘MS isn’t a terminal illness but a life-long condition and lately my symptoms are advancing. Angela seemed to be responding well to treatment but then declined rapidly. Paul is in a great place, physically, but … none of us really know – we’re all up and down, aren’t we,’ she says, looking around her comrades. ‘I think I can speak for us all when I say I don’t know how much quality time we have left. Still, we’re here, and that’s the main thing.’
They all nod to that, apart from Ginika, for whom being here now is not the main thing.
‘Some of us have ideas for our letters, others don’t. We would appreciate your insight.’
This is my window to extract myself. They are human, they will understand, and even if they don’t, what is it to me if they don’t care about my mental stability; I must put myself first. I sit forward. ‘I need to explain—’
‘I have my idea,’ Bert leaps in. He’s breathless as he speaks, though this doesn’t seem to limit the amount of words he uses. ‘It’s a treasure trail for my wife Rita, and I could do with your help to place clues all around the country.’
‘Around the country?’
‘It’s like a pub quiz. For example, question one: where did Brian Boru lose his life in his final battle? And so Rita goes to Clontarf and I’ll have the next clue waiting
