Page 98 of Postscript

‘Good,’ he says, pulling out the chair beside me. He turns it so he’s facing me, our legs touching, his hand on my thigh, all so familiar. ‘She’s calmed a lot. We’re figuring it out. But I made a really bad decision, a really big mistake losing you, Holly.’

‘I overreacted,’ I admit.

‘I didn’t support you. Can you give us another chance? Will you move in here? With me, and Ava?’

I look at him and wonder, but I’m tired of thinking, I only know what feels right and forgiveness is a gift. I feel so utterly relieved to be offered a second chance with him.

‘We have a TV,’ he offers, weakly.

I smile, and rest my head on his shoulder, and he covers me in gentle kisses.

I want to tell Ginika what has happened, that she was right, again. The tears roll. Bittersweet ones.

36

I lock my bike to the railings on Eccles Street, having cycled there directly from work on a bright Friday evening, inhaling the sunshine, the fresh summer air, vibrant and busy with people attending the Mater hospital and the Mater private. My destination is on the opposite side of the street; a line of grand Georgian buildings, once grand homes, then tenements, the home of Leopold Bloom in Ulysses, and currently a row of consultants’ offices, clinics, doctors and outpatient facilities. There is a positive air in the city on a Friday, the promise of the weekend, a relieved celebratory mood that we all made it through another loaded week. The weather is looking hot for the weekend, our Indian summer; the Met Office has given the thumbs up for barbecues. Supermarkets will be ambushed for burger patties and sausages, coast roads to the seaside will be gridlocked with top-down cars vibrating with music, ice-cream vans with hypnotic tunes will be prowling housing estates to lure customers, dogs will be walked, parks will be heaving with displayed flesh and dehydrated drunks. Monday morning may be filled with regret and sick-days, but this hour, today, Friday at 6 p.m., the air is ticklish with anticipation and scheming, a world of possibilities open ahead of everyone.

‘Hi, Holly,’ Maria Costas says with a professional warmth, greeting me at her office with a solid handshake.

She closes the door behind us and leads me to twin armchairs by a Georgian window. The room is calm and filled with light; a safe place for people to bear their souls. If these walls could talk … they’d owe a fortune to psychologist Maria. There’s a cactus on the table in the centre.

She follows my gaze. ‘That’s Olivia. My sister gave her to me,’ she explains. ‘I find that if I name plants, I’m less inclined to kill them. Kind of like what people do with kids.’

I laugh. ‘I had a plant once named Gepetto that died. It turned out he needed water more than he needed a name.’

She chuckles. ‘How can I help you, Holly?

‘Thanks for your time. As I explained to your PA, it’s not a personal visit.’

She nods. ‘I recognise your name. I’m familiar with your podcast interview, I recommended it to some of my clients, those in grief and those who are terminally ill.’

‘I’ve been working with some of your clients: Joy Robinson, Paul Murphy, Bert Sweeney and,’ I swallow hard, still grieving my friend, ‘Ginika Adebayo. I recently discovered that they learned about my story in a group therapy session with you. My story inspired them to write letters for their loved ones, and they came to me asking for my help, to guide them.’

‘I apologise for that imposition,’ Maria says, frowning. ‘Joy responded so positively to you sharing your experience, and came into the group session bursting to discuss it. It triggered a great discussion, of how they could best prepare themselves for leaving their loved ones. I encouraged them to keep in contact with each other throughout their shared experience; some did, some didn’t. It wasn’t until Bert’s wake that I learned about him leaving letters, and I thought it was a one-off until I spoke with Joy recently.’

‘You were at Bert’s wake?’ I ask, horrified.

‘Yes,’ she says, smiling. ‘That little boy didn’t make your job very easy for you.’

My cheeks heat up. ‘That was a botched job.’

‘It was a lot to ask of you, to place the envelope in his actual cold dead hands, but I’m not surprised by Bert.’

We laugh and when we calm, she says. ‘I was sad to hear of Ginika’s passing recently. She was a young woman with great spirit. I loved hearing her opinions, she cut through everything. I wish the world had more Ginikas.’

‘Or just the original would do.’ I smile sadly.

‘And her little girl?’

‘In the loving arms of her guardians. Friends of mine actually, I saw her last night.’

‘Is that so?’ She studies me. ‘Is this letter-writing still continuing?’

‘That’s why I’m here. The letter-writing has a name.’ I smile. ‘It was named The PS, I Love You Club by its founding member Angela Carberry, and I want to honour her and the other four original members by continuing the club. I’d like to continue assisting and guiding the terminally ill with their PS, I Love You letters and I’m hoping you could introduce me to others that I could help.’

Spurred on by Gabriel’s support and his encouragement to grow the club, I found out about Maria Costas from Joy. As the doctor is the root of all of this, I thought it would be natural for it to bloom from here.

‘Is there a financial gain for you in this club?’