Page 86 of Postscript

The next day I have another session with Paul, our final one before his surgery. I’m not in the best of moods, particularly after how yesterday’s driving lesson ended. I’m missing a Sunday roast in my parents’ house and I’m a little resentful of that despite the fact I’m relieved I don’t have to answer to them about my break-up with Gabriel and my involvement in the club, about how I’m ruining Paul’s marriage, as opposed to cherishing it. I can only imagine what Ciara is telling them. I’ve chosen to be here but still feel contrary about missing out on my life, as though Paul should know what I’m sacrificing for him.

He’s sheepish when he arrives. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday. Claire believed me, if that makes you feel any better.’

‘It doesn’t,’ I snap. ‘I didn’t even want to come here today.’

‘I was afraid you wouldn’t.’

‘What happened yesterday goes against everything that I’m trying to achieve. I don’t want to lie to your wife. I don’t want her to hate me. I don’t want to ruin anything, the object is to give her a gift, not a nightmare. I’m supposed to be invisible, not the cause of a problem.’

‘I promise, Holly, it won’t happen again. I won’t lie; if anything, I’ll tell her the truth.’

‘If you don’t, I will,’ I say firmly.

‘Understood.’

I breathe out, feeling a little better. ‘OK, let’s finish this.’

The ‘PS, I Love You initiative’ as I phrased it in our communications, managed to come to an agreeable decision with Donard Castle, a fifteenth-century castle that was family-owned until fifty years ago and is now a popular event venue. Today they are hosting a wedding reception and while the couple are in a nearby chapel saying their vows, Paul and I have permission to utilise their fully furnished and decorated reception room to film his pieces for Eva.

His father of the bride speech.

When he shared the idea with me some time ago I was moved, but today, standing at Eva’s faux-wedding, I’m agitated. After Ginika’s pearls of wisdom yesterday, I haven’t been able to shake the question about Gerry’s letters. Were they all helpful? Did he get anything wrong? Alarm bells are ringing. Am I getting it wrong? It’s not just about holding the camera, making a film; I was put into this position by the PS, I Love You Club because of my own personal experience. I can offer Paul more and I haven’t been.

During an illness, especially one such as his, there are few moments of light, and I didn’t want to be the one to block it out. I didn’t interrupt or interfere in his excited plans because I didn’t want to spoil his vision. Yet in staying quiet I certainly put his loved ones last. Just as I’ve done with my own. I check the time. They’re probably sitting down to eat. I’ve no idea what Gabriel is doing with Ava. Perhaps they’re sitting around for dinner with Kate and Finbar, and the idea of them playing a happy united family without me saddens me.

‘What do you think?’ he asks, modelling his black tuxedo. ‘It’s Murphy. Paul Murphy.’

I smile and adjust his crooked bowtie. ‘Most youthful father of the bride I’ve ever seen.’

He surveys the wedding reception room, impressed. ‘Holly,’ he grins, ‘You have surpassed yourself.’

The bride and groom’s choice of decorations are pink and silver themed, with pink peonies at the centre of every circular table of ten. The table linen is white and the chairs are covered in white fabric with pink and silver bows on alternating chairs. The head table is long and laid out banquet-style, facing the room, behind it is a stage where the band recently completed their sound check then left to give us our designated thirty minutes. It was the most time I could negotiate for no fee whatsoever.

‘You ready?’ I ask Paul, snapping him out of his trance, as he studies the room, absorbing the fantasy set-up of his daughter’s future wedding. Drinking it in and adding it to his memories, as though he was there.

‘Eh, yeah,’ he says, perhaps surprised by my brusque tone.

‘The head table is here.’

He follows me, slowly walking along the table, reading the names, perhaps imagining who will be seated at Eva’s wedding.

‘Father of the bride is here,’ I interrupt his thoughts. ‘I brought you a bottle of champagne. Non-alcoholic, because I know you’re not allowed to drink with your medication.’ I remove the bottle from my bag. I pop the cork, no nonsense, fill a glass that was also in my bag and hand it to him.

He watches me, silent.

‘It’s for your toast.

‘Is everything OK, Holly, you seem a little …’

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ he says, backing off. ‘If it’s because of yesterday, I apologise. Again.’

‘Thank you. We only have twenty minutes left before the bridal party arrive.’

‘Right. OK.’

He takes his place at the father of the bride’s position.