Page 10 of The First Time I Saw You
‘If you could all turn to page two of the proposal?’ she instructs. As if she hadn’t just left in the middle of the night without a word, without any explanation. She stands there as cool as you like: grey suit, sharp creases, heels . . . it’s hard to imagine her in her jeans and one of my shirts.
When I saw her name on the email about the proposed ‘merger’ with Sandwell the week after she left, I was sure it must be somebody else. I mean, there must be a million Sophie Williamses, right? But when I saw her picture next to her bio . . . well, it all became clear. The girl who hiccups when she laughs too much, who made me origami roses out of sugar packets, is really this woman: the woman who could send me a message after the week we had together wishing me ‘all the best’.
I watch her stride towards the front of the room, confident and sure – not slightly awkward and shy at all – and I hate myself for being played. How long had she taken over the decision of who to betray? Did she look at all the men in power and choose me because I looked weak, or did she already know about my idea?
Tim Smith is clicking his pen irritatingly and I turn to him as he squints towards her. I’ve always thought that he looks like a shrew, or a vole. What was the character inDanger Mouse? Somebody once said he was a hamster, but I’m sure it was a mole.
‘We at Sandwell Incorporated have had a breakthrough with one of our programmers in our tech department. He has designed a new piece of software that is faster and superior to any other systems of its kind.’
As she says this, my whole body feels hot and shaky; anger bubbles up inside as I watch her, not a tremor in her hand, not an embarrassed flush of her cheeks, while she stands there and pitches my idea as if it’s her fecking own.
‘We own the patent for this software.’
She is unbelievable.
My mouth is dry, and I take a sip of water as I watch her.
‘Ms Williams?’ I ask, my voice thick and stilted. I meet her eyes, which are hard and cold like amber. ‘Can I ask how long your programmer has been working on this software?’
‘I don’t see how that is relevant at this point.’ She looks at me as if she doesn’t know me at all. Maybe she has forgotten me? Perhaps I’m not the only one she has gleaned information from.
I can’t bring myself to ask her any more questions for the rest of the meeting, so I watch her, this stranger. I try to forget how she laughed at my jokes, and instead think about the way she would avoid telling me about her past, about her family. I try to forget how I had felt when she had fallen asleep with a book in her hand and how I had taken it from her, closed it and kissed her on her cheek; the way she had smiled even though she was asleep. I wonder now if she really had been asleep or if that had been part of her plan, to look vulnerable . . . It can’t all have been a lie, can it? But I push this tiny bit of doubt aside.
It’s late by the time I return home.
The phone is ringing. I ignore it; it’s Mam. I love her to bits, but I can’t face hearing about Da’s bowel movements or about how my sister, Sarah, and brother-in-law have angels flying out of their arses. I grab a beer and a packet of crisps and turn on the rugby: Ireland v. Italy. I wince at a particularly hard tackle and roll the beer between my palms. I miss the feel of the game: the primal instinct that pushes you forward; the smell of grass and mud; the burning in your legs and the euphoria as you slam down the ball and score a try. My beer is finished before the scrum is reset for the fourth time, so I grab a refill from the kitchen.
I’m trying to stay focused on the game, shouting at the referee for allowing so much extra time to the Italians, but my mind keeps wandering to her.
Nobody knows much about our relationship, at least I don’t think they do, but the day I saw her name on the email, I had spoken to Bret about it. We’ve been mates for a while now; he joined the company not long after me. But I don’t think he would have said anything. I mean, it’s not like I did anything wrong. I told Sophie about an idea, that was all. Just an idea. I didn’t know she worked for Sandwell.
Week Two
Sophie
I have been staying in this hotel for almost two weeks, not that I’m here very often. It seems that every waking minute of my day is spent hunched over a computer or talking into a phone. Samuel has not spoken to me, will not take my calls, has not seen me as I’ve locked myself away with only my colleagues – who have finally arrived to help me with the merger – and the legal team from Greenlight. His silence is gnawing away at me even as I submerge myself in my work, barely eating and drinking far too much coffee.
I kick off my heels and slump on to the bed. I’m exhausted but pleased with the way the business side of things has gone. The board members, although they’re not going to ask me out for drinks anytime soon, can at least now see how the company will benefit; understanding that – although there may be some restructuring – the majority of the staff will remain. I flick on the TV, my room a festival of stages. I pick up the room service menu and order a chicken sandwich. My attention is pulled towards the ashen greys of a bygone era – my comfort food in television form. The credits are proclaimed across the screen in big billboard letters: ‘Paramount Pictures Presents’, swathed in Hollywood lights and accompanied by dramatic music that must have been recorded in a room full of musicians. I smile as the shot pans towards a man with his head bent, a trilby hat dipping in that casual yet strangely formal way. He speaks through the corner of his mouth, and the woman who replies pronounces the word ‘back’ like ‘beck’. She explains she needs to find a ‘forgotten man’. A forgotten man . . . is that what he is to me? Or is he a man who wants to forget?
‘You needn’t be fresh,’ she announces piously. I like that phrase and mimic it at my reflection.
The stresses of the week are starting to slide away just as my phone vibrates. I turn the volume down and look at the phone screen. I don’t recognise the number.
‘Hello?’ I answer.
‘Pleased with yourself, are you? Pleased that all of your hard work has turned out well for you?’ His words are slurred.
‘Samuel, I—’
‘What? What can you possibly have to say to me that will make this right?’
I consider telling him that he needn’t be fresh, but I don’t think it would strike the right tone. ‘I, look, I’d rather talk to you about this in person. I need to explain why I—’
‘Why you stole my idea and passed it off as your own? No thanks, I’m grand.’
‘That’s not what happened. If I could come and see you, I could explain?’
He laughs loudly – an ugly, forced laugh – not the one that I remember; that laugh was so infectious that it made you smile every time you heard it, even when his jokes were terrible. ‘What, and be seen out with you? Consorting with the enemy? No thanks.’
