Page 11 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Then why did you call?’ I ask, my voice quiet and unsure. I look at the screen and at the way the actress is looking down with a sultry smile at the man, and wish for a second that I had a cigarette holder and a glass of champagne too.
‘To thank you!’ I can hear the background noise of a bar, almost see him raising his pint glass theatrically. ‘To thank you for leaving like you did! You almost had me fooled, I almost . . . well, anyway, cheers! To the biggest bitch I’ve ever met!’ And with that he hangs up.
The black phone screen reflects my stricken face. I pace around the room, grab the controller and watch the sloping smile of the hero downing the rest of his whiskey disappearing into darkness. I throw a cushion across the room before taking a few deep breaths, reaching for my laptop, and submerging myself in work.
I am due to return home the day after tomorrow. The day after tomorrow everything will change; my life will not be the same, because I know that the promotion is mine. I knew that it would be; they have as much as said it. I will be partner.
The last few people leave the office and cleaning staff begin to clear away the debris of the working day. Tentatively, a young girl reaches over and takes the coffee cup from my desk and smiles at me. I nod my thanks, stretch and then close down my laptop.
The deal is done but I need to speak to him. I must make him understand why I had no other choice than to leave him.
Later, as I lie in the bath, softly scented bubbles quivering and gossiping while I sip my cold glass of prosecco, I pick upGreat Expectationsagain. I have been trying to read this book on and off for a year, and each time I do, I get distracted. When I was younger, Helen and I used to love reading. We used to spend our pocket money in bookshops, hiding beneath the covers with a torch: disappearing into someone else’s world. It would block out the sound of the fighting, of the slamming doors and the suffocating sobs from Mum as she locked the bathroom door.
Even though I’m yet to find out who jilted Miss Havisham at the altar, I close the battered cover again. Sinking lower into the bath, I close my eyes and think of the way he spoke to me, the way he looked at me. He needs to know the truth.
I watch as the lights of the city glide past the taxi window. Will he just slam the door in my face? I try to quell the feeling of nausea in my stomach – I shouldn’t have drunk so much prosecco.
The taxi pulls up outside his modest gable-fronted house, which hunches behind a cluster of budding trees. His silver car is gleaming in the driveway in front of a double garage and the lights in the kitchen are glowing amber. The car door thuds behind me, my hand remaining on the handle until an impatient revving of the engine reminds me to let go.
I knock on the door. Inside I can hear music, something upbeat, and I smile briefly as I remember what awful taste in music he has: dreadful eighties rock music along with a deeply rooted affection for show tunes.
The bottom of my heel twists into the gravel, and I step back to look up at the house. He’s definitely in there. I peer through the lounge window, trying to stop myself from laughing out loud as I watch him dancing, badly, with a ridiculous expression on his face – somewhere between having a bowel movement and sneezing. I take in his height; I’d forgotten how tall he is – six foot-twoish – and the way his dark hair flicks up on the right-hand side no matter how hard he tries to tame it. The song, which has him enraptured, is some sort of power ballad. Dramatically, he fills his lungs for the climax, exhaling it with a heartfelt screech; simultaneously playing a strangely shaped air-guitar and gyrating his hips. I crouch down and sneak back to the front door, giving it another sharp knock before the playlist continues.
The door opens and in an instant, the man I fell in love with is gone, and in his place is a man with cold, calculating eyes and a tight line where his smile should be.
‘What do you want?’ he asks, his voice deep and serious; no hint of the high-pitched yelp I had first heard from him, as if his leg had been sliced by an axe, not kicked in the ankle by a Louboutin.
‘To explain,’ I reply. ‘May I come in? Unless you’re, um, busy?’ I smile.
‘I was just working out.’
I try to keep the smile on my face. ‘In your jeans?’ I look down at his jeans where his bare feet poke out. I meet his eyes, and for a second, they soften: but only for a second. He pushes the door open and I follow him into the spacious hall, with hardwood floors and white walls, dotted with photos of his family and life back in Derry.
I follow him into the kitchen where he opens the old-fashioned fifties-style fridge and pulls out a bottle of beer, twists off the lid and throws it into the bin. He turns to stare at me, and drinks deeply. I stare back, lean my back against the kitchen island and wait for him to finish.
‘So. Explain.’
‘I didn’t steal your idea. We already had the software concept when we were . . . together.’
‘Right. So, the reason you left the country in the middle of the night – the night, incidentally, that I told you about my idea that would change my career – and wouldn’t return any of my emails or calls was because . . .?’
‘I knew we were going to go after Greenlight.’
‘So, you knew that I would probably lose my job?’
‘Stop being so melodramatic. You’re not going to lose your job. Can I have a drink?’ He shrugs his shoulders like a sulky child. I walk past him, open the fridge and pull out a bottle of white wine, screw off the lid and swig from the bottle.
‘Jesus, Sophie,’ he says, sounding more Irish as he uses the word; he walks over to a cupboard and passes me a wine glass, which I fill to the top.
‘You’re not going to lose your job. It will just be . . . changed.’
‘What if I don’t want it to be changed?’
‘You sound like a toddler.’
‘I do not!’ he replies, sounding exactly like a toddler.
‘Your company was going down the pan – you know it and I know it. Our acquisition will save it.’
