Page 15 of The First Time I Saw You
As a door closes quietly downstairs, I hunt for my clothes but instead put on his shirt like some clichéd romance film and wander downstairs. His voice continues from behind the study door and so I finish making the coffee, adding milk and stirring his three spoons of sugar into his cup. The door to his study opens.
‘Jesus, but you gave me a fright!’ he says, looking startled. He looks back at the door then to me with a half-smile, as if he can’t quite remember why I am here.
‘Do I look that bad?’ I ask, raising my eyebrow and passing him the cup. He notices the shirt and gives a soft chuckle as I pick up my mug.
‘Too tacky?’ I ask, sipping at my coffee.
‘No, not in the least . . . especially when there’s a button missing.’ I look down as he walks towards me, taking the mug from my hand.
He’s snoring softly as I creep from the bed, put the shirt back on and go in search of my bag and, more importantly, my phone. I might not need to go into the office, but I do need to check my emails.
The lounge door closes quietly behind me, muting Samuel’s snores as I retrieve my phone. There are fifteen missed calls from Gemma, my assistant. I sigh, shake my head and scroll through the missed calls: there are missed calls from Bob, too. This strikes me as odd, given that he’s on paternity leave. I open my email account and see that there is a meeting scheduled for when I get back to the UK. Something about these things makes me feel uneasy: something is wrong. I bite the skin around my thumb and then call Gemma . . . if I’m being paranoid, I don’t want to bother Bob when he’s not at work.
‘Where have you been?’ she yells down the phone.
‘I’ve, um, I’ve had a sickness bug, why? What’s the matter?’ My blood is starting to feel cold inside my body.
‘The shit has hit the fan, that’s what. Have you spoken to Bob? He’s been trying to get hold of you, too.’
‘What do you mean?’ I hear the jangle of her charm bracelet, picture her twisting her purple hair around her finger, picture the inside of the office.
‘I mean that some guy from Greenlight has been telling a load of lies about you!’
My hands start to shake. ‘What kinds of lies?’
‘That you stole the idea about the software.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’ My mouth has gone dry. ‘Tim knows that it was my idea.’
‘Well, I heard him talking on the phone and apparently Greenlight are going to start legal action against us. They’re saying that you had an “inappropriate relationship” with someone there when the deal began, to gain inside information. They won’t go ahead with the merger unless you’re disciplined, I mean, you know, fired.’
‘Who, I mean, do you know who started the rumours?’ I ask, not wanting to hear his name but knowing it couldn’t have been anyone else. I close my eyes. ‘But nobody knew we were together. It was just us,’ he’d said.
‘No. But they have minutes from a meeting that has this idea on it, and it was just after you went over to Greenlight the first time. I heard them in the meeting, Sophie. They’re going to fire you.’
‘I’ll get the next flight. Don’t tell anyone we’ve had this conversation, do you understand?’
‘Of course.’
I deserve this. My eyelids close and push back the tears that are forming. Of course I deserve this. It’s ridiculous to think that I could just turn up here after I left him without an explanation and everything would go back to how it was. He thinks that I’m the woman who stole his idea. He’s blinded by my armour, I’m hidden from him . . . he can’t see me.
I’m lost.
And this time he can’t find me.
I call for a taxi, and as quietly as I can, I collect my things from the spare room then hurry back into the lounge where I write him a quick note:
Samuel,
I understand why.
Soph x
And with that, I close the door on Samuel.
The next flight is in an hour. I shower away the smell of him from my skin; I brush away the taste of him from my mouth, each action applying a fresh layer of skin, adding another layer of protection. I throw my things into my case, drink a tall glass of water and leave the room without a backward glance.
As I wait for the lift, I hum the hymn that is leaking from one of the hotel rooms: ‘Lord of the Dance’. Memories of myself as an awkward thirteen-year-old standing in assembly at school chip away at the confident businesswoman that I have become. I wait for the lift to open, ignore the arguing couple whose responses and gestures tell of a lifetime together: he moves an apologetic hand; she drops her shoulder a split second after, subconsciously knowing his every move, his every gesture. Do they know how special that is? Pressing the button again, I straighten up, avoiding the haunted reflection that looks questioningly back at me from the mirrored doors. My reflection splits in two and I walk through the doors and ask for the ground floor.
