Page 16 of The First Time I Saw You
I step out into the lobby and for a second, I can smell him, see his smile, feel his touch. The images try to scratch at my new skin, to bury themselves beneath it, but I push them back. This time I will heal. I shake my head and walk over to reception. My nails tap agitatedly on the desk while I wait to check out and ask for a taxi to the airport.
‘Which one?’ the receptionist asks.
‘Reagan National Airport, please.’
‘Sure thing.’
As we pull away from the hotel, I fight against an invisible cord that tries to drag me back. The sound of his voice calling my name repeats over and over in my head. My fingers reach inside my handbag, pull out my headphones and force them inside my ears; music plays as I close my eyes. The taxi pulls me further away, the cord being cut in two – cutting the link between us.
I can register the words that they are saying but I can’thearthem. They are snowballs hitting my face: sharp words that melt and disintegrate, leaving me cold and shaking.
I have now been awake for hours; my body has no idea whether it should be awake or asleep. I’ve come straight from the airport, needing to set the record straight before any more damage is done. I’m wearing the same clothes I wore when I left DC and I smell of sweat and desperation.
‘We have to let you go, I’m sorry,’ Tim says neutrally, as if his words are not ricocheting around the room piercing my skin like shrapnel.
‘But I put this deal together!’ I throw my hands up, revealing sweat circles beneath my armpits. They look away, embarrassed by my emotions. I don’t blame them; I would look away too. I catch my reflection in the tinted glass windows. My hair is a mess: my curls, unleashed from their serum-straightened restraint, are veering away from my head at all angles. I’ve never cried within these walls, but my reflection shows uneven smudges beneath my eyes.
Behind me, I can see necks craning to see through the glass-partitioned wall, sniggers of staff who have been jealous of my success smirking and throwing smug glances at each other.
My façade is starting to crumble with every desperate word that I say, with every response that they launch back at me.
‘There is no other option here. Greenlight simply won’t entertain a deal with you involved. You’re lucky that they aren’t taking matters further . . . thatwearen’t taking matters further. They have shown us minutes from a meeting where Samuel McLaughlin pitched the software idea not long after your . . . time in Washington.’ He raises his eyebrows at me as if he is a disapproving headmaster. ‘I’m sorry, but there is just no room here at Sandwell for . . . loose lips, shall we say?’
‘But the software was my idea.’ I can feel myself unravelling, my words coming out in a tone that is close to pleading. ‘I can’t help it if Samuel had the same idea.’
He shakes his head and looks down his small piggy nose at me, arranging his features, somewhere between looking stern and amused.
‘So, it’s just a coincidence that two people from opposite sides of the world just happened to have the same idea at the same time?’ he says incredulously.
‘Yes!’
This time I don’t need to decide what emotion he is trying to convey. It’s clear in the dip of his head, his chin dropping into his long neck: pity.
‘Well, it sounds like you are perfect for each other.’ He shuffles some papers on his desk. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m afraid your time here at Sandwell has come to an end. Of course, you may keep the company car for another month and we will be offering you a generous severance package. That is . . . if you’re happy to keep this incident as quiet as possible.’
My head nods without my control.
It’s over. Everything that I have worked so hard to achieve has been taken from me. I know that no argument I can make will change their minds, and I refuse to beg.
‘Very well. I wish you every success in the future.’
Somehow, I find an appropriate response. My words are formal, proper and devoid of the emotion that my face is revealing. I wipe away my embarrassment with the heel of my hand and pack up my things.
The office hushes as I walk out of the meeting room, and glances dart towards me; the air is rich with gossip, effervescent with anticipation.
Gemma half-rises in her seat. The movement is hesitant, conflicted, but resolved by an apologetic smile towards me, then a dismissive turn of her back.
I keep my head up, my legs keep walking, my back remains straight, even though inside I feel like I’m falling apart.
Rain is hammering against my front door as I push it open, drop my case to the floor, and let it slam against the frame. Silence follows its protests, cowering in every corner of the house.
The fridge hums inside the kitchen and I open it, staring at the contents. Grabbing a bottle of white wine, I twist the top off and go to take a sip; the memory of him is almost too close to bear. In rebellion I take a swig anyway, this time continuing to drink without a glass. My phone begins to vibrate. I take it from my pocket and without looking at the screen throw it against the wall. Tiny pieces of it shatter on to the floor, emails and data, photos and contacts surround me, and I start to laugh. Look at it; look at how pitiful my life is: a few broken pieces of glass, memory chips, plastic and gleaming metal. Look at how useless it is. I take another swig of the wine then pull out my laptop. I log on to my email and close the account, allowing myself the small victory of taking charge of the decision rather than having a faceless name denying me access. I take another swig: delete, delete, delete – I close all my social media accounts. By the time the last of the wine slides down my throat I have erased Sophie Williams. Sophie Williams is dead. I unplug the landline from the wall and throw it into the bin, then I sit down and cry. Each tear that falls strips away the façade that I’ve worked so hard to put up; the business woman with clipped vowels walks away without a backwards glance, leaving behind a girl with scuffed shoes and a hand-me-down uniform.
Week Three
Samuel
The door thuds. A quiet, hushed thud, the type you would make if you spread your arms, leant back and sank into soft snow, an angel created, a memory cherished. My eyes open and I know. I know she’s gone.
