Page 18 of The First Time I Saw You
Week Four
Sophie
I sleep.
Mornings and nights roll into one, until I eventually venture out of my bed and into the shower.
I make a coffee, but the smell feels like mould: claggy and dense. Instead, I open a can of bitter lemon, resisting the urge to glug a shot of vodka into it, and add some crushed ice from the fridge dispenser, then drink it quickly, quenching a thirst that I didn’t know I had.
It’s strange having nothing to do. Time stretches in front of you, taunting you. I open another can of bitter lemon, refill my glass and carry it into the lounge where a stack of paperwork sneers at me from my glass-topped dining table. I lean against the door frame and sip my drink, daring myself to go over and take a look, like curling the edge of a plaster that needs to be ripped off. My waste-paper basket is full and as I scan the room, I notice that there is a thin layer of dust coating every surface. I wander over to the television screen and draw a smiley face on it then laugh out loud into the stillness, wondering how many of my ‘colleagues’ are laughing at me right now. I swipe the screen with my sleeve, and do the same for the inside of one of the box-shaped shelves of the TV storage unit – complete with slanting books and random glass ornaments, none of which really mean anything to me.
When I was growing up, my house was stuffed with heavy pieces of memorabilia. Mum would buy any old tat from the most mundane of day trips and fit them in hidden, cluttered spaces. She used to say they told our story; anyone could walk into our house and our whole life’s story would be there for anyone to see. It would bother me. Why would she want to share our memories with everyone? Surely the most precious of memories should be kept safe, away from prying eyes . . . but what was kept hidden and safe were the secrets, ugly and wounding. Perhaps if she had displayed her bruises and broken bones like her souvenirs, then she would still be alive.
The thought of Mum startles me. I don’t normally allow myself the indulgence of thinking about her; it hurts too much. But I hear her voice as clear as if she was standing right beside me as she read me my favourite bedtime storybook,TheAlice in Wonderland Collection: ‘“Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”’I can feel her arms around my shoulders, feel her body shift, smell my damp hair after my bath as she reached her arm and turned the page. I picture us at the breakfast table as she poured milk into a jug, sugar into a bowl as we listed the ‘six impossible things’ we could do before we eat. ‘Grow wings,’ I announced, pushing my arms either side of my body as she smiled at me, passing a spoon into my hand. ‘Change your hair colour with a blink.’ She over-exaggerated a blink, looking disappointed when her hair remained brown. My stomach churns, the bitter lemon only just making it into the toilet bowl.
I push the thoughts of Mum away and distract myself by tidying the house, cleaning the surfaces and throwing out the paperwork, trying to avoid eye contact with the figures and spreadsheets that have made up the last year of my life. I vacuum, polish, scrub the toilet; domestic chores that were once secondary to my life, seemingly now becoming my priority.
I turn on my laptop and place a supermarket delivery, suddenly feeling ravenous. I fill the little cart icon with salads, blue cheeses and meats; I begin to add popcorn, ice cream, rich, creamy pasta sauces, pâtés and wine: lots of wine.
My delivery arrives later in the day. Dusk is already scraping the daylight away and I keep my head down, avoiding all attempts at polite conversation from the delivery man, and close the door behind him, drawing the door-chain across. I carry as much food as I can into my bedroom, scattering the feast on top of my bed. Reaching into the back of my wardrobe, I pull out my collection of old black-and-white films, classics from an era of gallant heroes and women with elegant hats and cigarette holders. A car alarm sends flashes of colour into my room and noise penetrates my silence. I press play on the DVD player and turn up the volume, reach for my wine, grab a handful of popcorn as the flashing lights stop, and retreat into a life of black and white.
Week Four
Samuel
‘What do you mean, you think it’s best that I take some leave?’ I stride back and forth across the office. Bob Golding, the big chief, shifts in his seat; his stomach is pushed as close to the desk as is possible for him to be able to reach the keyboard and his phone. I’m reminded of one of those tubs of slime that you used to play with as a kid, the ones that made a fart sound when you pushed your fingers inside. He shifts again, and I wonder briefly how much food he must have to consume in a day to get that big.
‘Just until the complexities of your contract are checked, and the matter has been investigated.’
‘There is nothing to investigate! Sandwell have confirmed that they had already been outlining their final pitch before I even met Sophie Williams. So, let’s say I had mentioned my idea, it wouldn’t have made any difference anyway.’
‘Well, of course they would say that! We can’t disprove it either way. We are liaising with their head office about the matter, but since Ms Williams has been let go, they are having problems contacting her.’
‘What do you mean, let go?’
He fidgets again, the sleeves of his white shirt straining against the tops of his arms as he pushes his gold-framed glasses further up his hooked nose. ‘Oh, I thought you knew, Samuel. She’s been fired.’ He pats down his oil slick of hair with his left hand, revealing a skin-tight silver bracelet without a jangle. ‘We categorically stated that unless she was taken off the project, we would not entertain the merger. It’s a trust issue, you see. A lot of people believe she – how can I put it? – used you to get information about your idea and—’
‘I don’t see how this has any impact on the issues in my contract. I’m entitled to receive six weeks—’
‘You may not be entitled to anything, Samuel. That is why we need this investigation to take place.’
‘She didn’t steal my idea.’
‘From what I gather from the office gossip, your relationship was short-lived, so how do you know? Can you tell me you are absolutely certain that this woman is not capable of coaxing information out of an employee of this company for her own gain?’
I picture the way she had replied to me when I’d asked her how she could leave me after the time we’d spent with each other:I’m not like you, I need my job –wasn’t that what she’d said?
‘I believe your relationship ended abruptly?’ His thick Deep South drawl coats my memories of the hiccupping origami-girl with poison.
‘With the greatest of respect, Bob, that is nothing to do with my job or this investigation.’
‘Of course, of course. My apologies. I’m sure that her departure from our shores straight after she heard your idea has no connotations whatsoever.’
‘How long?’ I ask, not allowing myself to reply to his comment.
‘A month at least.’ He sneezes, then blows into a tissue from his top drawer, his buttons striving to contain his great mass inside the cotton restraints.
‘Fine,’ I answer, and slam the door behind me.
