Page 19 of The First Time I Saw You
My eyes hurt as I search through fifty-seven Sophie Williams Facebook profiles. I’m beginning to think that the whole world is becoming insane: profile pictures presenting dogs in outfits; an entire week’s worth of posts from one Sophie, dating and describing each and every time she had eaten, what she had eaten and where she had eaten it; as well as several hundred different types of pouts and eyebrows, all kind of merging into one, singular female in her early twenties.
There is a rhythmical knock on the door, a call and respond beat – the kind that implies the knocker is a friend.
‘What the hell, Sammy boy! Open the goddamn door! I can see your shadow through the curtain.’ I open the door to see Bret – quarterback tall and sun-bleached blond – frowning at me. ‘Well, you took your sweet time about it. You don’t call, you don’t write . . .’
‘Not in the mood, man. I gather you’ve heard about my . . .’ I finger-quote the words, ‘“leave”?’
He follows me back into the lounge and to my desk. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard nothing but that all morning. So, what’s going on, really? The last we spoke you hated the Britch and now I hear from Kat – who by the way has been telling everybody your entire relationship details from start to finish – that you’re head over heels with Ms Williams. She said you were stalking her from behind a plant?’
‘Yeah, well, a lot can happen in a week. How the hell does Kat know all about . . . shite.’ The blurry memory of her at the bar the night I called Sophie reminds me. ‘Never mind.’
‘So? What’s going on?’
‘I love her.’
‘Whoah, hold on there. Rewind. The woman you’ve done nothing but complain about for the last four months? The woman who stole your idea?’
‘She didn’t steal it.’
‘Uh-huh, well, you’ve sure changed your mind. I was with you at the bar that time when you called her. You told me the whole story, remember? Jeez, man, how many Jameson’s did you drink?’
‘A lot has happened since then. She came here, she explained she had no choice last time – they already had the idea, so . . .’ I shrug as if having my heart torn in two wasn’t that big a deal, ‘conflict of interest.’
‘And you buy that? Buddy, I know how crushed you were when she left but—’
‘She stayed. The night.’
‘Right, but does that change the game? Really? It’s not as if you’ve not batted an innings on that pitch before.’
‘Your sports metaphors are getting worse.’
‘I thought holes and balls might be a little crass.’ He flashes his American pearly whites in a grin, perfect dimples forming in his tanned cheeks – a far cry away from my pale complexion and freckles. ‘All right, Sammy boy, what’s the state of play?’
We make our way through the first six-pack as I fill him in. ‘I’ve rung Sandwell and nobody will tell me a thing; her phone just goes to answer phone, I can’t find her anywhere. I’d get a plane but what would I do when I get there?’
He pulls his massive frame from the sofa, does a couple of squats, links his fingers, turns them and stretches them before cracking his knuckles.
‘Let’s find your gal then, Sammy boy.’
‘I’ve tried . . . look.’ I reach over and grab the notebook covered in unsuccessful Facebook searches.
‘I thought you didn’t do social media.’
‘I don’t. It’s full of fake people with fake news and fake—’
‘All right, all right. Sorry I mentioned it. Have you tried Twitter? Insta?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Right. I’ll log on to my accounts. Order us a pizza, will you? I’m starving.’
Daylight fades, lights blink on, curtains yawn and stretch. Bret leans back, defeatedly throwing a cold pizza crust into its box.
‘Mate, it’s as if she’s disappeared.’
‘But she has to be somewhere!’ I march up and down the lounge. ‘We just have to find her.’
‘I hate to say it, Sammy boy . . . but maybe she doesn’t want to be found.’
