Page 2 of The First Time I Saw You
‘I didn’t see you there,’ she gasps.
‘You were all I could see,’ I reply, inwardly wincing, worried that my words sound cheesy. But she smiles, two small dimples forming – a finger space apart from her mouth – her eyes losing that lost look because I, me, some stupid, tactless Irishman, have found her.
Chapter Three
Sophie
My heel is caught in a crack in the paving. I twist my foot to the left, to the right, the grainy sound of my actions blunted by the rain which is pummelling clenched fists on the outside of my umbrella. I twist my heel again before pulling it upwards with as much force as I can. Lightning flashes on to the street as the heel snaps. I expect to hear the deep rumble of thunder, but instead, I hear the high-pitched wail of a little girl, coming from the mouth of an exceptionally tall man. My decapitated shoe, connecting with his ankle.
‘I’m so sorry! Are you OK?’ I ask as I crouch down, instantly regretting my descent. What exactly am I going to do? Roll up his trouser leg? Apply a plaster? I sigh and look up. He has the stature of someone who is confident in his body. His frame is relaxed but solid; his shoulders are broad but his chest isn’t puffed out; his shoulders aren’t squared. He crouches down, scanning my face and his eyebrows lift, the creases in his face relax; the same expression you might have after you have been frantically searching for something but then find it in the last place you look. His face is relieved: he’s found it.
‘I didn’t see you there,’ I say, my words tumbling from my mouth.
‘You were all I could see,’ he replies. He stands and takes a step back, as though his words have pushed him away, and I find myself smiling at him, offering him reassurance as he reaches his hand towards me.
I decline it with a ‘thank you but I’m fine’ expression, but as I try to stand, the missing heel throws my balance. I haven’t even got halfway to standing when I feel my whole body sliding slowly to the left. He reaches out his hand again, but again, I decline: I’m used to doing things by myself. My hand reaches for the edge of the table, slick with rain, but it glances off and I topple, landing in a foetal curl on the quickly formed puddle.
Embarrassment seeps through my body as quickly as the puddle is seeping into my clothes. I can already see a brown stain stretching across the white of my skirt as I straighten myself into a sitting position. My eyes are drawn upwards to where the man is still standing, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. He offers his hand to me for the third time, but this time, I don’t hesitate; I don’t overthink his gesture; I don’t ignore him; instead, I slip my palm inside his. Mine feels tiny inside the warmth of his, and I yield to the gentle pressure he applies as he helps me stand.
‘Thank you,’ I say. He lets my hand drop once I’m standing. Thunder cracks loudly as he crouches down and retrieves my broken heel and umbrella. Around us, the storm shrouds the chaos of the city and its inhabitants. He passes the heel back to me with a grin and I clutch it towards my chest, giving him a quick nod of gratitude, and then turn my back, my green umbrella and I walking away, salvaging what little dignity I have left . . . but my dignity is dissolving with every ungainly, lopsided step I take. Up and down, up and down, my body goes, rain dripping from my eyelashes, brown stains covering my white skirt as I hobble away.
Footsteps splash towards me and he stands in my path.
‘Ah look, you’re drenched and in no shape to walk—’ His accent is Northern Irish, I think. His tone rises at the end of each sentence but snaps back down – a bit like a helium balloon in a child’s chubby hands – always trying to rise. ‘Why don’t we head inside and call a cab?’
I find myself nodding, if only to stop myself from taking another ridiculous step.
He takes the umbrella from my hand and offers me his arm. My automatic response is to refuse his gesture, but at this stage of the game, I think my dignity ship has already sailed.
As our feet step through the rain, my world is being not just tipped upside down but shook, like a snow-globe: my life – my perfect image with clean lines and neat edges – has been protected from the outside world until now. Now it feels like it has been shaken.
He pulls his hand free of mine as we step into the warmth of the building and I feel the world tilt. How is it that I have been able to stay upright without this stranger holding my hand? I shake my head, raindrops scattering from my hair, and pull off my coat. He takes it from me and I let him.
‘Your eyes are the colour of tea,’ he smiles.
‘Tea?’ I ask. My voice sounds hoarse and I clear my throat as I process his description. I picture the colour of murky builders’ tea.
‘Yes, they look like tea through a glass cup, almost gold, really.’
‘Huh,’ I reply. He looks away, and I miss my moment to return the compliment. I shiver. My arms are bare; the fair hairs are rising, running along my skin in a wave, exposed and free of their armour. I take off my broken shoes, dropping them into my oversized bag, and pull myself to my full height, stretching out my hand formally. I need to take control of this . . . this thing that is happening. Maybe I have flu.
‘I’m Sophie.’ My voice is clear, crisp, controlled. He looks down at my hand, an embryonic smile on his full mouth, like I have said something endearing. His front tooth has a small chip at the edge. Instead of shaking my hand, he slaps the back of his hand against mine, then claps our palms together and does this strange fist-bump action.
‘Ah, never mind—’ he says the word ‘mind’ like ‘moind’. ‘We’ll work on that. I’m Samuel, shall we get a bite? I’m starving.’ He strides towards a waitress and I watch the damp line that runs down the back of his shirt cling to the curve of his spine as he negotiates a table.
I look around the restaurant, seeking a way to escape this situation I have found myself in, but I find that my stockinged feet are following him and my hands, which should be reaching for my phone and calling a cab, are pulling back a chair.
Samuel is already grabbing a menu and has begun to talk. My knees bend, and I find myself sitting down without making the decision to stay.
He talks passionately about everything, drawing me into his train of thought. I have to hold on to his words as they fly past our surroundings, the outside world blurring around me as the conversation twists and turns to new places, but the journey is never a one-way street: he questions, he listens, he laughs.
‘What is it you do, Samuel? Here in DC?’ I ask.
‘I work in IT. I’m a stereotypical computer geek. What about you?’
‘I’m an analyst. I work out how to streamline companies, help them work better. I spend weeks, sometimes months working out how to improve a business, then I fix it . . . or we make them an offer they can’t refuse and take over the business.’
‘That straightforward?’
