Page 3 of The First Time I Saw You
‘In a nutshell.’
‘So you’re a bit like Richard Gere inPretty Womanbut without the penchant for hookers?’
I laugh at this.
‘Like a super accountant, then? You fly in, fix everything and then disappear until the next financial disaster.’
I laugh again. ‘I suppose . . . Super Sophie, that’s me.’
We order dinner, we order wine, his face lighting up as he talks about his family in Derry, about how he used to play rugby, about how he loves to run.
Afternoon bleeds into dusk, dusk into twilight; twilight begins to fade until night consumes the view outside. My brain is telling me to be on my guard, but I ignore it. I’m leaving in two days, anyway. I won’t see him again.
‘Excuse me while I nip to the little boys’ room.’ He pushes his chair back and rises; the space he filled is suddenly barren. Loneliness creeps up on me. I have been alone for so long that I don’t often feel its presence, but I feel it now . . . how have I become accustomed to the sting? The chatter around me becomes louder; I notice the surroundings which, with him next to me, have been invisible. Samuel sits back down; the noises quieten, my senses instead filled with him.
‘Poor man,’ I say as I look towards a man in his early thirties, with his tie askew, as he begs into his phone: ‘Please,’ he is saying, ‘I’ll change. Please don’t break up with me.’
‘Ah, I remember feeling like that. I was twenty-four, her name was Isabella.’ He gestures to the man who is staring blankly at the table top, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. ‘So how about you?’ He leans forward and smells his food, his eyelids closing, and I can’t help but smile as I get a quick glimpse of him as a child in front of home-cooked meals after a busy day at school.
‘What about me?’ I avoid his gaze.
‘You ever been that heartbroken?’
I shake my head.
‘Never?’
I shake my head again and twist the tagliatelle around my fork. How can I tell this man so full of life that I’ve never been hurt like that because I’ve never been in love? I lost my virginity in the first week at university to a boy called Harry who always smelt vaguely of sweat even after a shower. I always viewed virginity as something I needed to get rid of, a rite of passage so I could get on with my life at uni. I endured a relationship with him for two weeks and I was glad when it ended. I loved university because I had nobody to answer to. Nobody knew about my past. I saw university as my way into the life I wanted. I didn’t want to have to depend on anyone. And so, after my brief relationship with Harry, I had stayed away from the parties, the one-night stands, the late arrivals to lectures still half-drunk. That’s not to say that I didn’t make friends – I did. I was the mum of the group. I was the one who made sure we had toilet roll. I was the one who made early morning trips for Diet Coke and paracetamol and I was the one who made the doctor’s appointments for the morning-after pill. I came out with a First, I kissed and hugged them goodbye on graduation day and then I didn’t see much of them after that. I wonder now if they even remember me.
‘What’s the longest relationship you’ve had?’ he asks, bringing me back to the present, before filling his mouth with another forkful of food.
‘Five years,’ I answer, wiping the corners of my mouth with the napkin. My heart begins to pound. I haven’t talked about my past relationships with anyone other than Helen, and I don’t like how my mouth seems to be opening up to him, but on it goes. ‘You?’
‘Ah, now, there’s a question. I’ve had a few girlfriends that have stayed for the long haul. There was Carol when I was sixteen, sweet girl, she used to blink all the time when I was around but then she started blinking at someone else, then there was Hattie.’ He tears off a piece of bread and dips it in his cassoulet. ‘She dumped me, I think, then there was Evie. I was with Evie for three years but we just grew apart; it wasn’t a bad break-up, we just kind of called it a day . . . then there was Isabella, she was the one who did that to me.’ He nods towards the heartbroken man who is making his way through a bottle of red at an alarming rate. ‘Two and a half years of fighting and making up, it was a shit-storm of a relationship, but I was a mess when she left. ‘So tell me about Mr Five Years.’ He pours more wine into his glass.
‘His name was Stephen with a p-h,’ I begin. ‘We met at a finance meeting. He always stood his shoes against the wall in a pair, it used to drive me mad.’
‘Five years and that’s all you’ve got to say about the fella?’
‘It was more of a . . . business relationship. We met up on alternate weekends, maybe once or twice in the week if we were free, went to the cinema together, that sort of thing, then he met someone else, decided he wanted two-point-four kids and a family home, so that was it. I was relieved when it was over, to be honest. I heard he proposed to her with some wild romantic gesture . . . had “Will you Marry Me?” written in the sky by some Red Arrows or something. Funny. He didn’t even pay for a meal with me, we always split it.’
‘So, what’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you?’
I falter. His dark hair falls forward as he slices his way through some meat, waiting for my answer, seemingly confident that there will be one.
‘I’ve never had anything romantic done for me.’ The answer is out before I can stop myself. I straighten my posture. I’ve had too much wine; that’s why I’m talking so freely. I pour water into my glass. He answers me after he swallows his mouthful of food.
‘What, like ever?’
I shake my head and fold my napkin, looking around the restaurant so I can gain the attention of the waitress and ask for the bill. I need to leave this place.
‘You’ve never had a bunch of flowers?’
I shake my head, folding the napkin into a triangle.
‘Chocolates?’
‘I’m not a romance type of girl.’ I give him a tight smile and hate the way that I feel when I look at him, this stranger.
