Page 4 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Well, that’s settled then.’ He pushes his plate away. ‘How long are you in DC for?’
‘I’m leaving soon, I’m only here on business.’ I can hear my voice losing some of its clarity.
‘Are you here tomorrow?’
‘Well, yes, but—’
He signals for the bill. ‘All day?’
I nod and try to protest as he pays for the meal, ignoring me with a flap of his hand.
‘Grand. I’ll be outside . . . where are you staying?’ He shrugs on his coat before I can gather my thoughts and my things.
‘The White Square Hotel, but—’
I am still sitting as he bends down, his lips brushing me on the cheek before whispering into my ear, ‘Tomorrow at ten.’ The minute his lips touch my cheek and I feel his breath on my neck, I know I am lost.
Chapter Four
Samuel
The ends of her hair are still damp and they flick up at the ends, perfect arcs of gold that rest along her shoulders. She is beautiful; I’ve never felt an attraction towards anyone the way I do for her. It’s as if I have spent my entire life looking for something precious, something fragile, and I finally have it in my palm. I’m petrified of losing it, of losing her.
With each hour that passes, with each glass of wine and mouthful of food, I feel as though I’m getting closer to her.
The next morning, I’m late, hurrying up the wrong side of the street. Traffic is busy and I can’t find a gap to make my way over to her. She strides down the steps outside the hotel wearing a heavy white jacket with a grey fur trim around the collar; slim white trousers rest above high-heeled white shoes. It’s strange that I should notice these things but something about the way that she is dressed demands attention. She doesn’t see me at first, glancing up and down the street. My heart thuds against my ribs, just as it would when I’d try to kick goal from a penalty, the hush and apprehension of the crowd, the expectations of the fans, making my eyes narrow in concentration. My palms are sweating, and I rub them along my jeans as I watch her flick her wrist, her hair covering the side of her cheek as she inspects her watch-face. I quicken my pace; she has placed one heel on the step behind her, as though she is going to go back into the hotel. Her name leaves my mouth; the softness of it hangs in the air above me but doesn’t reach her, so I begin to wave, not the discreet wave that I intended, but a great swooping archway with both my hands. Her head turns towards me; my arms are continuing to wave as I grin. She pulls at her earlobe, her foot remaining on the step. I begin to panic. I watch the hesitation in her footsteps; my hands stop waving and I stand there, my arms still raised to the sky. My breath hovers tightly as I inhale; it lies inside my lungs, taut and expectant. Her foot steps down, one step, two steps until she is crossing the road, her stride exuding confidence and certainty in contrast to the fragility I saw last night. She approaches me.
‘Hello.’ Her strange amber-coloured eyes stare up at me, that lost look I had first seen hiding in them eradicated with a blink.
‘Hello,’ I reply. It’s hard to explain the way Sophie looks at me as we walk around the city: the way her eyes not only follow where I’m pointing, but follow my whole arm, from my shoulder to the tips of my fingers as I draw her attention to the Thomas Jefferson Memorial; the way her eyes linger over every part of my face as I talk about the White House and its secret tunnels; the way her hand brushes against mine as we approach the Lincoln Memorial. It is in the way that she listens to me speak, the way she watches my mouth, the way she lets me brush her hair away from those strange-coloured eyes.
‘Tell me something you like,’ I ask her as we sit down on a bench.
‘Marmite,’ she answers. I wrinkle my nose. ‘And singing in the shower,’ she adds, the last part coming out of her mouth like a hiccup – like something she is trying to control but can’t. ‘Tell me more about your family,’ she asks as she shields her eyes from the autumn sun.
‘My sister calls me Mule because she couldn’t say Samuel when we were little.’
‘Mule . . .’ Her mouth tries to contain a smile.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Well, isn’t a mule a bit close to an ass?’
I sit back. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
She laughs and looks across to where the light is hitting the top of the tall, pencil-like peak of the Washington Monument.
‘It does sound like her, though. We’ve got a competitive relationship,’ I explain, thinking of Sarah.
‘I’d say she’s won if she’s been calling you an ass all your life and you didn’t notice.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘Is that where Forrest Gump wades into the water?’ She grabs my arm and shifts her body so she can crane her neck.
‘Yeah, I think so. It’s not my type of film. I’m more of a, you know . . .’ I do some manly pow-pow noises and point my fingers into a gun shape. ‘Action film fan.Die Hardis my favourite.’
‘Is that so?’ She smiles at me as if she already knows that my favourite film is reallyLove Actually, but it’s not like I’m going to admit that on a first date, even though there are lots of reasons why this is as much a man’s film as a woman’s – just take that dorky Colin character. He flies off to America and ends up with a gaggle of women swooning at his feet.
