Page 41 of The First Time I Saw You
‘I’d best get going . . . I’ll help you. In the garden. Tomorrow. If you want.’ His sentences were deliberate, his pauses considerate. ‘I’ll bring breakfast.’
I give up trying to sleep and find myself in the garden. I don’t need much light; the sky is filled with stars and the moon is proud and glowing. I look at the tea party that my mother has made, gently stroking the china and touching the ends of the forks. I think about the way Charlie cried when I saw him through the window and I think about my mother. I rip away the image of the night time and the overgrown garden like the page of a children’s book, and instead, imagine new pages filled with coloured pencil sketches of Mum, smiling in this garden in the summer. Pages flutter past and I see her unfurling the rose-patterned tablecloth, a butterfly dancing over her shoulder, her hair blowing away from her face. On another page, I see her placing the cutlery while swatting away a lazy bumble bee. Wind grabs the paper, turning it over, and there she is: licking her finger where some of the sugar has escaped its pot. Pages flash past until my hands smooth over the final drawings and I see her standing with her hands on her hips, her face turned towards the house as a side profile of myself slides a school bag from my shoulders.
My morning coffee is warm in my hands as I reach for my phone, punching in Helen’s number.
‘Hi, it’s me. I’m sorry to ring so early, but, I, we, need to talk.’
‘Are you OK?’ she asks. Greg’s sleepy voice groans in the background.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Is the baby OK?’ Helen asks just as Charlie knocks on the door. I hold the phone in the crook of my neck and unlock the door. He doesn’t say hello, he just walks in carrying a tray of something smelling of cinnamon.
‘I’ve baked,’ he announces as he walks past me and into the kitchen.
‘Sophie?’ I shake my head and turn my attention back to Helen. ‘Who’s that in the background? Is it hot Irish Samuel?’ she whispers excitedly.
‘No. It’s Charlie from next door.’
‘Well, you didn’t waste much time!’
‘What, no! It’s not like that, we’re friends.’
‘So what’s he doing around your house so early? The kids aren’t even up yet.’
‘I know, I’m sorry, but I’ve found something. In the garden. Do you remember the table?’
‘Breakfast,’ Charlie calls. ‘It’s going cold.’ I still can’t quite get used to his bluntness.
‘Just a minute!’ I shout. He pops his head around the door frame and scowls. I stick my tongue out at him as he disappears into the kitchen.
‘Helen? Are you there?’
Her voice is wavering, but she replies, ‘Yes, I’m here. What did you find?’
‘The table was covered by a broken fence panel. It hadn’t crashed completely on top but had protected it. The table has been preserved; it’s covered in moss and completely overgrown, but . . . Helen, the table was set. Like a tea party . . . do you know anything about it? Because I keep thinking about the present and the label, “don’t be late for a very important date” – it has to mean something. Helen?’
‘It does . . . it was . . . Look, I’ll explain everything, I promise. Just give me a week or so to gather myself, OK? I’ll come to you. I’ll come to the cottage and I’ll explain everything . . . Just let me get to grips with it first. Can you do that?’
‘Sure.’ I swallow the huge lump in my throat. ‘I’ll see you soon, love you.’
‘Love you too.’
I follow the smell of cinnamon into the kitchen and stare at Charlie as he opens cupboards and pulls out plates as though he has always lived here. I’m not sure how I feel about this. Yesterday was different; the situation needed control and I was oblivious really to the way he made himself at home, but today, it feels intrusive. I’m still holding my mobile in my shaking hands, gripping the phone as I picture Helen on the other end, the sacrifice she will be making to come here. My eyes fill with tears as I sit down, a cinnamon bun placed in front of me. As I tear a piece off and feel the sugar and soft dough melt in my mouth, thoughts of Helen are swept aside. I actually groan with pleasure. Charlie sits down opposite and looks startled, a piece of bun halfway to his mouth.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble with my mouth full. He puts the food into his mouth and stares at me, then swallows. ‘Do you,’ I swallow, ‘want an iced coffee?’ He wrinkles his nose in disdain.
‘I don’t do cold coffee, but I’ll have an espresso from your space-aged machine, if you don’t mind?’
‘Right, sure. I’ll just . . .’ I get up, the feeling of unease returning; I feel like I’m a guest in my own house. He gets up, dusts his hands on his cut-off denim shorts, which look like they’ve been hacked off by a pair of blunt scissors, and heads for the garden. I have an irresistible urge to blow a raspberry at his retreating back.
Is that what Samuel felt like when I went back to DC? Did he feel like I was an intruder when I stayed the night? Helped myself to wine from his fridge? The image of him kissing me returns. Was it really just an act, Samuel? Did you really sleep with me to get your own back, to prove a point?
I bite down on my lip and carry the drinks outside, to find Charlie touching the moss cascading out of the teapot.
‘I think this is moss campion . . . it has pink flowers in June.’
‘I want to keep it,’ I say, passing him his espresso, which he takes with a begrudging mumble of thanks. ‘I want to keep it as it is.’ I stroke the chairs and imagine pink flowers tumbling down; the cups filled with petals.
