Page 48 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Like you don’t want to look at my face.’
‘Even longer story.’
‘Let’s order pudding as well, unless you have somewhere else to be?’
I think of the robot voice probably still reading out the web address and I picture the worried looks passing over the dinner table last night as I knocked over my drink again.
‘Is the steak sandwich here still good?’ I ask, as I watch her lick her bottom lip then smile, afraid to move my head up and take a look at her eyes, in case I look odd when I try to focus. For one more minute, I just want to be the man she remembers, the confident rugby player who didn’t have dark edges suffocating the world around him.
Week Nineteen
Sophie
Bean is moving. It feels like tiny bubbles bursting against the inside of my tummy, just below my belly button. I hadn’t really noticed it until I was trying to go to sleep last night. The bubbles are popping rapidly this morning; it started after I drank a cold glass of apple juice. I love the idea that the cold liquid had woken Bean up, and that I was able to know what was happening inside that little cocoon.
I put my hand to my tummy again, but nothing can be felt from the outside. For a second, I can see Samuel’s smiling face, picture him putting his hand to my stomach. I miss him. My hand reaches for my new phone and I tap in his number and add it as a contact. I don’t dial it. But I like having it there.
It’s my birthday today and I’m celebrating by meeting a new client in town, but my car is refusing to start. I turn the key again, but nothing happens at all. Great. Happy birthday to me.
‘Damn it.’ I knock on Charlie’s door and he answers it in his boxer shorts. His hair is a mess and he is rubbing his eyes, blinking against the midday sun. ‘I’m sorry to wake you.’ I bite back the urge to add ‘at lunchtime’. ‘But my car won’t start, and I’ve got a meeting with clients in town . . .’
‘All right.’ He yawns and rubs the back of his hair. ‘I’ll just throw on some clothes.’ I follow him inside. The house is a mess – half-drunk cups of coffee on various surfaces, clothes hanging on numerous pieces of furniture – and it smells of the overflowing bin in the kitchen. I haven’t been inside Charlie’s house very often – he is normally at mine – but I’m shocked at how quickly it has deteriorated. The last time I had been here, the kitchen had been old-fashioned and dated but it had been clean; this looks like another person entirely has been living here. I hear Charlie stomping around upstairs, swearing at something as I walk into the lounge. The brown leather sofas are littered with photos; there are some on the floor along with a duvet and a pillow. It takes me a minute to take in the scene; it looks as though he has slept in here, the photos surrounding him. I bend down and pick one up. It’s of the Charlie and Olivia I remember from school, both smiling at the camera, young and in love.
‘I’m ready.’ His voice startles me and I drop the photo. His eyes watch it fluttering to the floor, and he looks me straight in the eye, almost challenging me to say something, but then the moment is gone as he turns his back, the car keys jangling in his hand.
The journey is awkward, the car filled with the unspoken and unexplained. His hand reaches for the volume on the radio, drowning out the questions, and we stay silent until we arrive. I hate not knowing what to say to him, hate how I can’t seem to find the words to make him feel better.
The meeting goes well: a small café in town that has been made into an American diner. They’ve tried to do the accounts by themselves but saw my card in the corner shop and thought they’d make life easier for themselves.
Charlie attempts to make conversation on the way home, asking me about my old job and why I left. It’s easy to talk about now, as if it happened to another person in another life.
‘I can’t imagine you, all high-flying and ball-busting.’
‘Who said I busted balls?’ I grin at him.
‘We owned a restaurant. Me and Olivia.’ He smiles as we drive through the narrow roads, the hedges scraping the windows as another car passes.
‘Wow, was it hard, working together all day?’
‘Not really, I was in the kitchen most of the time, she was in the restaurant. Olivia was good at that, always went out of her way to make people feel welcome. It was only small, seven tables, but we liked it like that. We weren’t expecting things to change as much as they did when Jack came along, we thought we would just carry on as we were, but he didn’t sleep. It was tough on Olivia. He just wouldn’t settle with anyone else, not even me, so she stopped working and stayed at home instead.’
I think of the state of Charlie’s house earlier, the pictures of his family cocooning his bed. My eyes fill with tears, and I blink them back and look out of the passenger window.
‘So, what happened with the restaurant, when . . .’ I don’t finish the sentence; it doesn’t need to be finished.
‘I sold it. Bought this place instead.’
‘Why here, though?’ I ask as we drive through the open gate.
‘I thought I would be on my own,’ he answers as he pulls on the handbrake. ‘Whose car is that?’
‘It’s Greg’s. My brother-in-law . . . what is it doing here?’
The door is unlocked, and Charlie follows me through to the kitchen, where sounds of the radio playing ‘Sweet Home Alabama,’ and delighted squeals from Jessica and Caitlin are filling the house. The smell of home baking swirls around them as Helen spins Jessica around. Greg, huge, bearded and wearing my Laura Ashley apron, is carrying a tray laden with cups and saucers.
‘Um . . . hello?’ I announce myself. Helen stops twirling and shouts ‘Happy Birthday!’ They all begin to sing ‘Happy Birthday to You’, Greg still holding the tray, Caitlin conducting us all with her fingers and Jess stuffing a sandwich into her mouth. Charlie stands awkwardly by the door.
‘You didn’t have to travel up! It’s not a special one.’
