Page 5 of The First Time I Saw You
She leans her head back and gazes into the sky above. ‘This time tomorrow I’ll be up there somewhere, on my way back home.’ Her eyes close, the sun catching tiny bits of glitter in her eyeshadow.
Her whole demeanour changes when we arrive back outside her hotel. She smooths down her trousers and shrugs her hair back from her face.
‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Samuel.’ Her hand reaches out and I attempt to re-enact my fist bump from the day before. It isn’t a success.
‘Sophie, could we . . . grab a coffee? Tomorrow morning? Before you leave?’ Her mouth begins to open but then shuts, like she has taken a gulp of air that has filled her mouth and she can’t swallow it, but she nods and looks at me in a way that tells me what I need to know. She likes me, she wants to see me again, but it is such a cautious nod, so quickly executed that it’s as though her body has answered before she could keep it in check.
‘Shall-I-give-you-my-number?’ I ask. The words running into each other like a string of notes, not a melody with breaks and changes in tempo.
‘OK.’
‘Do you want to write it down?’ She shakes her head.
‘I’m good with numbers, I’ll remember it.’
I give her my number; her eyes look up to the sky as I say it. I hope that the numbers are clinging to her, not floating away into clouds.
She’s not going to call. My mouth is dry. I’ll never see her again. But then she leans forward and kisses me on the cheek.
‘Thank you, Samuel. It’s been a wonderful day.’ Her voice stays with me even though she is already running up the steps and out of my sight.
I’m just beginning to walk away when my phone vibrates against my leg.
How can you not like Marmite?
I wait until the clock says22:30until I ring her.
I don’t say hello and I don’t tell her it’s me; I don’t want to give her the chance for her head to rule her heart. ‘Meet me in the lobby at midnight . . . I have a surprise.’ Her reply isn’t sleepy or confused, it isn’t wary or suspicious; instead, she simply says, ‘OK.’
The taxi drops us at the park and we walk hand in hand along the path. I simply reach for hers and there it is, cold inside my palm, feeling like it has been there a thousand times before. The trees yawn and arch their backs, pulling the cover of night over their weary bodies. I pause opposite a fountain – a tower in the middle layered with ascending stones lit up with hidden bulbs – the sound of the water making me wish I’d gone to the toilet before I left the hotel.
‘This spot is perfect,’ I say, taking off my backpack and retrieving the blanket, which I shake out and lay on the grass; then I begin placing battery-operated tea-lights around it.
‘Ah shite,’ I say, moving the small switch at the base of the candles back and forth, but the flame refuses to light. She takes it from my hand and pulls out a little tag from its base, the fake flame dancing in her palm. Her shoes, another pair of heels, are discarded. It’s strange to see her feet bare; they are so small, so perfectly formed that I can’t stop looking at them as she continues switching the candles on, her lips curving into a smile, her dimples deepening. I tear my gaze away from her feet in case she thinks I have some kind of foot fetish.
We sit on the blanket; her back is straight, her legs crossed like a child on the carpet in school. I empty the contents of my bag: a bottle of champagne, Tupperware boxes of sandwiches, plastic flutes.
‘So tell me a bit more about your family,’ she asks.
‘They’re loud.’
‘I can imagine,’ she answers with a sly smile. ‘And your sister . . . do you look like each other?’
I pop the champagne and pour her a glass. ‘My sister looks like a Celt. Have you seen that Disney film?Brave?’ Her forehead furrows as if I’ve just asked her if she watches hard-core porn. ‘Ah well, she looks like that, tall, red hair, green eyes. She’s a walking cliché. What about your family?’
She takes a long sip of her drink. ‘There’s nothing to tell you, really, we’re not close. We don’t look like Disney characters, that’s for sure. I have a step-sister, Helen, but I don’t see her very often. She lives in Shropshire. Is your mum a redhead, then, or just your sister?’
‘Nah, Mam has my colour hair and thinks she can save the world with a cup of tea and a custard cream.’ I turn to the Tupperware and pass her a smoked salmon sandwich which she takes from me, nibbling the edge with a slightly repulsed look.
‘What’s the matter?’ I ask, watching the struggle of the sandwich being forced down her throat, her hand reaching for the plastic flute and gulping the contents down.
‘I’m sorry.’ She places the triangle away from her. ‘I’m sorry after you’ve gone to so much trouble, but I don’t like salmon, it’s too . . . slimy.’
She shudders, but I delve back into my bag and produce a Marmite sandwich. Her face changes into a grin. Not the demure smiles she has controlled so far, but a big, open-mouthed beam. There is nothing dainty about the way she eats this time – the sandwich is devoured in two bites. This shocks me a little. This woman wearing a suit jacket for a midnight picnic can eat like a teenage boy. The sky hangs darkly above us as we lie down side by side. Sophie asks me about my childhood, about the things I got up to when me and my friend Connor used to say we were staying at each other’s houses.
‘What about your childhood? What did you used to get up to?’ I ask, topping up our glasses.
‘My childhood was dull really . . .’
