Page 52 of The First Time I Saw You
It was only a fire drill. We all return to our rooms grumbling about the inconvenience, but for me it was a lesson. My life is changing, and I need to accept it. I need to learn how to cope with a life without sight; I need to find out the types of things that I can use, the types of things that can help me.
The next time I go anywhere on my own, I will ask about the escape routes . . . or fire could take more from me than just my sight.
SUMMER
Week Twenty-One
Sophie
I frown up at Charlie’s house: windows with heavy eyelids are closed against the summer’s day. The wind drags fingers through the wispy leaves of the trees surrounding our building, and the house groans but stays asleep. I tread quietly back to my door, trying not to feel alone, trying not to miss my old life, trying not to become that girl who was desperate to be noticed.
The fear I felt when I stared at the screen, before the spark of Bean’s heart, has stayed with me. It has taken me by the hand and pulled me towards the new person that I must become. In London, I needed to be good at my job, to succeed, but now I need something different; I need to be a good mother, to be independent, to enjoy my life.
Bean and I go for a short walk in the mornings, then work on the accounts until lunchtime. Our evenings are made up of stories about Samuel. I talk about the man I fell in love with and it’s becoming harder to defend my actions to Bean: why isn’t Dad part of our life?
But then I think of my own father, the note – it wasn’t the right life for him, what’s to say that this would be the right life for Samuel? I think of Ian’s hands around Mum’s throat, of Samuel’s betrayal, of how much happier Mum and I were when it was just the two of us. Around and around my head the thoughts go.
And so, our summer nights together, looking at the table and chairs, sipping iced tea, are now becoming harder to bear, because deep down I know that no matter what he has done . . . he has a right to know about Bean, and Bean has a right to know Samuel.
I pick up the phone and dial Samuel’s number again, but again, I hang up before it has a chance to connect. Each time I ring, I stay on the phone a fraction longer. Soon, I tell myself, soon I will. The Book says that Bean will be practising facial expressions, raising little eyebrows when I tell it about the way Samuel had taken me for a midnight picnic; I imagine my baby smiling as I retell some of his jokes. I’ve started calling him ‘Your Dad’. Your Dad likes eighties rock music, Your Dad took me on paddle boats even though he gets seasick . . . next to you, Bean, Your Dad was the love of my life.
Charlie has been distancing himself. I knocked on his door again yesterday, but he didn’t answer. I peg out the washing and notice that the curtains are still drawn, but with the size of my new knickers, I can’t say that I’m not a little grateful that he won’t be seeing those bad boys billowing in the summer breeze.
I smirk at my reflection as I walk past the mirror in the hall. My reflection is rubbing her back. She looks like a real pregnant woman: not the woman of a couple of months ago who just looked fat, but a real pregnant woman, like the ones in magazines and films. How would this woman look if she were still in her London life with her designer clothes and heels? Would she still be working? Her stomach resting against a desk covered in numbers and rich coffee? Would she notice the small nudges from inside telling her that Bean is just waking up or would she be too engrossed in her work to care?
I wink and grin at the pregnant woman then close the door behind her.
My fists knock on Charlie’s door. His curtains are drawn still; I knock again but I worry that it’s useless. I turn my head to where his car still sits and give his door a final thump. But again, there is no answer.
The next morning, Charlie’s house seems to have woken up. His door yawns open, his curtains are stretching widely, and Charlie is carrying bags of shopping into the house. I hesitate when I get out of the car, not knowing whether to try and carry on the way things were before the scan or to return to the position of slightly awkward but friendly neighbour. I lock the car as he comes back outside and make my way towards the house.
‘Your guttering.’
‘My guttering?’ I question.
‘It’s leaking.’
‘Oh right . . . I’ll ask Huw if he can fix it.’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘Oh, um, thanks. That would be great.’ He nods at me and turns to walk away. ‘Do you—’ He stops still with his back towards me. ‘Do you want some dinner?’
‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ I say, unnecessarily loudly, making a fool of myself in my eagerness to please him. I clear my throat. ‘As long as it’s not too much trouble?’ I add, my voice fading to a murmur.
‘I’m OK,’ he says over his shoulder but the way he says it, the seriousness of his response, makes me think he wasn’t talking about the dinner. Charlie strides back towards his house. He’s spoken the right words, but the hunch of his shoulders and the state of his appearance does little to comfort me.
Week Twenty-One
Samuel
I get out of the taxi and look up and down the road. I reckon there are about eighty houses along this street. The grey clouds are miserable, looking down on me with glum faces, and lazy drizzle leaks from their eyes.
I feel like Hugh Grant inLove Actuallytrying to find Martine McCutcheon. I clench my hand into a fist and knock on door number one. If it was good enough for Hugh, then it’s good enough for me.
I know I must be out of my mind and that it’s a long shot, but it can’t just be coincidence that Sophie’s car ended up in Shropshire, the exact same place as her sister lives. I know it’s a big place, but it feels like fate.
The reaction to a blind Irishman knocking at the door asking if they know where Helen Yates is, is not going as well as I’d hoped. Door number thirty-two has just been closed in my face by a worried-looking elderly lady. I must change my tactic. I can’t just keep asking if they know her; I hadn’t really thought about how odd that may sound. I could be a jealous ex or a stalker for all they know.
