Page 58 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Didn’t take you long,’ he whispers as I glance towards the open door. ‘What happened with Sophie?’
‘It’s nothing serious,’ I say but I can hear the doubt in my voice. Isabella’s visits are becoming more frequent after our bit of fun in the shower. ‘And as for Sophie . . . I just can’t torture myself any more. My sight is going, man, I’ve got enough to deal with. I’ve got to tell you, I think I was starting to lose my mind a bit.’ I tell him about the phone call and the trip to Shropshire.
‘You sound like you were starting to go all stalker-like, buddy. I think you’re right. You took the chequered flag, I think it’s time to throw in the towel. I mean, if she hung up on you . . .’
‘Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking . . . except for the sports metaphors, obviously. Anyway, lots to be keeping myself busy. I’ve got to learn to cook.’ I laugh.
‘But you can already cook,’ he answers, looking puzzled.
‘Not as a blind person, mate, not as a blind person.’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot about that.’
Michael catches my eye and I wish that I could forget about it too.
‘Right, Sammy boy.’ Da slams a pad of paper on to the kitchen table as Mam opens and shuts the oven. Even in the bloody summer, we have to have a roast. ‘Your bucket list: number one?’
‘Drive a car,’ I answer, the words leaving my mouth without much thought.
‘Right you are . . . number two?’
‘See a match, a real match. Not on the telly.’
‘Three?’
‘I want to see a show.’
‘A show?’ He hesitates.
‘Just write it down,’ I snap. ‘Jesus, Mam could you open a window? I’m melting in here.’
‘Four? Sammy? Four?’ Sophie’s image pushes its way into my thoughts: the way she looked at me when she first opened her eyes in the morning.
‘Christ, I need some air. Can we do this later?’
‘Sure, but—’
‘Da! Just give me a minute to think, will you?’ I grab Michael and leave the room, trying to escape the six things on the list that all involve Sophie.
Week Twenty-Four
Sophie
There is a stillness to this evening. The sky is blood-red and starlings in their hundreds swoop and dive across the sky as though they are one pattern. I describe them to Bean, who is now the length of one of the rulers at school.
‘The type that Lewis Slater used to twang elastic bands at my head when the teacher wasn’t looking,’ I tell Bean as I make a salad. My hair is escaping a plait, resting in between my shoulders; my loose lemon camisole leans forward as I take the baked potatoes out of the oven. The heat of the day is still and warm, but it is a breathable heat, not like the oppressive heat of the first rush of summer at the beginning of the month. I put the plates on a tray and carry it around to Charlie’s house. The door is open and as I walk into the kitchen he is sitting staring blankly at the wall. He blinks as I walk into the room, as if trying to re-focus his eyes.
‘Hi,’ I smile. ‘Just baked potatoes today. Have you got any sour cream?’ I ask him, trying to nudge life into this room where grief floats around like an empty ship adrift after a storm.
‘Why are you here, Sophie?’ he asks, blinking slowly and meeting my eyes. His eyes look clouded and unfocused, as though he is drunk, but I can’t smell any alcohol. Bean doesn’t like the smell usually and my nose will wrinkle at it.
‘Well, it’s dinner time and—’
‘I mean, why are YOU here? Why are you making me food that I don’t want, talking to me about things I don’t care about?’ His voice is rising and there is spittle at the corners of his mouth.
‘Charlie, I know that you’re hurting—’
‘No, you don’t know. You don’t know anything about me. You’re just using me to fill your dull little life. You have nothing to do other than to poke your nose into mine, because you have no life of your own.’
