Page 63 of The First Time I Saw You
‘This is your fault, Mrs M,’ Da says and turns his head back towards the windshield.
‘And just what do you mean by that?’
I turn my head towards Sarah, who rolls her eyes at me; I grin back at her.
‘You were always too soft on him when he was a lad, always putting magic bloody cream on his grazes . . . and now listen to him! Musicals! Paddle boats! What’s next, Sammy? Flower arranging?’
‘I don’t know, maybe.’ I wink at Sarah, who laughs.
‘What do you think you might do, as a career?’ Sarah asks as Mr and Mrs McLaughlin bicker in the front about how Ma’s uncle was a florist; the fact that it never did him any harm is currently under question.
‘I don’t know. I’m all right for a while but I’ll need to do something with myself. I might see if I can get back into a bank. It’s weird, a few weeks back, the idea of losing my sight felt like, I suppose a bit like I was terminally ill or something. But now . . .’ I look through the tunnel and out of the window where the Irish summer sun warms the dust that is being blasted up the sides of the car and smile. ‘Now, I don’t feel like that . . .’
‘So how do you feel?’
‘A bit lost.’
I think about the look in Sophie’s eyes the first day I met her . . . If only she could find me, the way that I found her.
Week Twenty-Six
Sophie
As I walk past the tall buildings lining the street, my pregnant reflection looks at me with confusion. My large stomach gives my walk a suggestion of the waddle that is sure to arrive in the next few weeks. The Greenlight building frowns at me: what is this woman doing here in her loose summer dress and her flat sandals? What business does she have here?
The offices are the same as they were when I came here in February: the same noises, smells and air of urgency that I don’t think I have ever noticed before; everybody seems to be in a rush.
My stiletto-less feet walk to the desk and I ask to speak to Kat. A tall, willowy woman with large glasses and hair scraped into a bun smiles at me from behind the high mahogany desk.
‘I’m afraid she no longer works here.’ I fleetingly wonder if that was anything to do with the merger. They were stupid to let her go; her performance in the last year had outshone her colleagues.
‘In that case, may I speak with . . .’ My mind goes blank – my baby brain rooting through the lists of employees that I had spent hours and days scouring. Then I retrieve one: ‘Bob Golding, please?’ The willow looks down at me, lingering on the sweat glistening on my top lip.
‘I’m afraid you will need to make an appointment.’
‘If you could just call him and tell him that Sophie Williams wishes to speak to him.’
She glances down at my stomach with a slight look of revulsion. Bean kicks inside my ribcage, pushing me forward. ‘Urgently,’ I add.
‘As I’ve said, you will need to make an appointment.’
‘Very well.’ It occurs to me that I don’t have a diary in my bag; instead I have a bottle of Diet Coke and a packet of crisps. I pull out my phone, swipe the screen to my diary, which is filled with gaps and the occasional antenatal appointment. I tap my blunt nail against the screen. ‘I can fit him in tomorrow.’ She does little to hide her smirk as I say this, and I wish that I had worn a suit. I was wrong to think that my voice alone could command the same respect that my armour and I had worked so hard to achieve.
‘I’m afraid Mr Golding has a very busy schedule.’ She looks at the screen of her monitor and begins to rap her fingers over the keyboard. ‘He can possibly fit you in on the fourteenth?’
‘Of August?’
‘Ye-es,’ she says slowly.
My cheeks redden as I grimace at how stupid I sound; today is the third of August. ‘But that is three weeks from now. I need to speak to him . . . Please, if you could just call him, tell him my name?’
‘Mr Golding is in meetings all day.’
‘Sophie?’ I hear a loud male voice call my name. I turn, and it takes me a moment to recognise Bob Swift, back from paternity leave and back, it seems, at the head of our merger. I glance at the willow fleetingly, hoping she can now see the woman I am beneath the rounded stomach and loose dress.
‘Bob,’ I smile, hold out my hand and let him shake it before air-kissing me. I worry that I might smell sweaty, but he reeks of coffee and long hours; he vibrates with it. He looks down at Bean and laughs.
‘Well, congratulations! When are you due?’
