Page 64 of The First Time I Saw You
‘November,’ I reply and ask about his own baby.
‘Total nightmare, doesn’t sleep, wants to be held constantly . . . wife looks about fifty. Truth be told, glad to be over here for a few weeks, get a decent night’s kip!’ Bob speaks as though he can’t afford the time to start his sentences with pronouns. ‘Was just about to grab lunch, want to join?’ he asks. I agree, and we walk to a café not far from the one where I first met Samuel.
Bob rattles off his order before I even have a chance to read all the options, and then I remember that when I worked, I always ordered a chicken salad. Did we all do that? Choose the same thing because we didn’t have time to read the whole menu?
‘So, back in DC?’ he asks, filling his glass with water from the jug, swigging it down quickly. I watch his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
‘Just for a short while. I’ve started up a new business.’ The Adam’s apple stops bobbing for a second. ‘I was hoping to meet up with a few old colleagues that I worked with at Greenlight during the merger, but it seems a lot of them have moved on.’ I reel off a few names, attaching Samuel’s name like a comma, an afterthought, instead of the thing that can change the meaning of the whole sentence.
‘Samuel McLaughlin?’ My heart pounds and I feel light-headed for a moment. Will he tell me that he is dead? I’m not ready to hear it; I force aside the words that could fall from Bob’s mouth. ‘Yes, I’d heard that you two were involved.’ I furrow my brows together. I’m about to try and lie, but what would be the point?
‘We were, but Bob,’ I say almost desperately, ‘I left him the moment I knew where he worked. It wasn’t easy and I’m not proud of the way that I treated him. I, I didn’t even tell him why I left. I didn’t steal his idea, and I didn’t tell him about ours,’ I add, taking a sip of water.
‘Knew you wouldn’t. Always believed in your integrity. Dreadful business, those fools firing you. Preposterous.’
Our food is served, but instead of asking about Samuel, instead of demanding the answers about his accident, I let Bob lead the conversation. I cower behind the taste of the ripe tomatoes and the garlicky dressing; I let them taunt me, I let them persuade me to enjoy them; I try to concentrate on the way they pop inside my mouth, their sweetness oozing from their centre; but the picture of Samuel’s house burns the back of my throat with every mouthful, and the words of the newspaper report slide down my spine every time I swallow. I know I need to ask. I need to find out what he knows about Samuel, but I’m scared that he will tell me the truth, and any hope I have will be pulled from beneath me and I will fall.
Bob calls for the bill: my time is up.
‘I heard Samuel had been in an accident?’ I ask as I dismiss his attempts to pay with my hand.
‘Yes. Terrible.’ He drains the rest of his drink and glances at his watch.
‘An explosion or something?’ I say casually as we say our thanks and leave the café.
‘Yes. So young, too. Ever meet his friend? . . . Bret something or other, left him in a terrible state after . . . well, after Samuel departed. Much better now, though, full of energy, that chap.’
‘So, he’s . . . he’s?’ Bile rises in my mouth and my throat seems to be closing around the words.
‘Flew him back to Ireland, I think.’
I gasp and reach out for the wall behind me.
‘Good lord, Sophie, are you OK? You’re as white as a sheet! Should I call for a doctor?’ Bob asks, looking up and down the street as if he can hail one like a taxi. I blink, the scene around me blurring around the edges and then straightening itself, like a drunk in front of a policeman.
‘I’m fine, thanks, just the heat. I think I’ll go back to my hotel . . .’ I smile at him, ‘take advantage of the air conditioning.’
We air-kiss goodbye and my sandals – gold and cheap – walk me back to the hotel, where I lie on the bed, turn on my side and face the wall before I close my eyes and let the realisation of Samuel’s death wash over me.
Grief slides a hand into mine like an old friend. It’s been a while since we were this close and I feel myself leaning into the embrace in the same way I did when Mum first died. How easy it is to let it cover you and block out the outside world, blunting your senses and protecting you. It feels good to be back, but this time it is different because Bean is here, and my baby doesn’t like it. I try to calm it, I cup my hands around my bump and make gentle shushing noises, but Bean begins to kick furiously; it wants to get out. I can’t stay, as much as I long for the solitude and the quiet of grief’s embrace. I have to get out.
Week Twenty-Six
Samuel
Isabella is here. Again. I’m not sure how to handle this relationship: relationship isn’t the right word to use; ‘thing’ is more appropriate. I don’t want a relationship with her and I’ve been trying to tell her this. She says she doesn’t want one either, but that doesn’t stop her from constantly turning up here. I know that maybe I should be making the most of my sight, making the most of my life. I know I said I was going to move on from Sophie, and I have, but she’s still here.
When I sleep, when the murky edges of my life disappear, and the subconscious sights fill every corner of my mind, Sophie is always there: full of colour, full of happiness. And when I wake, it takes me time to accept that my life has to go on without her. Now that I’ve made the decision to let her go, I feel like I’m almost grieving . . . does that make sense? I know I must carry on, but it feels as though there is a hole inside me. No matter how many times I tell myself I’ll learn to live without her, the way that I look forward to dreaming means that I’m not quite ready to move on entirely . . . not just yet.
‘Move up, Sam,’ Isabella says, wiggling herself down into the small space next to me, the sofa sinking and tilting her body towards me. ‘So, your mam tells me you’re off to see a show tomorrow?’
‘I am.’ I look over to the window. There is a splatter of pigeon shite dribbling down it.
‘On your own?’ she asks, the heat from her thigh making me want to move away. I try to manoeuvre myself further up the sofa, but she just moves with me. I resist the urge to sigh.
‘No, Sarah is coming with me, we’re staying in London overnight.’
‘You should have told me, Sam, I could have made plans to come with you.’
