Page 65 of The First Time I Saw You
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Afraid you couldn’t resist me in a hotel overnight, on our own?’ The tunnel encapsulates her one eyebrow arching provocatively; I tilt my vision to her mouth which gives me a slow but deliberate smile.
‘It’s not that, and for your information I think I could. Resist you, I mean. Isabella, it’s great that you’re here, and I—’
‘You’re not going to give me the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech, are you?’
‘No, nothing like that, because, well, it is you.’
‘Sorry?’ She laughs loudly.
‘Well, it’s because you’re you . . . you’re not Sophie.’
‘The infamous Sophie who hung up on you and left you twice? That one?’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘Really, well then, if she wants you so much . . . where is she?’ She begins to lift the cushion and looks astounded when Sophie isn’t hiding beneath the barley-twisted edges. ‘Maybe she’s hiding . . .’ She stands and I lose sight of her but hear her footsteps walk over to the curtains, the whoosh of the material letting me know that they have been dramatically pulled back. ‘Nope, not hiding there.’
‘Stop it. I know she doesn’t want me, but that doesn’t stop me wanting her.’
The sofa gives beneath her weight as she slumps back down.
‘Well, that’s just killed the mood.’ She elbows me in the rib, a smile in her voice. ‘I may as well take this off then.’ She begins a movement that I’ve seen many of my exes carry out. (Do they teach this at school maybe? Is it part of Sex Ed lessons, the ones when they split up the girls and boys? We got taught that masturbation is a normal, healthy part of growing up; did the girls get taught how to take off a bra fully clothed?) Anyway, she shimmies about and the fragments of my sight catch a glimpse of black lacy bra through the opening in her sleeve. The clasp of her bag clicks as she hides the garment inside. I focus on the edges of her sleeves and feel her tuck her legs under her bottom and lean in to me.
‘So, go on then . . . tell me about this show. Or you could tell me about Sophie.’
‘I don’t want to talk about her, but . . . ah, feck it. Do you want a drink?’
‘White or red?’
‘White.’
We both go to get up.
‘I’ll get it,’ she says. Part of me wants to argue but let’s face it, my life is easier if I let her. I catch sight of her back as she walks away, a film shot of her swaying her bottom and pulling her hair into a ponytail.
‘Tell me why she left you!’ she shouts from around the corner. I hear the fridge door open and close, and the clink of the glasses.
The telescope darkens around her figure as she walks back into the lounge; the wine glugs into glasses. I smell it, but it takes me a while to find where the glass is. Before I can worry about it, she is holding my finger and clasping it around the stem.
‘Thanks,’ I say. The dynamics of our relationship have changed in just a few moments. ‘She left me because she thought that I had betrayed her, at least I think that’s what she thought . . . I’ve never been able to tell her that I didn’t.’ The wine slides down my throat. I continue to hold the glass; the act of placing it back on the table requires too much effort.
‘Betrayed her how?’
‘I told her about an idea for some new software . . . God, it sounds so insignificant now.’ I run my finger around the rim of the glass, which barely escapes the blackness.
‘When was that? The first time she came over?’ I nod, glancing up, the edges of her profile dimmed by the insatiable shadows that continue to prowl around my world. She takes another sip of her wine.
‘Yeah. We never talked about work that much, stupid as it sounds when it was the reason that, well, that meant we couldn’t stay together.’ I stretch my legs forward, most of which the tunnel has swallowed. ‘She left, just up and went in the middle of the night when she realised it would jeopardise our jobs.’
‘Why didn’t she just explain?’
‘She couldn’t, it would have meant that I would know her firm’s plans to use the same software, to take it over.’
‘Ah, so when she came back, you thought that she’d stolen your idea?’
‘Yep.’
