Page 66 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Maybe she did?’
‘Nah . . . she’s, she’s just not like that.’
‘How do you know?’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘I just do.’
‘You don’t get off that lightly, tell me why. I’ve just thrown myself at you in my really bloody expensive underwear which is riding up my crack as we speak.’ I laugh and try not to picture the underwear riding up her crack.
‘Sophie is . . . complicated. She’s so vulnerable and so independent at the same time. She can walk into a place like she owns it, she will be so confident, but then once you get to know her you would see that it is all an act. Sophie’s a bit, well, a bit lost really. But after she got to know me, after that week . . . ah, it’s hard to explain. I felt like I had saved her somehow. That sounds wrong, it’s hard to explain what we had without sounding like a twat.’
‘OK, so explain why she left you again.’
‘I may have got wankered when she first came back and shot my mouth off about her being a manipulative bitch in a bar.’ I rub my forehead and try to erase the foggy memories of that night. I explain how hurt I’d been, that maybe she had played me. I told Isabella how I’d rung Sophie and told her she was the biggest bitch alive. ‘One of the girls I worked with was there – Kat. She wasn’t with us, but I think she must have told someone that Sophie nicked the software idea from me.’
‘Ah Samuel, what were you thinking?’
‘You don’t know what it was like seeing her walk into that meeting. She was so . . . so frigging professional and cold. She looked me straight in the eye when she told us that her company was taking us over. Do you know what that was like after the time we had spent together? I can tell you the sounds she makes just before she falls asleep . . . like little puffs of air; how she has dimples when she smiles and that they are the width of my index finger away from the corners of her mouth, how she pulls at her earlobe when she’s thinking about something . . .’
‘So, she left you because you got drunk and called her names?’
‘No. She left me because she thinks I was the one who told Greenlight that she stole my idea.’
‘Ah . . . I see. So that’s it? You’re just going to let her go through the rest of her life thinking that you betrayed her?’
‘Sophie’s made it clear that she doesn’t want to speak to me.’
‘She lost her job and I’m guessing her reputation. It’s no wonder she doesn’t want to speak to you.’
‘I’ve tried to find her, you know how hard I’ve tried.’
‘Not hard enough, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’
‘If our time together was as special for her as I think it was . . . maybe she’ll find me?’
Week Twenty-Seven
Sophie
I sit down on the blanket opposite the fountain. The grief I feel is consumed by the memories of the last time I was here.
‘I know it’s not quite the same, Bean, it was dark when Your Dad brought me here, but it’s just as beautiful.’ I open the plastic bag, my hand shaking as I take out the sandwiches . . . one Marmite from the jar I brought with me, the other salmon from the deli. I pull out a plastic flute and pour a small bottle of sparkling water into it, taking a small sip and trying to convince myself that it is just as nice as the real thing. My fingers peel back the plastic film from the salmon sandwich and I smell it suspiciously. The smell doesn’t turn my stomach . . . Bean, it seems, likes it. Tentatively I take a bite and Bean shuffles. Huh.
‘So you’ve got Your Dad’s taste buds, hey?’ My voice snags on the edges of the words ‘Your Dad’, and I feel myself unravel. Sobs expand inside my chest and Bean kicks against me as it is crushed by the pain that I’m trying to swallow down.
The next day, I drive us to the same cinema, Bean’s shifts and kicks reminding me to breathe, to eat, to live. The film is different but I sit in the same seat as he did. Bean enjoys the popcorn and sleeps while I stare through my tears at the screen.
I walk us along the tidal basin; I reach up and grab a leaf, the colour vibrant and green this time, not the burnt umber of autumn . . . I’ll keep it, maybe frame it and add it to the sideboard when I get home. The image of the sideboard covered with my memories of Samuel pinches the air from my lungs. I reach out and grab the edge of a bench, my knees buckling, my body slumping against the wood.
‘This is where we were when he asked me to stay, Bean, and over there . . .’ I whisper, pointing to where other couples are pedalling away across the water, ‘that is where he took me on the paddle boats. You should have seen his face, Bean, he was almost green with seasickness.’ I close my eyes as tears fall from beneath my lids.
On the morning of the last day, the day I’m due to meet Bret, I take Bean on a trip around the city on a horse-drawn carriage. I don’t care how odd I must look, this pregnant Welsh woman in her loose clothes and pale face. Instead I point out the same sights he did; I tell Bean that his favourite movie isDie Hard; then I laugh to myself, whispering that he also had two copies ofLove Actually.
Bean is tired, the diner is busy, and we are squashed behind a small table at the back. My flight is tomorrow; this is my last day, and I know it is time to say goodbye. I need to find out as much as I can so that when Bean asks me, I can answer my child’s questions.
Bret walks towards my table; I can see it is going to be quite a squeeze to fit him in. I smooth down the white maternity blouse which hugs my new and improved boobs tightly; beneath the table, the material flares neatly over my ever-growing bump.
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me.’ I smile as he lowers himself into the chair, which doesn’t look strong enough to contain him. I don’t stand; my feet hurt too much. He gives me a tight smile and crosses his feet.
