Page 68 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Yes. Look, Sophie, I know you had this thing together, but Sammy, well, he’s really gone through the shit these last few months and—’
‘But he’s alive.’ I nod maniacally.
‘Yes, he’s definitely alive.’
I open my handbag and rummage furiously around the insides, finding a pen and a notepad. I pass these to Bret.
‘Please could you tell me where he is staying?’
Bret takes the pen apprehensively. ‘I don’t know the address. He’s staying with his parents.’
I can see there’s another reason for his reluctance to give me the address, but I need to see Samuel. He’s alive. ‘Please, Bret.’
‘Look, I’m happy that I have been able to fill in the gaps. I’m genuinely pleased about that, but . . . things have been really hard for him. He’s just starting to pull himself back together. I’m not sure that if you were to walk back into his life that it would be best for him. Best for Sam.’
Bean gives me a sharp kick that almost takes my breath away. My immediate response is to rub my stomach, but it has just occurred to me that Bret hasn’t noticed that I’m pregnant. Bean is obscured by the tablecloth. I don’t want Bret to be the person to tell Sam about Bean; I want to do that myself. A little buzz of excitement fizzes through me as I imagine his face when he sees me, when he sees our child.
‘Please, I have to see him, please, Bret.’
‘Look, how about I contact him? I’ll tell him you want to see him.’
‘But . . .’ I think of the look on Samuel’s face as I pass him the scan photo, the way his eyes will search the edges of his baby’s nose, his chin, his feet; looking for the similarities in the way that I have for the last six months.
I pull the paper back towards me and write down my email and my home address, as well as my phone number.
‘Sophie, you have broken the guy’s heart twice. He’s just been through hell and back, what kind of friend would I be if I open the doors and let you break him again? I’ll tell him you want to see him.’
‘But—’
‘From what he’s said, you’ve always decided the way your relationship ends. Let him decide this time, eh? You owe him that much.’
I nod slowly, knowing this battle is lost but knowing that I will find him, whatever it takes.
Week Twenty-Seven
Samuel
My August bank holiday is lost in the shadows that block out the sun. The tunnel walls have their own colours, I’m starting to notice. As the real colours from the outside world diminish, the colours of the darkness swirl and tilt. There are shadows within the shadows, marking out dancing silhouettes within the walls of the alleyway that play along with the yellows of the sun, the greens of the grass, the red of Sarah’s hair that flies intermittently into my closing circle of sight.
The Distance is my best friend. In The Distance I can see the promenade in all its seaside town glory: the waves of the sea lapping against the hulls of the boats in the harbour; the buoys bobbing up and down like giant gob-stoppers and the hotels and B&Bs that stand tall and proud along the road. Those things take up the small circle of sight and fill it with parts of the whole landscape. But the parts of Ma’s face, parts of the things closest to me, block out the rest of the vast surroundings and the dancing shadows play with them instead.
Michael taps along with the rhythm of the Bank holiday festivities; he jumps down steps and rolls along the path confidently as though he’s enjoying it. I try to relish his enthusiasm but today is a dark day for me.
My moods seem to take me over lately. Yesterday I was happy to carry on with my life like this. I’ve begun to learn how to use screen-reading software to help me when I return to work. I’ve been listening to crime thrillers on Audible, the images in my head as good as any film that I’ve seen lately.
I cooked pasta, only burning myself once, and navigated the bus into town to buy some new clothes before I have to spend the rest of my life with my mam and sister dressing me. Da offered, but I’m not sure the white shirt with rolled-up sleeves tucked into jeans with creases ironed into them is the look I want to go for. At least this way, I will have a few things that are my own taste.
The boxes containing the things that were salvaged from the fire have arrived. Bret had been keeping it all in his garage: a few clothes, some pictures that Mam has already found new frames for, and my backpack that I used to wear when I went for a run.
I’ve joined the gym before the fist closes so I can learn to navigate my way around without the need to grab on to any Lycra-clad gym-goers. Running on the treadmill has given me a new sense of freedom. I’m out of shape, that’s for sure, but it won’t take me long to get it back. I need to work out regularly because I can’t move around as fast as I used to. I find that I’m sitting down more than I ever would have before the accident, and Mam’s constant plates of biscuits and beef-dripping-roasted-food have added a roll of soft skin that wasn’t there this time last year.
I’ve a mint ice cream in my hand. I don’t need to look at it to know it is mint-green because I can smell it; I can feel the sticky texture as it dribbles down my fingers.
‘Your ice cream is melting, Mule,’ Sarah tells me.
‘I know. I’m blind, not fucking stupid.’ As I’ve said, today is a dark day.
‘All right, keep your hair on, and don’t swear in front of the kids.’
