Page 76 of The First Time I Saw You
‘You couldn’t have known that was the last conversation you would ever have, Charlie.’
‘I know . . . but I was being a dick. She’d been in a foul mood that day, moaning at me for every little thing I hadn’t done around the house. I can’t help but wonder if that’s why she’d had a drink at her friend’s . . . because she was pissed off at me for not doing the washing-up enough, not picking up my clothes from the floor.’ He pushes his plate away and pours the rest of the bottle into his glass. ‘I held the phone for twenty minutes after the hospital had called me. It felt like hours, but I couldn’t let go of the receiver because I knew that when I did it, it would all become real.’
Brandy is poured after he’s placed the cheese board on the table. I watch him drink his glass and refill it; I get up and make coffee. He’s forgotten that I can’t eat half of the cheese on there, I think, but by now, his eyes are blurry, and he is beginning to repeat things that he has already told me. I begin to clear up the dishes and tidy around the kitchen as I hear, again, about how he had closed the restaurant, sold the house and looked for a cottage in the middle of nowhere.
‘But you . . .’ he points a wobbly finger in my direction, but he is smiling, ‘you were already here.’
‘I was.’ I smile and lean my back against the sink, my hand covering my mouth as I yawn.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he says. ‘Thank you, Sophie, for everything.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He stares at the wall, thinking about something else already. I glance at the clock: it’s half-one in the morning. ‘And thanks for a wonderful dinner. You really should think about starting again, when you feel up to it.’
He smiles with his eyes half-closed.
‘Right, me and Bean are going to love you and leave you.’
‘Yes. Sleep awaits,’ he says, standing up and swaying as he sees me to the door. I turn to hug him, and he holds me tight, putting his hand on my stomach and saying, ‘Goodnight, Bean. Look after Mummy for me.’
I kiss him on the cheek, thank him again and go home.
Bean and I try to get comfortable, but something is bothering me, like the feeling when you walk into a room and have forgotten why you went in there in the first place. I pull the covers over us, falling into a sleep which is splintered with broken dreams.
I’m awake again but it’s still dark. I toss and turn for a while. It’s getting harder to find a comfortable position and Bean is awake, kicking me so hard that my breathing becomes irregular. Something about the evening with Charlie is bothering me.
I flick on the light and reach for Mum’s clock: it’s not long after four. The salt in the cheese has left my mouth dry and heartburn simmers in my chest. I go downstairs to get a glass of water and some Gaviscon, flicking on the fairy lights that hang beneath the counter and thinking about how Bean will be here before Christmas. The glass is refilled twice, my thirst quenched.
A sense of occasion. That’s what my evening with Charlie felt like, as though there was a significance to the meal, to the stories he was telling; as if he wasn’t going to see me for a while, but was going away and was trying to say goodbye.
The glass slips from my fingers. Fractures of memories splinter with the glass on the floor: his smart clothes; the sharp creases in the arms of his shirt; the immaculately laid table; his favourite foods; the way the light caught on the candelabrum – polished and prepared.
It was a last supper: his last goodbye.
No.
This can’t be happening. My hands are shaking as I pull open my door, run to his house and begin banging my fist on his door, but there is no answer. Ignoring the stitch that is running across Bean, I rush back into my house and call nine, nine, nine, asking for help. My words are garbled, but the urgency is unmistakable.
An envelope by the door distracts me, and I double over Bean to pick it up. My pulse is racing. I shove it in my pocket; I don’t have time to read it.
My hands are shaking with adrenaline and fear as I pull open the kitchen drawer and grab a tea towel.
Outside, the sun has started to rise. I search the ground for something heavy and wrap a rock into the towel, smashing it through his lounge window. Glass shatters into the still morning and I push as much of it away from the frame as I can, while calling out his name. I sit myself on the ledge, feeling small pieces of glass grind beneath me as I swing my legs over. As I manoeuvre myself on to the lounge floor I feel a piece of glass scrape into my thigh and I scream out in pain.
‘Charlie!’ I shout as I limp towards the staircase. ‘Charlie!’ I hold on to the banister, quickly pulling myself up the stairs, the sound of heavy breathing my only reply. My hand reaches forward, pushing open his bedroom door.
Charlie is lying on his bed; he looks asleep, but next to his bed are prescription tablets which I grab in the hope that he has just passed out from the drink and maybe taken a couple of sleeping pills, but there is no sound from the inside of the container, and the bottle of brandy now lies on its side, empty. I lean my ear against his chest and wait for it to rise, but I can’t feel anything.
‘Wake up, Charlie!’ I shake him, his head wobbling from side to side, before I put my ear to his mouth, praying that he will make a sound. ‘Come on, Charlie.’ There are no tears on my face, there is no dramatic music playing in the background . . . just nothing, but then I hear it: a tiny breath. I put my hand back on his chest and feel it rise slowly beneath my hand. ‘The ambulance is on its way. I’m here, Charlie, we’re here.’ I hold his hand and bring it to my lips. ‘You’ll be OK, stay with me—’
‘I’m sorry—’ His voice is faint and I lean my forehead against his with relief.
‘The ambulance is on the way. You’re going to be fine,’ I repeat, my London voice finding its way into this room, filling the space with false confidence and promises it might not be able to keep.
‘I thought . . . I thought I wanted it.’ His speech is slurred. I prop my arm around his neck and try to sit him up but his head lolls backwards.
‘Charlie? Charlie!’ I scream, shaking him by the shoulder. His eyelids flicker, his eyes rolling until they come to rest on my face. ‘Wake up, stay with me,’ I command.
‘Sophie?’ Tears are rolling down his cheek. ‘I don’t want to die.’
