Page 86 of The First Time I Saw You
‘It doesn’t matter, she . . . I saw . . . you don’t know the way she looked. She was happy, in this little cottage with her perfect man and her perfect bump, and you heard what she said!’ My body has caught up with the words that are forming, my heart is screaming, my lungs are gasping, and my eyes are full. ‘I was the only person who could see her.’ My voice rises. ‘SEE her! How can I walk back into her life, back into a life where she doesn’t need to be fixed – isn’t that what she said, Bret? How can I go back to her whenI’mthe one that is damaged;I’mthe one who can’t be fixed,I’mthe one who can’t fucking see her! She wants me to choose her, that’s what she says, right?’ I get no response. ‘Right?’ I repeat. ‘Well, I am choosing her. I did see her, and I know that her life without me will be better than one with me in it. I’m the one who will be brittle and damaged. You’ve seen how many times I fall or bump into things – how can I do that to her? She’s better off without me.’
‘But if you just speak to her? Let her explain?’ Isabella pleads.
‘Have you got a phone number, Bret my boy? If we can get this girl on the phone we can sort this out right now. What do you say, Sammy boy?’ Da claps his hands together as if Mam has just told him it’s pie and chips for tea.
Michael pulls me up, and I hold on to him for support as I tell them, ‘This is my decision.’
‘What if I talk to her? Tell her about the accident, tell her about your sight?’ Bret asks eagerly.
‘No! If what she says in this email is true, if she loves me that much, do you think she will stay away if she knows about the accident?’ I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to talk to her on the phone because I know I’m not strong enough to stay away if I hear her voice, if she tries to tell me I’m making the wrong decision . . . I’m not strong enough to do what is right . . . do you understand?’ I say, wiping a tear away. ‘I’m choosing to save her.’ Michael pulls me across the room, away from temptation and away from the hurt.
‘Sammy!’ Da shouts.
‘Sam!’ Isabella calls but I slam the door behind me.
Week Thirty-Three
Sophie
I went into town earlier this week. I’d battled my way past buggies and hand-holding pensioners, past passive-aggressive voices of arguing couples, until I found myself inside a shop.
My hand stopped at a rail that had an outfit of the softest and palest beige and white stripes, with a small embroidered bunny popping out of a pocket in the middle. My fingers followed the tiny arms of the outfit and stroked the ridiculously tiny trousers that ended inside small, rounded pockets where Bean’s feet would be cocooned. Bean shifted and stretched in approval. I looked at the sizes:0–3months, newborn, tiny baby . . . surely they were all the same thing? I held up the outfits but could see there was definitely a difference in size.
‘Can I help?’ A lady with a neat brown bob and smelling of powder and violets was smiling at me, reaching for the clothes. My first real shopping trip for Bean and I was already stuck. I looked at the wall behind her, where boxes of monitors, stair gates and car seats stood in a smug and organised array. I didn’t have a clue about any of it. Sweat rose up through my pores as the sound of rushing water filled my ears, dampening the sounds of the shop.
‘Yes, um, yes, please . . . I don’t know which to get.’ I laughed at myself nervously, trying to ignore the sense of panic I was feeling. My mouth was dry, my hands shaking.
‘Not to worry, that’s what I’m here for. When are you due?’ She nodded towards Bean.
‘The thirteenth of November,’ I said quietly.
‘Not long now, then?’
‘Seven weeks.’
‘I was five weeks early with my first . . . Everyone told me it would be late, being my first, but my Rachel is as impatient now as she was then. You’re carrying a lot in your back, aren’t you?’ I had no idea what she was talking about, but I nodded and smiled.
‘If I were you, I would go for the newborn size. No point in getting the0–3unless you’re expecting a big baby, and you’re only small yourself . . . what about baby’s daddy?’
‘Oh, he’s tall.’ I thought of the way his feet stuck out of the end of the bed. ‘Very tall.’
‘Let’s hope baby has your frame then, eh?’ She nudged me in a way that admitted me into the club. The women-who-have-children club. The club where women talk about leaking breasts and pureed food, dilating cervixes, epidurals and stitches; that brag about first steps and sleeping patterns.
‘Um yes.’ I smiled.
‘Is there anything else that you need?’
I looked around the shop.
‘Yes, I, well, the thing is, I need everything really. I haven’t had a chance to buy anything yet and . . .’ My words trailed off as the lady’s eyes widened.
‘Right. Well then. Let’s get you and that baby—’
‘Bean,’ I said proudly.
‘Bean, sorted.’
Since my trip to the shop, I have pushed aside the growing pile of invoices and receipts that I need to check – a lot of my new clients tend to keep paper records of their businesses which makes my life harder – but I have left them inside their respective folders and have decided to start on the nursery. My lounge is filled with boxes of deliveries. I’ve chosen a video baby monitor, an electric breast pump, a steriliser, a changing bag, a changing mat, a changing table . . . the list goes on and on. Charlie shouts a hello as I reach the paintbrush up towards the last of the cornice; lemon paint trickles oily colour over my fingers as I replace the brush in the tray.
