Page 87 of The First Time I Saw You
‘I’m in the nursery!’ I shout as I reach for the roller and begin sweeping lemon over the wall in bold arches. He bounds up the stairs and frowns at the step ladder.
‘What? I’m being careful.’ I smile down at him as I continue swooping and diving with the roller.
‘There’s another delivery downstairs.’
‘Oooh, that’s the cot!’ My feet lower themselves down the four steps of the ladder which Charlie has decided to hold on to even though the ladder is perfectly solid-footed and stable. He takes my hand as I step off, and I replenish the roller and continue my assault on the walls.
‘Do you want me to help you put the cot up?’ I pause my rollering for a split second; I can’t subject him to that. He’s doing well but I’m always conscious of what could send him spiralling back into the place with trips to the solicitor and neatly written letters. I know he has been going to counselling; every Thursday morning I look out of the window and check that he is getting in his car, that he is still going, that he is trying to get better.
‘No thanks, I’m good. Ouch!’ I gasp.
Charlie is at my side, the creases in his forehead puckering with concern.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing . . . just Braxton Hicks.’
‘Hmm. Give me the roller.’
‘What? No!’ I say indignantly. ‘I’m fine, Charlie, I like doing this. It’s therapeutic and it stops me from checking my phone for emails and missed calls every two minutes.’
‘Still nothing?’
‘Nope, nothing from Bret, not even a response from the advert I put in theDerry Journal.’
‘Desperately Seeking Samuel?’ he asks with a small smile.
‘Still,’ I answer him as I try to crouch down but give up and sit on my bottom instead, legs spread wide apart, taking the roller in two hands and pushing it against the wall above my head. My phone rings but my fingers are covered in paint and so I leave it to go to voicemail.
‘I’ve got to go into town . . . my appointment has been changed.’ I don’t need to ask which appointment he’s talking about, and I’m relieved that he is going even though it’s Tuesday, not Thursday. Charlie is a person who likes routines.
The roller hovers over the wall.
‘Please don’t go back up that ladder before I get back?’
‘I’ll be careful.’
‘I mean it, Sophie . . . you’ll make me hurry and then I might drive recklessly,’ he adds, raising his eyebrows at me, knowing that he has won the argument by playing a brutal card.
‘That is so unfair.’
‘I shouldn’t have to say it. You should just listen in the first place.’
‘Fine. I’ll finish this wall and then I’ll stop for a bit.’ I rub my hand on my back where a pain is radiating along the base of my spine and around the front of my stomach. ‘OK, Bean, I’ll take a break.’
The water in the sink changes into banana milkshake as I rub the paint away and clean the brushes, my fingers swollen and my nails tipped with paint like a DIY French manicure. I wave goodbye to Charlie through the window and wince as the pain in my back burns inside my skin. The calendar tells me it’s the nineteenth of September. I flick the kettle on and reach for my phone. There is a missed call and an answerphone message from an unknown number. My fingers glide over the screen as the kettle fills the room with steam and the switch clicks off.
A robotic voice begins: ‘This is a message for Miss Williams. I’m calling about your energy supplier, did you know that you could be paying more than you should—’
I know it’s just a sales call, but I slam my phone back on to the counter, my eyes filling with tears. I pour the hot water over my tea bag; the tightening across my stomach reminds me that I’m running out of time to find Samuel and I bite my lip in frustration. The phone rings again and I snatch it up, ready to give the robot what for, but instead I hear an American drawl asking if this is Sophie Williams.
‘It is . . . Bret?’ I ask, my heart hammering inside my ribcage.
‘Hey, I’m sorry that I’ve not been in touch sooner . . . I was away and then, well, then I spoke to Samuel.’ Bean kicks and turns as I walk to the table and sit down, my legs barely able to keep me standing. The late evening sun paints the walls pink as I try to calm myself enough to process his words which float around the empty kitchen.
‘You’ve spoken to Samuel?’ I ask. My face tries to react appropriately, but it doesn’t know whether to smile or frown. My hand runs over Bean rhythmically, calming my own feelings by calming my child’s. ‘Is he OK? Did you send him my email?’ Words fall from my lips like notes from a piano; a melody of rise and fall and desperation.
‘He knows about the email but there is more I have to tell you, but before I do, you have to understand that Samuel doesn’t know about this, OK? He doesn’t know I’m ringing you. After I told him about our lunch I—’
