Page 8 of The First Time I Saw You
He shifts further up the bed. ‘OK, so, you know how search engines work, how they find recommendations for your next purchase, shite like that?’ His voice changes, the excitement making me open my eyes and my body turn so I can look up at him. ‘Well, what about if a piece of software was developed that could use this data, real-time data, to show how products are selling. What if—’ Heat courses through my body as he speaks, my blood rushing in my ears and my hands beginning to shake. ‘What if they use this information in a bank, if we could use it at Greenlight—’
Greenlight. He works for Greenlight.
‘—we could streamline our loan applications, make the whole process faster. It could cut our losses on bad investments, we could see what is trending right at the moment of application. Just think of it, it could put us ahead in the market.’
How could I be so reckless?
I try to stop listening. I try to ignore his words as they sink their teeth into my skin, as they claw at my insides.
I have to leave. I have to get as far away from him as possible.
This could destroy my career; this could destroy me. If they find out I’m sleeping with a man from the company we’re about to take over – if they find out he knows about the software that we’re about to develop – I’ll be finished. They would never believe that his idea is just a coincidence, and why would they? I hardly believe it myself. Panic fills me as I sort through our conversations.
‘Let’s not talk about work any more, Samuel.’ I try to control the tremor in my voice, hoping that he can’t hear it. ‘I’m tired.’ I enact a dramatic yawn. ‘Let’s just enjoy . . . this.’ He catches my yawn as I concentrate on calming my breathing, making my body sink into his, fighting the tears beneath my eyelids and trying not to think that the last part of myself that I will give to Samuel is a yawn.
WINTER
Week One
Sophie
I close my eyes and rub my temple, a sigh escaping my lips. My eyelids open and blink at the laptop screen, my manicured fingers fluttering and kicking across the keyboard, describing the new strategy that will get me that promotion: work, work, work. I pause for a moment, tuck my hair behind my ear, then glance at the television which has been entertaining the walls of my house with grey and blue flashes. The movie has grabbed my attention – a forties musical. My hair whispers past my ear, and my mouth smiles. The laptop screen glares at me but I’m distracted; something about the way the leading male is delivering his line has reminded me of Samuel.
‘Your eyes are the colour of tea.’
I shake my head, grab the controller and turn the television off. No time for distractions.
It’s past one in the morning when I finally go to bed. A suit hangs inside my white, high-gloss wardrobe and a pair of black, five-inched heels await my stockinged feet. With numbers and flight details rushing around my head, I close my eyes, giving a small smile as I drift off to sleep: the image of the glass teacup swirling its amber liquid, drowning out financial reports.
A mere five hours later, my hand reaches for the alarm. I stretch, smooth down my white vest over the flat stomach that my recent stomach bug has created and open my eyes. The memory of Samuel took over my dreams last night, just as it has every night since I left him. Familiar feelings of apprehension gurgle and skip at the thought of seeing him this week, and I’m nervous about how he will be around me after so long, and rightly so.
Samuel’s phone calls and texts came relentlessly that first week. I tried to ignore him, but they just kept coming. In the end he left me no choice. I sent him one reply:
Thanks for a wonderful week, Samuel, but it’s over now. I wish you all the best, goodbye. Sophie.
And then I blocked his number . . . and cried for a week.
I shake the memories of him; I have to forget the woman I was during my time with Samuel, the woman who fell in love with a man only to leave him without an explanation in the middle of the night.
The taxi purrs patiently by the roadside as my handbag clicks shut: lipstick, passport, tickets, purse, tampons, hidden from view. I close the front door firmly behind me, pulling along my suitcase past the snowdrops, their heads braving the edges of winter.
‘Mornin’, Sophie. Airport again, is it?’
‘Good morning, Bert. Yes, please.’
‘Where are you off to, then?’
‘Washington DC,’ I reply. Bert gives a whistle and I can’t help but meet his impressed expression in the rear-view mirror.
‘Haven’t you been there before? Last year, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, in the autumn.’ The memory of him hits me, as it does so often; his green eyes narrowed in concentration as he delicately plucked the leaf from beneath my scarlet hat.
‘To take with you.’
‘Business, is it?’ I’m brought back to the present.
‘Yes,’ I reply, dismissing the memory. ‘Business.’
