The First Time I Saw You: the most heartwarming and emotional love story of the year

by Emma Cooper

  With each hour that passes, with each glass of wine and mouthful of food, I feel as though I’m getting closer to her.

  The next morning, I’m late, hurrying up the wrong side of the street. Traffic is busy and I can’t find a gap to make my way over to her. She strides down the steps outside the hotel wearing a heavy white jacket with a grey fur trim around the collar; slim white trousers rest above high-heeled white shoes. It’s strange that I should notice these things but something about the way that she is dressed demands attention. She doesn’t see me at first, glancing up and down the street. My heart thuds against my ribs, just as it would when I’d try to kick goal from a penalty, the hush and apprehension of the crowd, the expectations of the fans, making my eyes narrow in concentration. My palms are sweating, and I rub them along my jeans as I watch her flick her wrist, her hair covering the side of her cheek as she inspects her watch-face. I quicken my pace; she has placed one heel on the step behind her, as though she is going to go back into the hotel. Her name leaves my mouth; the softness of it hangs in the air above me but doesn’t reach her, so I begin to wave, not the discreet wave that I intended, but a great swooping archway with both my hands. Her head turns towards me; my arms are continuing to wave as I grin. She pulls at her earlobe, her foot remaining on the step. I begin to panic. I watch the hesitation in her footsteps; my hands stop waving and I stand there, my arms still raised to the sky. My breath hovers tightly as I inhale; it lies inside my lungs, taut and expectant. Her foot steps down, one step, two steps until she is crossing the road, her stride exuding confidence and certainty in contrast to the fragility I saw last night. She approaches me.

  ‘Hello.’ Her strange amber-coloured eyes stare up at me, that lost look I had first seen hiding in them eradicated with a blink.

  ‘Hello,’ I reply. It’s hard to explain the way Sophie looks at me as we walk around the city: the way her eyes not only follow where I’m pointing, but follow my whole arm, from my shoulder to the tips of my fingers as I draw her attention to the Thomas Jefferson Memorial; the way her eyes linger over every part of my face as I talk about the White House and its secret tunnels; the way her hand brushes against mine as we approach the Lincoln Memorial. It is in the way that she listens to me speak, the way she watches my mouth, the way she lets me brush her hair away from those strange-coloured eyes.

  ‘Tell me something you like,’ I ask her as we sit down on a bench.

  ‘Marmite,’ she answers. I wrinkle my nose. ‘And singing in the shower,’ she adds, the last part coming out of her mouth like a hiccup – like something she is trying to control but can’t. ‘Tell me more about your family,’ she asks as she shields her eyes from the autumn sun.

  ‘My sister calls me Mule because she couldn’t say Samuel when we were little.’

  ‘Mule . . .’ Her mouth tries to contain a smile.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Well, isn’t a mule a bit close to an ass?’

  I sit back. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  She laughs and looks across to where the light is hitting the top of the tall, pencil-like peak of the Washington Monument.

  ‘It does sound like her, though. We’ve got a competitive relationship,’ I explain, thinking of Sarah.

  ‘I’d say she’s won if she’s been calling you an ass all your life and you didn’t notice.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Is that where Forrest Gump wades into the water?’ She grabs my arm and shifts her body so she can crane her neck.

  ‘Yeah, I think so. It’s not my type of film. I’m more of a, you know . . .’ I do some manly pow-pow noises and point my fingers into a gun shape. ‘Action film fan. Die Hard is my favourite.’

  ‘Is that so?’ She smiles at me as if she already knows that my favourite film is really Love Actually, but it’s not like I’m going to admit that on a first date, even though there are lots of reasons why this is as much a man’s film as a woman’s – just take that dorky Colin character. He flies off to America and ends up with a gaggle of women swooning at his feet.

  She leans her head back and gazes into the sky above. ‘This time tomorrow I’ll be up there somewhere, on my way back home.’ Her eyes close, the sun catching tiny bits of glitter in her eyeshadow.

  Her whole demeanour changes when we arrive back outside her hotel. She smooths down her trousers and shrugs her hair back from her face.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Samuel.’ Her hand reaches out and I attempt to re-enact my fist bump from the day before. It isn’t a success.

  ‘Sophie, could we . . . grab a coffee? Tomorrow morning? Before you leave?’ Her mouth begins to open but then shuts, like she has taken a gulp of air that has filled her mouth and she can’t swallow it, but she nods and looks at me in a way that tells me what I need to know. She likes me, she wants to see me again, but it is such a cautious nod, so quickly executed that it’s as though her body has answered before she could keep it in check.

  ‘Shall-I-give-you-my-number?’ I ask. The words running into each other like a string of notes, not a melody with breaks and changes in tempo.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Do you want to write it down?’ She shakes her head.

  ‘I’m good with numbers, I’ll remember it.’

  I give her my number; her eyes look up to the sky as I say it. I hope that the numbers are clinging to her, not floating away into clouds.

  She’s not going to call. My mouth is dry. I’ll never see her again. But then she leans forward and kisses me on the cheek.

  ‘Thank you, Samuel. It’s been a wonderful day.’ Her voice stays with me even though she is already running up the steps and out of my sight.

  I’m just beginning to walk away when my phone vibrates against my leg.

  How can you not like Marmite?

  I wait until the clock says 22:30 until I ring her.

  I don’t say hello and I don’t tell her it’s me; I don’t want to give her the chance for her head to rule her heart. ‘Meet me in the lobby at midnight . . . I have a surprise.’ Her reply isn’t sleepy or confused, it isn’t wary or suspicious; instead, she simply says, ‘OK.’

  The taxi drops us at the park and we walk hand in hand along the path. I simply reach for hers and there it is, cold inside my palm, feeling like it has been there a thousand times before. The trees yawn and arch their backs, pulling the cover of night over their weary bodies. I pause opposite a fountain – a tower in the middle layered with ascending stones lit up with hidden bulbs – the sound of the water making me wish I’d gone to the toilet before I left the hotel.

  ‘This spot is perfect,’ I say, taking off my backpack and retrieving the blanket, which I shake out and lay on the grass; then I begin placing battery-operated tea-lights around it.

  ‘Ah shite,’ I say, moving the small switch at the base of the candles back and forth, but the flame refuses to light. She takes it from my hand and pulls out a little tag from its base, the fake flame dancing in her palm. Her shoes, another pair of heels, are discarded. It’s strange to see her feet bare; they are so small, so perfectly formed that I can’t stop looking at them as she continues switching the candles on, her lips curving into a smile, her dimples deepening. I tear my gaze away from her feet in case she thinks I have some kind of foot fetish.

  We sit on the blanket; her back is straight, her legs crossed like a child on the carpet in school. I empty the contents of my bag: a bottle of champagne, Tupperware boxes of sandwiches, plastic flutes.

  ‘So tell me a bit more about your family,’ she asks.

  ‘They’re loud.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ she answers with a sly smile. ‘And your sister . . . do you look like each other?’

  I pop the champagne and pour her a glass. ‘My sister looks like a Celt. Have you seen that Disney film? Brave?’ Her forehead furrows as if I’ve just asked her if she watches hard-core porn. ‘Ah well, she looks like that, tall, red hair, green eyes. She’s a walkin
g cliché. What about your family?’

  She takes a long sip of her drink. ‘There’s nothing to tell you, really, we’re not close. We don’t look like Disney characters, that’s for sure. I have a step-sister, Helen, but I don’t see her very often. She lives in Shropshire. Is your mum a redhead, then, or just your sister?’

  ‘Nah, Mam has my colour hair and thinks she can save the world with a cup of tea and a custard cream.’ I turn to the Tupperware and pass her a smoked salmon sandwich which she takes from me, nibbling the edge with a slightly repulsed look.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask, watching the struggle of the sandwich being forced down her throat, her hand reaching for the plastic flute and gulping the contents down.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She places the triangle away from her. ‘I’m sorry after you’ve gone to so much trouble, but I don’t like salmon, it’s too . . . slimy.’

  She shudders, but I delve back into my bag and produce a Marmite sandwich. Her face changes into a grin. Not the demure smiles she has controlled so far, but a big, open-mouthed beam. There is nothing dainty about the way she eats this time – the sandwich is devoured in two bites. This shocks me a little. This woman wearing a suit jacket for a midnight picnic can eat like a teenage boy. The sky hangs darkly above us as we lie down side by side. Sophie asks me about my childhood, about the things I got up to when me and my friend Connor used to say we were staying at each other’s houses.

  ‘What about your childhood? What did you used to get up to?’ I ask, topping up our glasses.

  ‘My childhood was dull really . . .’

  ‘What did you want to be when you grew up?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I was just always good at maths, so . . . accounting.’

  ‘That was your childhood dream job? An accountant?’

  ‘You don’t have to say it like a dirty word,’ she answers, but I can hear the smile in her voice. ‘Anyway, I’m not an accountant any more . . .’

  It’s past two in the morning before I pluck up the courage to do what I need to. I take her hands and pull her up and then sink down on one knee. She twists her blond hair around her finger as I produce a small box; from the amusement on her face I know she’s not expecting me to propose marriage.

  ‘You know my flight home is tomorrow, Samuel?’ she says, scooping her hair into a ponytail before letting it drop back down over her shoulder.

  ‘I know, that’s why I need to ask you. Sophie Williams, will you do me the honour of being my house guest for a week instead?’ I open the box and inside gleams my front door key. It’s my only key, actually, as I haven’t had time to get another one cut just yet.

  ‘I never take time off work, Samuel. I have to go back.’

  ‘Never?’ She shakes her head and begins chewing the inside of her thumbnail. I can tell she is considering it. ‘You analyse data, right?’ She nods. ‘Will that data have dramatically changed in a week’s time?’ She gives a little shake of her head. ‘So what you’re saying is . . .’ I begin ticking things off on my fingers, ‘you never take time off, which means your job isn’t at risk because you’re not taking the piss and having extra holidays.’ I tick off another finger. ‘Your work will still be there when you get back; the world isn’t going to end if you don’t analyse that oh-so-important data.’ Another finger is counted. ‘And you have a handsome, fun Irishman giving you free accommodation for a week in one of the most exciting cities in the world. Now would you just say yes already because my knee is killing me?’ I can see what I’m asking her is more than she is used to giving. She seems to be battling silent warnings against the idea and I hold my breath, hoping I’ve done enough to convince her that I am a good man.

  ‘No.’ The word erupts from her, seeming to take her by surprise. She covers her mouth, responding to the look of desolation that I can feel falling across my face. ‘But—’ I raise my eyebrows hopefully, ‘I will stay here, in DC, for a week. You can be my . . . tour guide.’ Her smile lights up her face and she begins to laugh. ‘I’ll ring them in the morning and tell them . . . I’m taking a holiday.’

  As the taxi takes us back to her hotel, she falls asleep on my shoulder. The weight of her head against me feels familiar, feels right. Her hair smells of something expensive, something citrusy, and I let my fingers twirl the ends of it as I listen to the little noises she makes, the silent breath in and the slight gasp of sound as she breathes out.

  The brakes squeal as we pull up, and her eyes open with a confused, almost alarmed look, but it’s ironed away as she sees me. Her eyebrows relax and her lips tilt into a shy smile as she straightens herself, opens the door and puts a foot on to the pavement before turning her head over her shoulder towards me.

  ‘Thank you, Samuel . . . today has been perfect.’

  Chapter Five

  Sophie

  I stretch and shift myself up the bed, rearranging my new pyjamas, pulling my feet up and rolling over to face him. Last night, I’d fallen asleep watching Die Hard. He doesn’t have a DVD player downstairs so we’d brought popcorn and drinks up here. I don’t remember Samuel turning the TV off, but I do remember not wanting to move from his bed.

  Inside my shopping bags are the clothes I bought yesterday, the types of clothes that I haven’t worn for a long time. Flat boots instead of heels, jeans instead of trouser suits, jumpers and blouses that hang loosely around my frame, letting me breathe, letting me relax.

  Yesterday, he took me out on paddle boats. From the people who watched us it would seem like a nice thing to do for someone. Look at that couple having a romantic trip across the water, look at how they are laughing, look at how they are so involved with each other that they barely even notice the beautiful scenery. They can’t see that the handsome man is afraid of the water, that that man with the broad shoulders and loud voice suffers from seasickness even on a paddle boat, that he is suffering this, bearing his own fear, for her.

  With each day that passes, he gives something of himself to me, and I allow myself to accept these gifts, these parts of him that are filling the spaces inside me. I’ve been living my adult life filling my hunger with a career, snacking on snippets of success, not aware that I was starving, until I allowed myself a taste of this . . . fairy tale. I know that it won’t last, that this is just a fragile dream that I’m not strong enough to hold on to. My career is what is real and my life in London is what will keep me alive, but that didn’t stop me from agreeing to stay the night.

  I study his face, his eyelids hiding the dreams beneath. Samuel sighs gently and reaches his arm around my waist. His skin is always warm, my skin always cold against his.

  He hasn’t kissed me yet. It’s like our intimacies have started from the end of a relationship and are moving backwards against time. We started at the retirement end of the spectrum: holding hands and finishing each other’s sentences. Yesterday we moved into our middle ages: he has kissed my cheek, the top of my head; quick, snatched moments where his movement seemed to burst from him, the action controlling him rather than the other way around.

  Tentatively, I reach for his hair which is resting on his eyebrow. It’s coarse and soft all at the same time and flicks back to the exact same position as it was before I touched it. I lean forward, stepping into adolescence. I ignore the voice inside that is telling me this will hurt even more when I leave, and let my lips brush his. His eyes flick open and we stare at each other. We don’t smile, we just stare. I kiss him again, his hand reaching for the back of my neck, our bodies seeking each other’s: there you are, how have I lived this long without you?

  Our lovemaking is gentle, exquisite: love made.

  Chapter Six

  Samuel

  We haven’t left the house since the paddle boats. I don’t think that we’ve spent more than a few minutes not touching each other. I ran her a bath and sprinkled rose petals in; we laughed as we tried to get down to it in the bath, but the petals kept getting in the way.

  She made us cheese toasties in the
middle of the night, wearing just her underwear, and I watched every muscle in her body flex, listened to the way she hummed while she moved around the kitchen. I had planned to take her to watch the sunset, but we were too wrapped up in each other to leave the house. We took it in turns reading Anna Karenina to each other (she was so pleased when she found it in my bathroom that I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was Sarah’s).

  ‘Tolstoy?’ she asked, as she came back downstairs holding it in her hands. We lay naked and wrapped up in each other’s limbs until she fell asleep with the book in her hands; I don’t think she ever looked more beautiful than she did right then.

  Today, we are venturing out into the world. Her hair smells like my shampoo; my clothes smell of her perfume. I’m taking her to an old renovated cinema that still has intervals and ushers and shows the old classics like Gone with the Wind. It is a two-hour journey and I have borrowed Bret’s convertible.

  ‘What is that?’ she asks, her eyebrows arched, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

  ‘What?’ I ask, rearranging the yellow woolly hat that Ma sent me in my most recent parcel. ‘My mam bought it for me.’ She reaches for the edge and helps shift it into position and drops a kiss on to my nose. My hands twist her red scarf around her neck. ‘The forecast is sunny,’ I say, pulling up her collar, ‘but cold, so we need to wrap up warm, even if it means me wearing a hat the colour of baby poo.’ Her nose wrinkles in disgust.

  I turn on my playlist – ‘Belters’, I call it: Guns N’ Roses, Whitesnake, Def Leppard, and sing along at the top of my voice even though she keeps putting her fingers in her ears.

  The journey passes and I ignore the feeling in the pit of my stomach, the nagging that warns me of the pain to come, that I won’t be able to see her soon, that she will be gone and that I may never see her again. We haven’t talked about what will happen when the week is over, when she returns to that job that seems to mean so much. Instead, I watch her as much as I can, remember every smile that she gives me, and try my hardest to make her want to stay.