by Emma Cooper
My playlist finishes and switches to my ‘Tunes’. She bursts out laughing when ‘You’re the One That I Want’ explodes from the speakers swiftly followed by ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’.
‘What?’ I ask. ‘You can’t tell me that you didn’t want to sing along.’ She rolls her eyes but her leg is bouncing up and down as ‘All That Jazz’ starts.
I pull into the car park and we climb out. Her cheeks are pink and the tip of her nose is red, and I find myself kissing the end of it.
‘It’s like kissing the tip of an ice cube,’ I say, my voice muffled. She’s always cold, I notice, and I add it to the list of things that I’m trying to store in my memory. Her hands sneak beneath my shirt and I shriek.
‘You scream like a girl,’ she whispers into my ear, slipping her hand in mine, leaning against me as we walk into the cinema.
I balance an overflowing box of popcorn against my chest as I fumble with the tickets. Sophie walks ahead into the small auditorium, which must only seat about sixty people, making her way towards the front, but I stop her.
‘We have to sit at the back.’ I nod with my head towards the back row.
‘But the seats in the middle are better.’ She frowns.
‘It’s not romantic to sit in the middle. We have to snog on the back seats.’ Two elderly women on the seats in front turn their heads to look in our direction. I grin at them and they chuckle back as Sophie hesitates, rolls her eyes and then follows me to the red-velvet covered seats.
I hate Gone with the Wind, but I knew she would love it. I don’t watch the screen anyway; I watch her and I list the things I need to remember: her fingers can craft a sugar packet into a flower without her eyes leaving the screen; she always puts popcorn in her mouth one kernel at a time, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop; she crosses her right leg over her left and taps her foot twice before she settles; she always covers her mouth with her hand when she laughs so much that she snorts; she pulls at her earlobe when she’s thinking . . . and she sometimes looks at me like she’s afraid of me.
Chapter Seven
Sophie
Our hands swing in time to our steps, our fingers entwined as we walk around the edge of the lake. The trees are bowing majestically around it, their burnt oranges and reds reflecting perfectly in the water, like the poster-paint butterflies that I used to make as a child – blobs of autumn stretching out and folding into the water: a perfect print.
Nights spent in bed but without sleep, and my approaching departure, are making us both edgy. He stops walking as a russet leaf falls into my hair, his green eyes narrowing in concentration as he delicately plucks it from beneath my scarlet hat, his strong fingers opening my palm and placing the leaf inside, closing my hands gently around it.
‘To take with you,’ he says quietly, dancing around the subject of me leaving. I’ve been pushing it away, putting it in a locked cabinet, filing it away to be dealt with at a later date, but the drawer keeps sliding open: the woman in white, the woman in heels whose armour protects her from the girl she once was, keeps opening it. The time we are spending together is a fantasy; it isn’t real. My life in London is real. ‘Stay,’ he says, smiling at me and tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ears.
‘I can’t stay . . . my job—’
‘Ah yes. The job,’ he replies sadly. ‘Couldn’t you, you know, do that for another company?’
‘No,’ I say with finality. ‘I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am, Samuel.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t you feel that way about your job? You left home to work over here, didn’t you? To work in your, what do you call it? Emerald City?’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Can we not talk about work? I’m on holiday, remember?’ I turn to him and kiss him, looking deep into his eyes, trying to convey that the subject is too hard for me to talk about.
I’m lying on his bare chest as it rises up and down, the duvet pushed to the end of the bed, the curtains still open even though it’s dark outside.
‘You smell like strawberries,’ he says, kissing the top of my head. I look at my nails running through the dark hair on his chest; they’re stained pink beneath.
‘You should have let me finish getting dessert ready,’ I yawn. ‘The meringues will be all mushy.’
‘Mushy meringues are my favourite.’ He runs his fingers up and down my spine. ‘Soph . . . maybe, maybe I could come to London? Maybe I could get a job in the UK? I’ve got an interview next week for a promotion. I’m going to pitch an idea to the board next week, and if they like it, it could really get me noticed; if I left as head of IT I bet I could easily get a decent job over there.’
‘What’s your idea?’ My eyes begin to close, sleep deprivation catching up with me.
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, j
ust 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.’
Once in flight, I open my laptop and go through my notes again, double-checking figures, familiarising myself with the staff at Greenlight. His name sits there now: Samuel McLaughlin – Head of Information Technology. He got the promotion.
Hours pass, and I close my eyes as I try to ignore the child behind me talking incessantly, but every time I do, I see Samuel’s face.
A stewardess approaches and I order a cup of coffee. She passes it to me with a smile; I take a sip and close my eyes again. Turbulence bounces the plane and the seat belt sign pings on. I drain the last of my cup, reach for my compact, and re-apply my make-up, pushing my memories to the back of my mind as the plane makes its descent.
I’m checked into the hotel by a petite girl with thick, orange eyebrows which look like furry orange peelings, and an hour later, I’m looking up at the Greenlight regional office. I take a deep breath and walk through the rotating doors.
‘Sophie Williams to see Edward Johnson, please.’ I hold my briefcase firmly in my hands, my palms dry despite the adrenaline pumping through me.
‘Twenty-fifth floor.’
‘Thank you.’
I step into the lift and with every floor that passes, my nerves bubble in my stomach. The doors open, and I’m surrounded by the hum of computers sliced with the sharp sounds of phones ringing, the mechanics softened by the warm smell of coffee and perfume. I’m greeted by an Amazonian brunette who takes my hand, giving it a firm shake.
‘Ms Williams? I’m Katherine Day, Kat for short. Welcome to DC. Did you have a good journey?’
‘I did, thank you.’
‘Mr Johnson and the board are through here.’ The door is pushed aside to reveal a huge oval-shaped conference table. I ignore the fact that there are possibly thirty to forty people sitting around it, most of whom are engrossed in heated arguments. I ignore that my hand is shaking and that I have just sat in the wrong seat and have had to get back up and move to another; I ignore that my boss isn’t yet sitting at the table. I ignore all of this because he is here. From the corner of my eyes I see him agitatedly run his hands through his dark hair, his accent becoming thicker as his voice rises; but I can’t let this happen again, can’t let my feelings for him get the better of me. I’m here to make a proposal: that the company I work for ‘acquires’ his.
‘Ah, Ms Williams, glad you could join us.’ The conversations drop, like the end of an echo. My voice feels thick, but when I speak it is clear and steady.
‘It’s a pleasure, Mr Johnson. If we could just wait a few moments for my colleague to arrive?’
‘Unfortunately, Mr Swift had to leave after an emergency call. He said that the proposal is your baby anyway?’
I try to curb the frustration I am feeling towards Bob Swift; his wife is in the last month of her pregnancy and I have no doubt that is the reason for his swift departure.
‘Of course. If you could all turn to page two of the proposal?’ I take a sip of water and begin to make my way to the computer at the front of the room. I smile as I open the presentation.
‘Greenlight Finance has long been one of the champions of small businesses; indeed, up until recently, it has been one of the leading lenders in its field.’ I take a deep breath and meet the conflicting stares around the table. ‘However, in the last two years there has been a considerable decline in profits.’ I take another sip of water. The remnants of the Welsh accent I have tried so hard to lose have slipped in: ‘prof-ets’, I’ve said.
‘This is not new news . . .’ a mole of a man squints at me, clicking his pen repetitively, ‘what with the recession and—’
‘Your figures show a distinct decline before that, if I could continue?’ There, much better.
‘After a thorough evaluation of your financial reports, we can see that this coincides with the increase in small business loans realised by the bigger banking groups of the Washington DC financial district. We believe that this is due to a new piece of software that was implemented and sold exclusively to these three institutions.’
The faces are shadowed by the purple light shining from the screen; for a moment, I’m reminded of a punnet of blueberries.
‘This is old news,’ the mole digs at me. ‘That software is tied into a watertight agreement with those companies – how does it help us?’ I meet his poky eyes and I’m reminded of Danger Mouse’s sidekick, but then I remember he was a hamster, not a mole.
‘We at Sandwell Incorporated have had a breakthrough with one of our programmers in our tech department. He has designed a new piece of software that is faster and superior to any other systems of its kind.’ I pause for a moment to allow the mutterings to subside. ‘Our software uses real-time data from the most popular search engines to the biggest on-line shopping sites, which would streamline any small loan applications, making the process smoother, more transparent and – more importantly – faster. We own the patent for this software.’
‘And what is it that you want for this software?’ The Northern Irish voice stings my skin and for a moment I’m paralysed.
‘In a nutshell?’ I meet his eyes. ‘Greenlight Finance.’ My words cause an eruption of voices and movement. I take a sip of water and calm myself. We had expected this reaction, but it was supposed to be Bob dealing with the fallout, not me. He has a much softer way of approaching these things, using flowery language and humour to make the proceedings more pliable.
‘Ms Williams?’ Samuel’s accent masks the anger behind the statement. ‘Can I ask how long your programmer has been working on this software?’
‘I don’t see how that is relevant at this point.’ I turn away from his look of disgust and instead answer the barrage of questions being thrown my way. He doesn’t say another word to me for the next two hours.
Week One
Samuel
Sweet Jesus, would you look at her? My hair feels too heavy for my head and the room too full of, well . . . her. She’s thinner than I remember, and her haircut is more severe, I notice as she speaks to Ed. She’s annoyed about something, that’s for sure, because she’s tapping her hand against her thigh quickly, like the day we argued about women drivers.
‘If you could all turn to page two of the proposal?’ she instructs. As if she hadn’t just left in the middle of the night without a word, without any
explanation. She stands there as cool as you like: grey suit, sharp creases, heels . . . it’s hard to imagine her in her jeans and one of my shirts.
When I saw her name on the email about the proposed ‘merger’ with Sandwell the week after she left, I was sure it must be somebody else. I mean, there must be a million Sophie Williamses, right? But when I saw her picture next to her bio . . . well, it all became clear. The girl who hiccups when she laughs too much, who made me origami roses out of sugar packets, is really this woman: the woman who could send me a message after the week we had together wishing me ‘all the best’.
I watch her stride towards the front of the room, confident and sure – not slightly awkward and shy at all – and I hate myself for being played. How long had she taken over the decision of who to betray? Did she look at all the men in power and choose me because I looked weak, or did she already know about my idea?
Tim Smith is clicking his pen irritatingly and I turn to him as he squints towards her. I’ve always thought that he looks like a shrew, or a vole. What was the character in Danger Mouse? Somebody once said he was a hamster, but I’m sure it was a mole.
‘We at Sandwell Incorporated have had a breakthrough with one of our programmers in our tech department. He has designed a new piece of software that is faster and superior to any other systems of its kind.’
As she says this, my whole body feels hot and shaky; anger bubbles up inside as I watch her, not a tremor in her hand, not an embarrassed flush of her cheeks, while she stands there and pitches my idea as if it’s her fecking own.
