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

by Emma Cooper

  We make our way through the first six-pack as I fill him in. ‘I’ve rung Sandwell and nobody will tell me a thing; her phone just goes to answer phone, I can’t find her anywhere. I’d get a plane but what would I do when I get there?’

  He pulls his massive frame from the sofa, does a couple of squats, links his fingers, turns them and stretches them before cracking his knuckles.

  ‘Let’s find your gal then, Sammy boy.’

  ‘I’ve tried . . . look.’ I reach over and grab the notebook covered in unsuccessful Facebook searches.

  ‘I thought you didn’t do social media.’

  ‘I don’t. It’s full of fake people with fake news and fake—’

  ‘All right, all right. Sorry I mentioned it. Have you tried Twitter? Insta?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Right. I’ll log on to my accounts. Order us a pizza, will you? I’m starving.’

  Daylight fades, lights blink on, curtains yawn and stretch. Bret leans back, defeatedly throwing a cold pizza crust into its box.

  ‘Mate, it’s as if she’s disappeared.’

  ‘But she has to be somewhere!’ I march up and down the lounge. ‘We just have to find her.’

  ‘I hate to say it, Sammy boy . . . but maybe she doesn’t want to be found.’

  Week Five

  Sophie

  It is half-eleven in the evening and I am currently throwing up. Again. Too much wine and stilton. My time has been spent lying in bed drinking, eating and watching old films. It’s amazing how exhausted you can feel when you’re doing nothing.

  I stare at my pale reflection, my hands gripping on to the sides of the sink. This has got to stop. I wash my face, dry my hands and go into the kitchen. I blink at the light’s harsh intrusion and open the fridge door. The remaining wine is still sitting there and so I pour it down the sink, retching again as the smell hits me, bringing up only bile this time.

  Morning comes with the realisation that I need to pull myself together. I pull up the roman blinds and stare outside as buttery light sugar-coats the edges of the harsh, black pavements like lemon curd on burnt toast. Hot jets of water awaken me further, as I shower and change, straighten my hair, adding make-up to my face for the first time in a couple of weeks; I even venture out to the corner shop and buy some newspapers and a litre bottle of ginger ale.

  I sit with my legs tucked beneath me, the soft-grey chenille sofa cushioning my body, as I try to remember the last time I read the papers in my own lounge as opposed to a coffee shop or on the train. Job pages leap forward, leaving the world’s tragedies behind, and I begin circling prospective opportunities, but the pages have become blurred. It takes a moment for me to notice that I am crying again. I close the papers and hold my head in my hands. A feeling of helplessness fills the void inside; the void that I didn’t know was there. I know I’m not ready. I need to wait until my name isn’t bouncing off the lips of everyone in acquisitions and finance. I know what I have to do. My hands are shaking as I plug the phone back into its socket and dial the familiar number.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, noticing my voice has a rougher tone to it: it’s injured and scraped. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Sophie, now is not a good time. Caitlin has just stuffed sweetcorn up her nose and I can’t get it out.’ My sister’s life is always peppered with one disaster after another. ‘No, Jess!’ I hear a muffled scream as she moves the phone away from her ear. ‘Put the worm down! No! Not down the toilet. Soph, can I call you back?’

  ‘Helen, I, I, just needed a chat,’ I say, feeling the need to be by her side.

  ‘Just a sec. For God’s sake, Greg! Can you just watch them for a minute? I need the loo.’ I hear the background noise of Greg’s deep voice, the thuds of Helen’s steps up the stairs and then the noise is dulled by the click of what I presume is the bathroom door. ‘This is the only place I can get some peace and quiet.’ I hear the noise of the toilet seat slamming down. ‘So, what’s up? I haven’t heard from you for ages. How is it in the world of finance and the big smoke?’

  ‘I’ve messed up, Hel.’ I’m crying again.

  ‘Soph?’ I can hear the surprise in my sister’s voice, the sister I have barely spoken to in the past month. ‘Sophie?’ I am sitting slumped against the wall, holding the phone against my shoulder as my words are stifled by claustrophobic sobs.

  ‘Can I come and stay for a few days?’ I ask.

  ‘Where else would you go?’ Relief floods my body as I hang up the phone.

  It feels good to be driving away from the city. The further away, the more relaxed I become. The grey sky lies above me like a duvet, folds and creases smothering the cold toes of spring. I push my foot down harder on the accelerator, the call of the familiar urging me forward. Funny that I should feel this way, when I felt the exact opposite when I left.

  For step-sisters to become as close as we did is unusual: two broken families forced to become one new one. I didn’t want them to come and live with us; it had been just Mum and I, since I was three. I have no recollection of my dad other than the few family photos that Mum insisted on keeping around the house, even though he had left her. She even – morbidly, ridiculously – framed his letter telling her he didn’t love her any more and that this wasn’t ‘the right life’ for him. I remember being embarrassed by that letter and dreaded having friends over in case they saw it. I mean, how do you explain that you weren’t ‘right’ for your own father?

  I take a sip of my bottled water, thankful that the hangover is starting to go. The motorway stretches out languorously towards the countryside as I think about those early days when Helen and her dad Ian moved in.

  I had always wanted a baby brother. I remember playing with my baby doll called Damian. I used to cut up my dad’s old clothes and make him romper suits out of his blue shirts and pretend to give him milk from an old pop bottle. Helen was the opposite: an older sister.

  We lived in a semi-detached cottage deep in the hills near the Mid Wales coast. Next door was an elderly lady who smelt like cabbage and lavender. It was cold all the time, except in the middle of summer, if the sea breeze was kind. I remember peeking from behind a crack in the door as Helen unpacked her pretty cotton nightdresses – mine were all thick and thermal. She must have known I was there, watching the way her long brown hair curled at the ends and noticing how she seemed to have a permanent smile on her face. I had scurried into the room after my bath – embarrassed to have to share the room with someone I didn’t know, as well as someone who was four and a half years my senior – but she had smiled and passed me one of her nighties.

  ‘You can have this if you like . . . it was my favourite, but it’s a bit small for me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I had whispered and then clambered under my covers, my five-year-old eyes avoiding her smiling ones. She settled herself into the bed opposite, turning on the bedside lamp.

  ‘Do you like stories?’ she asked. I had nodded, afraid to break the spell that had woven its way into my cold room. ‘Oh good! Do you mind if I read it out loud? I love sharing stories . . . my mum used to read out loud to me, all the time, and we’d try and guess what was going to happen next. Sometimes, we would have to look up the words that we didn’t know in a dictionary and then we would write them down on paper and make a word-wall that covered my whole bedroom wall . . . could we do that? Is that OK? Do you mind?’ She still talks like that, like there aren’t enough minutes in the day for her to say all the words that she wants to. My eyes had widened. I couldn’t believe that she actually wanted to read to me. My very own real big sister.

  ‘This one is Treasure Island. It’s really, really old with some big words, but that will make a good start to our word-wall.’ She had smiled. ‘Oh look!’ She opened the book and pointed to a map: ‘A treasure map!’ I leant forward, my eyes widening like saucers as she pointed out the words ‘Spyglass Hill’ and ‘Skeleton Island’. ‘It begins with: “To the hesitating purchaser” – hesitating means if you’re not sure about somet
hing and purchaser means the person buying the book – so that’s us. They can be our first words; would you write them down for me? I know, I’ll come and sit by you on your bed and you can copy the words down in my best notepad, how does that sound?’ I had given her a shy nod and she had scrambled over clutching the book in one hand and her notebook with a pen down its spine under her arm. That’s how we spent most evenings, even when the arguments began, and the sounds of smashing crockery almost drowned out her words.

  Hours pass, and the swish of the window wipers and the classical music from the radio is starting to have an effect. My eyes feel heavy and even though I’m not far away, I decide to pull into a retail park to get some caffeine. My indicator ticks in between the squeaks of the wipers, as the rain hammers harder on to the screen. A lorry is turning right in front of me and I have to slam my brakes on, my belt cutting across my chest with a jerk. I hit my horn and continue around the bend. I didn’t see it coming: the white car.

  The sound of metal upon metal screams in my ears and for a moment I’m confused as to what it is that I have hit or what has hit me. The airbag – full and startling – has already begun to deflate and the moment of security has collapsed. The rain continues, regardless of my turmoil, as I sit dazed for a few moments. Mozart is still playing on the radio and my heart is still beating, albeit faster than usual. I reach my shaking hand towards the door handle, as a stabbing pain shoots through my abdomen. My breath is taken away by the pain, my eyes watering in response. The door is stuck. I undo the belt, climb over the gear stick and out of my car. I watch as my feet step out on to the endless tarmac, the sooty reflection of the sky blackening the puddles around me. My brown boots take steps; I am aware that I am already soaked and that there is a woman yelling at me. I blink twice, mascara dripping from my eyelashes, and then there is nothing.

  Week Five

  Samuel

  I follow my feet as they run. My heart rate increases with every step, my body waking, my thoughts becoming clear. I don’t look at my surroundings; I don’t care about the colours of the sky, or the reflection on the water.

  My thoughts are tied up with images of Sophie, of the day of the dancing umbrella.

  I run towards the tidal basin; the Washington Monument stands tall and poised like a marble pencil which dips into the clear ink of the water. The air is filled with the perfume of cherry blossoms and it brings my thoughts back to the here and now. Each tree arches towards the water, leaning and linking themselves together: a family of pink clouds raining their petals gently over the spectators. I slow my pace into a walk and then reach up and take a blossom. It is so delicate that it feels as though I am holding nothing; only the gentle whisper across my palms lets me know that it is there as it rolls from side to side. I take off my backpack and nestle the blossom in between the folds of my wallet. I know I am being sentimental – foolish even – but this small act makes me feel closer to her. I replace my backpack and start to smile. I’m thinking about the look she will have on her face when I give it to her, because I am determined: I will find her.

  The run has cleared my head. I take a shower, clear up, put the kettle on and carry a parcel from Mam into the lounge. Tearing it open, I smile at the contents: another food package. Bisto gravy granules are resting on top of a packet of McVitie’s chocolate digestives – simple things that you can’t find over here. I eat a biscuit in three mouthfuls and then go back to my laptop. I check my email account for replies from the messages I’ve been sending to as many of her colleagues as I can track down. I scratch the back of my head as I re-read a sentence from an email that I’ve had from someone called Gemma. ‘Have you tried her sister?’ it reads. I rub my hand over the rough stubble on my chin . . . I remember her sister was called Helen, but apart from that, I don’t have any more information about her. I rattle off a quick email to Gemma, asking if she happens to know Helen’s surname or address. I hit send, then check the Sandwell website again for any mention of Sophie. I’m certain she would be going for another job in finance; she seemed too strong to just let this setback stop her. As I begin to scour through the financial newspapers, I ignore my dry mouth which should have been quenched by the tea I’d intended to make.

  Instead, I settle myself away from the desk and on the sofa. Leaning backwards to reach for a pen from the desk behind me, I start circling jobs that she might be interested in, making a list of the office names, websites and phone numbers.

  A ping from behind me lets me know I have an email. I get up, lean over the desk and click the mouse on the icon. It’s from Gemma: she thinks the sister’s name is Helen Yates.

  I wander back to Mam’s hamper, rip open a packet of ‘Tayto’ crisps and begin searching for Helen Yates. I pinch my finger along the crease of the crisp packet and aim the tip of the crease into my mouth, sliding the remaining fragments into my mouth. There are hundreds of Helen Yateses: Helen Yates’ hairdressing; Helen Yates Isle of Man; Helen Yates tattooist. I screw up the crisp packet and throw it across the room towards the bin – it hits the side, but the shot falls short. I turn back to the screen. I need more than a name; she could be anywhere.

  My neck cracks as I rotate it from side to side, then I realise that Helen Yates is probably her married name. I hit the keys and enter Helen Williams into the search bar. I scroll through the results, but again I’m left with nothing. My mouth is parched from the salted crisps, and my eyes feel dry from looking at the computer monitor for so long. I get up and walk to the window. The wind is playing with the leaves on the ground like a spoilt child, picking things up and throwing them down. The sun is setting, the blaze of it surrendering to the eagerness of the night, darkness pushing into the scene, demanding its spot in the limelight. I draw the curtains and head to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. My feet tread along the hall, the noise from the wind outside whistling through the gaps in the walls, my feet sticking slightly to the hardwood as I step through the door, pausing to reach my hand to the wall and flicking on the light switch.

  I’m momentarily distracted by a sound: like an elderly man taking in his last breath. And then I’m hit by a ball of white-hot light. The feeling is less of being thrown from the room than of being pushed out; I think of the leaves outside as my feet leave the floor, my body tossed from the room, my head cracking against something hard.

  I’m on the rugby pitch; I’ve been tackled hard. My breath is short, and I’m paralysed by the shock of the impact. The noise of the stadium roars in my ears. My face is pushed into the grass, but as I breathe, I can’t smell it; instead I can smell smoke. Get up, Sammy, you great eejit. It’s Da, but what is he doing on the pitch? I try to move but I can’t; pain screams from my leg, from my head. The captain is having it out with the ref, Irish voices calling for a penalty. Get up, Sammy Boy. This time it’s Bret. Something isn’t right; Bret shouldn’t be here, Bret should be in DC. DC. I’m in Washington DC. I’m at home looking for Sophie.

  As though I’ve hit the rewind button on the remote, I watch as my hand leaves the light switch, I see myself reversing back through the hall, into the lounge, I open the curtains: the leaves are still playing, I smile, I walk backwards to the computer, the crisp packet flies from the side of the bin back into my hand, I walk backwards to the table, I rummage in the parcel, I reverse back into the kitchen, I turn on the gas, I put the kettle on top of the stove, I watch myself rewind up the stairs and into the bathroom for a shower. Then I stop, press play and watch as I walk back down the stairs, into the kitchen, turn on the gas and place the kettle on top of the stove. I turn the knob that is always sticking. The knob that I’ve been meaning to fix. And then I walk out of the kitchen . . . the lighter still sitting in the kitchen drawer, unused.

  I try to open my eyes.

  I’m screaming. I can hear my voice. I can feel the heat.

  Then I feel nothing.

  Week Six

  Sophie

  It doesn’t feel like the same day. This morning seems like a lifetime
ago and so does the car crash, and yet just two hours have passed. How can my life have changed so dramatically in such a short space of time? Six months ago, I had a job. Six months ago, I was a successful thirty-year-old who knew exactly where she was going and with whom: six months ago, I wasn’t pregnant.

  ‘If I just . . . Ah, there we go. See that little blinking light? That’s baby’s heartbeat.’ The technician turns the screen towards me and smiles. A real smile, one of those smiles that reaches every part of the face. I try to replicate this gesture, to smooth out the muscles of my cheeks and stretch out the frown that I can feel is corrugating my eyebrows into uneven arcs. She notices – or is perhaps hit by – my expression and I watch as the radiance from her face leaks out of her, and I’m filled with immediate remorse, that the deep crevices of my forehead can have such a destructive impact. She clears her throat, pushes her black-framed glasses further up her small, button nose and returns her gaze to the screen. ‘Here is the yolk sac, and if I just measure the heartbeat . . . there we go, one hundred and fifteen beats per minute, nice and strong.’

  ‘Oh,’ I reply. I know this word – not even a word, really, more a sound that you make if you suddenly realise that you’ve run out of milk – does not explain my feelings correctly. I know it is insubstantial and yet it is the only word that I can say. ‘Oh,’ I repeat as I attempt to swallow some saliva, but my mouth is dry. ‘Oh, I, I didn’t know there would be a, a . . .’ I look into the hopeful eyes of the technician but my startled reflection glares back at me through her lenses, ‘. . . yolk sac,’ is my disappointing conclusion. It’s as though I have shot her. I can see the colour drain from her flushed cheeks. I try again. Come on, you can do better. ‘So, I guess I’m like a chicken?’ I inject some humour into the situation, but my tone is flat, and my sentence comes out as a statement rather than a question.