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

by Emma Cooper

  ‘This is where we were when he asked me to stay, Bean, and over there . . .’ I whisper, pointing to where other couples are pedalling away across the water, ‘that is where he took me on the paddle boats. You should have seen his face, Bean, he was almost green with seasickness.’ I close my eyes as tears fall from beneath my lids.

  On the morning of the last day, the day I’m due to meet Bret, I take Bean on a trip around the city on a horse-drawn carriage. I don’t care how odd I must look, this pregnant Welsh woman in her loose clothes and pale face. Instead I point out the same sights he did; I tell Bean that his favourite movie is Die Hard; then I laugh to myself, whispering that he also had two copies of Love Actually.

  Bean is tired, the diner is busy, and we are squashed behind a small table at the back. My flight is tomorrow; this is my last day, and I know it is time to say goodbye. I need to find out as much as I can so that when Bean asks me, I can answer my child’s questions.

  Bret walks towards my table; I can see it is going to be quite a squeeze to fit him in. I smooth down the white maternity blouse which hugs my new and improved boobs tightly; beneath the table, the material flares neatly over my ever-growing bump.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me.’ I smile as he lowers himself into the chair, which doesn’t look strong enough to contain him. I don’t stand; my feet hurt too much. He gives me a tight smile and crosses his feet.

  ‘Well. We were starting to think that you had disappeared from the face of the earth. Do you have any clue how many Sophie Williamses there are on Facebook and Twitter?’

  I don’t know how to respond to this. Questions flit behind my nervous fingers as they twist the napkin between my hands. A waitress appears at his side and he orders a Diet Coke. I shake my head and reach for the sparkling water that I have been nursing for the past twenty minutes. ‘Samuel tried so hard to find you. I never quite understood why he would want to after you left him again.’

  ‘I didn’t steal his idea if that’s what you think.’ This comes out abruptly, and I wish I could suck the words back in. Nerves are fuelling my defensive nature.

  ‘I know. Sammy put up quite a good defence of your honour. But he wasn’t the one who threw you to the wolves, either. You broke him when you left. Do you know that?’

  ‘I had no choice,’ I reply as I feel the first hot sting of tears behind my eyes; ready to fall but not yet released.

  ‘Yes, you did.’ I flinch but he isn’t looking at me; he’s gazing around the room as if there are more important things on offer.

  ‘I thought that he had . . . got his own back, that—’ My words don’t flow from my mouth as they should, but instead they tumble out in a disorganised heap, landing on the floor like wet washing from a machine.

  ‘Then you don’t know him at all.’ He looks me straight in the eye; his words are crisp and neat, the edges sharp.

  My hand reaches for my glass. My nails are short; my rings are still in my jewellery box at home now that my fingers have swollen. Bret is still referring to Samuel in the present and I take comfort in this small mistake. I take a sip of water and Bean fidgets against the coolness of the liquid.

  ‘I know what you must think of me, but please understand that, that he did mean a lot to me. I was devastated when I heard about the accident. I cared for Samuel, very much.’ Bret leans back, appraising me.

  ‘You know about the accident?’ he asks, his voice catching. This is obviously something that hurts him.

  ‘A little. I read it in a newspaper article . . .’ My words are controlled, not betraying the feeling inside. They don’t give a glimpse into the way that beneath them, my skin feels like it’s peeling away from my bones.

  ‘A newspaper article?’

  ‘In the Washington Post. There was an explosion, it said?’ My mouth is dry and I take another sip of water.

  ‘There was. He hadn’t lit the gas hob, it had been leaking gas for well over an hour before the spark from the light switch lit it. He was thrown from the room and knocked unconscious. His neighbour dragged him free.’

  ‘I told him that needed fixing,’ I say; the phrase sounds annoyed, not regretful. ‘Was he burnt?’

  ‘Yes.’ I bite the inside of my lip. I can’t taste the blood; I can’t taste anything other than guilt.

  ‘Did he suffer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did he . . . when did Samuel go back to Ireland?’

  ‘You know he’s in Ireland, but you haven’t been in touch? What do you want, Sophie?’ he asks, folding his arms across his chest.

  ‘I want to say goodbye, I want to say sorry and I want to get on with the rest of my life.’

  ‘And what if he doesn’t want your apologies? What if he’s moved on? What if he’s found someone else and—’

  ‘What do you mean, found someone else?’ Jealousy and confusion battle against each other as the words erupt from my mouth.

  ‘Samuel is recovering slowly, but—’

  ‘Recovering?’ I can feel my eyelids blinking, trying to process this information.

  ‘He was in a neck brace for twelve weeks, so yes,’ he adds impatiently, ‘he’s still recovering, and he is just adjusting—’

  ‘He’s alive? But I thought . . . I thought he was dead.’ Euphoria and relief fill me: my body contains these emotions; I don’t know how they are still inside of me, but they are.

  ‘Dead? No. Sammy boy is alive and kicking.’

  ‘And he’s in Ireland?’ I’m smiling, leaning forward.

  ‘Yes. Look, Sophie, I know you had this thing together, but Sammy, well, he’s really gone through the shit these last few months and—’

  ‘But he’s alive.’ I nod maniacally.

  ‘Yes, he’s definitely alive.’

  I open my handbag and rummage furiously around the insides, finding a pen and a notepad. I pass these to Bret.

  ‘Please could you tell me where he is staying?’

  Bret takes the pen apprehensively. ‘I don’t know the address. He’s staying with his parents.’

  I can see there’s another reason for his reluctance to give me the address, but I need to see Samuel. He’s alive. ‘Please, Bret.’

  ‘Look, I’m happy that I have been able to fill in the gaps. I’m genuinely pleased about that, but . . . things have been really hard for him. He’s just starting to pull himself back together. I’m not sure that if you were to walk back into his life that it would be best for him. Best for Sam.’

  Bean gives me a sharp kick that almost takes my breath away. My immediate response is to rub my stomach, but it has just occurred to me that Bret hasn’t noticed that I’m pregnant. Bean is obscured by the tablecloth. I don’t want Bret to be the person to tell Sam about Bean; I want to do that myself. A little buzz of excitement fizzes through me as I imagine his face when he sees me, when he sees our child.

  ‘Please, I have to see him, please, Bret.’

  ‘Look, how about I contact him? I’ll tell him you want to see him.’

  ‘But . . .’ I think of the look on Samuel’s face as I pass him the scan photo, the way his eyes will search the edges of his baby’s nose, his chin, his feet; looking for the similarities in the way that I have for the last six months.

  I pull the paper back towards me and write down my email and my home address, as well as my phone number.

  ‘Sophie, you have broken the guy’s heart twice. He’s just been through hell and back, what kind of friend would I be if I open the doors and let you break him again? I’ll tell him you want to see him.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘From what he’s said, you’ve always decided the way your relationship ends. Let him decide this time, eh? You owe him that much.’

  I nod slowly, knowing this battle is lost but knowing that I will find him, whatever it takes.

  Week Twenty-Seven

  Samuel

  My August bank holiday is lost in the shadows that block out the sun. The tunnel walls have their own colours,
I’m starting to notice. As the real colours from the outside world diminish, the colours of the darkness swirl and tilt. There are shadows within the shadows, marking out dancing silhouettes within the walls of the alleyway that play along with the yellows of the sun, the greens of the grass, the red of Sarah’s hair that flies intermittently into my closing circle of sight.

  The Distance is my best friend. In The Distance I can see the promenade in all its seaside town glory: the waves of the sea lapping against the hulls of the boats in the harbour; the buoys bobbing up and down like giant gob-stoppers and the hotels and B&Bs that stand tall and proud along the road. Those things take up the small circle of sight and fill it with parts of the whole landscape. But the parts of Ma’s face, parts of the things closest to me, block out the rest of the vast surroundings and the dancing shadows play with them instead.

  Michael taps along with the rhythm of the Bank holiday festivities; he jumps down steps and rolls along the path confidently as though he’s enjoying it. I try to relish his enthusiasm but today is a dark day for me.

  My moods seem to take me over lately. Yesterday I was happy to carry on with my life like this. I’ve begun to learn how to use screen-reading software to help me when I return to work. I’ve been listening to crime thrillers on Audible, the images in my head as good as any film that I’ve seen lately.

  I cooked pasta, only burning myself once, and navigated the bus into town to buy some new clothes before I have to spend the rest of my life with my mam and sister dressing me. Da offered, but I’m not sure the white shirt with rolled-up sleeves tucked into jeans with creases ironed into them is the look I want to go for. At least this way, I will have a few things that are my own taste.

  The boxes containing the things that were salvaged from the fire have arrived. Bret had been keeping it all in his garage: a few clothes, some pictures that Mam has already found new frames for, and my backpack that I used to wear when I went for a run.

  I’ve joined the gym before the fist closes so I can learn to navigate my way around without the need to grab on to any Lycra-clad gym-goers. Running on the treadmill has given me a new sense of freedom. I’m out of shape, that’s for sure, but it won’t take me long to get it back. I need to work out regularly because I can’t move around as fast as I used to. I find that I’m sitting down more than I ever would have before the accident, and Mam’s constant plates of biscuits and beef-dripping-roasted-food have added a roll of soft skin that wasn’t there this time last year.

  I’ve a mint ice cream in my hand. I don’t need to look at it to know it is mint-green because I can smell it; I can feel the sticky texture as it dribbles down my fingers.

  ‘Your ice cream is melting, Mule,’ Sarah tells me.

  ‘I know. I’m blind, not fucking stupid.’ As I’ve said, today is a dark day.

  ‘All right, keep your hair on, and don’t swear in front of the kids.’

  ‘I didn’t know they were close. I can’t see, remember.’ This is a lie, I know they are close because I can hear Will jangling his coins in his pocket. Clink, clink, jangle jangle. The noises are like nails scraping across the blackness, like it is trying to claw a way through the walls.

  ‘Fine. If you want to behave like a mardy tit, then you can do it without me.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Fine.’ I hear her grabbing her things together. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘I won’t see you,’ I snap back.

  ‘You know, lots of people have disabilities, Mule, but not all of them have to make everyone around them feel shit about it.’

  She leaves. I drop the ice cream. It hits the leg of my grey shorts, bounces off and lands on to my flip-flopped foot. For feck’s sake. My hands are sticky, and I haven’t got a tissue. Michael slips from my hand as I reach for him; it seems he doesn’t want mint ice cream on him either.

  Perfect. I’m guessing I look like I’ve got a venereal disease oozing out of my boxers. I pull Michael up and drag him along towards home.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say as I bump into a woman whose bright blue dress fills my sight. The circle traps the swirls and colours of the fabric for a moment before I straighten my posture. I pull Michael reluctantly up the kerb. ‘Sorry,’ I say again. This time I’ve shoulder-slammed into another woman but as I zig-zag my focus on her, I realise she is pregnant. ‘Are you OK?’ I ask. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Bret’s face fills the circle of light within the screen. He looks different, not his usual perfectly toothed grin.

  ‘Nice to see you,’ I say. I wonder if I will say that once the dancing shadows take over.

  ‘You too.’

  ‘So, what’s new?’ I ask as I twist off the top of my bottle of beer. I tilt the bottle towards the screen and say ‘Cheers’ as Bret clinks his bottle towards the screen. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smiles at me.

  ‘Not much . . . How’s things with you and . . .’ he moves his head around the screen as if by doing so he will be able to see more than my camera is letting in, ‘Isabella?’

  ‘Ah, nothing, mate. I told her I’m not ready.’

  ‘Because of Sophie?’ he asks, leaning forward.

  ‘Look, I know what it sounds like, man. I know I sound like an idiot, but . . .’ I scratch the back of my head, ‘I just can’t get her out of my head . . . you know?’

  ‘Yeah. I get it.’

  ‘Thanks for sending my stuff over, by the way—’

  ‘Sammy! Mrs McLaughlin has lost my fecking bag! Can I borrow this one of yours?’

  I smile at Bret. ‘My da,’ I say by way of explanation. ‘Yes! You might want to empty the crap out of it, I’ve not sorted it out yet.’ I’ve not been keen on opening it and finding reminders of my old life. I know that there are my spare running shoes in there, and a few parking tickets . . . my old sports bottle. Everyday things that we all have, and I know it’s not like I’m not going to need them again, especially now that I go to the gym, but those things all hold memories that are too raw to touch just yet.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Da storms into the room. I narrow my eyes and track his movements, following the length of his arm to see what he is holding. The brief glimpse at his expression leads me to believe that it may be poisonous. ‘I thought you were joking!’

  Bret begins laughing on the other side of the Atlantic. ‘Your dad sounds just like you!! I “taught” you were joking!’ he says, with the worst imitation of a Northern Irish accent that I have ever heard.

  ‘Who the feck is that?’ Da storms towards the screen and Bret backs away from the camera as though Da is going to grab him by the scruff of his neck.

  ‘It’s Bret, Da.’

  ‘Oh grand, just a minute, Bret, my boy, I need to have a word with this stupid arse.’ Bret nods and takes another swig of his beer. ‘I thought you were joking about becoming a florist?’ Bret spits out his beer and the small circle of screen is momentarily covered in what looks like a spray of piss.

  ‘I was.’ I lean forward to try and see what it is that Da is waving around in front of him. And then I realise. It’s the cherry blossom that I had picked to give to Sophie. I reach out my hand and take it, filling my circle of life with the blossom that is now papery thin. The rose colours have faded into a pink ash, but as my world is filled with the tiny petals, I feel like my next breath is never going to come.

  ‘I picked this to give to Sophie.’

  ‘Are you listening to this, Bret? Keen sportsman like yourself, can you believe the stupid things this arse has been doing lately? Paddle boats and fecking flowers! I ask you!’

  Da is oblivious to the way my heart feels like it is never going to take the next beat, that my lungs are never going to swallow the next gulp of air.

  ‘Sammy boy?’ Bret’s voice is concerned and distant.

  ‘Sam?’ Da’s face obscures the petals. ‘Ah, I’m only joking with you, Sam.’ His voice has taken on a quieter tone.

  ‘I, I will never get to see her face again.�
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  ‘Actually,’ Bret clears his throat, ‘about Sophie . . .’

  Da sits down next to me and starts rubbing my back like I’ve swallowed something down the wrong way. Bret leans forward. ‘She was here, in DC . . . and she was looking for you.’

  ‘When?’ I ask, sitting up. The air has found its way back into my lungs and my heart has begun to beat again. ‘What did she say?’ A volley of questions begins falling from my lips.

  ‘She, well, she looked different,’ he says, taking another sip from his bottle.

  ‘How?’

  ‘More . . . girly?’

  ‘Why, what did she look like before, Bret? Was she butch?’ I can hear my dad processing the idea of me as a florist and Bret’s description: putting two and two together and getting one hundred and four.

  ‘More . . . relaxed,’ Bret continues. ‘She wasn’t wearing her usual kind of clothes . . . She looked a bit more . . . a bit more like the woman you used to describe her as, rather than the version I saw in the office every day.’

  ‘Why did she want to see me? What did she say?’

  ‘Well, she didn’t at first.’ The air becomes too heavy again, my lungs sighing with the effort to breathe. ‘She, well mate, she thought you were dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘She’s only just found out about the accident, she said.’

  ‘Where is she, have you got a phone number?’

  Bret hesitates.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’ The disbelief takes my voice a few octaves higher than it usually is. I can feel Da looking at me with a puzzled expression.

  ‘I’ve got her address. I didn’t want it to be that easy for you, mate. I wanted to make sure you were one hundred percent sure you want her. That you want to put yourself through that again, especially as you seem to be getting your shit together, and with Isabella—’

  ‘Isabella?’ My dad laughs, ‘Finally come to your senses, have you, Sammy?’

  ‘There is nothing going on with Isabella, we’re just friends.’