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

by Emma Cooper

  A sense of occasion. That’s what my evening with Charlie felt like, as though there was a significance to the meal, to the stories he was telling; as if he wasn’t going to see me for a while, but was going away and was trying to say goodbye.

  The glass slips from my fingers. Fractures of memories splinter with the glass on the floor: his smart clothes; the sharp creases in the arms of his shirt; the immaculately laid table; his favourite foods; the way the light caught on the candelabrum – polished and prepared.

  It was a last supper: his last goodbye.

  No.

  This can’t be happening. My hands are shaking as I pull open my door, run to his house and begin banging my fist on his door, but there is no answer. Ignoring the stitch that is running across Bean, I rush back into my house and call nine, nine, nine, asking for help. My words are garbled, but the urgency is unmistakable.

  An envelope by the door distracts me, and I double over Bean to pick it up. My pulse is racing. I shove it in my pocket; I don’t have time to read it.

  My hands are shaking with adrenaline and fear as I pull open the kitchen drawer and grab a tea towel.

  Outside, the sun has started to rise. I search the ground for something heavy and wrap a rock into the towel, smashing it through his lounge window. Glass shatters into the still morning and I push as much of it away from the frame as I can, while calling out his name. I sit myself on the ledge, feeling small pieces of glass grind beneath me as I swing my legs over. As I manoeuvre myself on to the lounge floor I feel a piece of glass scrape into my thigh and I scream out in pain.

  ‘Charlie!’ I shout as I limp towards the staircase. ‘Charlie!’ I hold on to the banister, quickly pulling myself up the stairs, the sound of heavy breathing my only reply. My hand reaches forward, pushing open his bedroom door.

  Charlie is lying on his bed; he looks asleep, but next to his bed are prescription tablets which I grab in the hope that he has just passed out from the drink and maybe taken a couple of sleeping pills, but there is no sound from the inside of the container, and the bottle of brandy now lies on its side, empty. I lean my ear against his chest and wait for it to rise, but I can’t feel anything.

  ‘Wake up, Charlie!’ I shake him, his head wobbling from side to side, before I put my ear to his mouth, praying that he will make a sound. ‘Come on, Charlie.’ There are no tears on my face, there is no dramatic music playing in the background . . . just nothing, but then I hear it: a tiny breath. I put my hand back on his chest and feel it rise slowly beneath my hand. ‘The ambulance is on its way. I’m here, Charlie, we’re here.’ I hold his hand and bring it to my lips. ‘You’ll be OK, stay with me—’

  ‘I’m sorry—’ His voice is faint and I lean my forehead against his with relief.

  ‘The ambulance is on the way. You’re going to be fine,’ I repeat, my London voice finding its way into this room, filling the space with false confidence and promises it might not be able to keep.

  ‘I thought . . . I thought I wanted it.’ His speech is slurred. I prop my arm around his neck and try to sit him up but his head lolls backwards.

  ‘Charlie? Charlie!’ I scream, shaking him by the shoulder. His eyelids flicker, his eyes rolling until they come to rest on my face. ‘Wake up, stay with me,’ I command.

  ‘Sophie?’ Tears are rolling down his cheek. ‘I don’t want to die.’

  ‘You’re not going to die. You’re going to be OK, do you hear me? Charlie? You’re going to be OK.’ I kiss his forehead and move him into the recovery position.

  The envelope crinkles as I shift my weight. What words are written inside? I pull it out of my pocket and wave it in front of his face.

  ‘What does this say, Charlie?’ I sit in the space left by the curve of his torso. ‘Open your eyes! Talk to me. You need to stay awake, what does this say?’

  He murmurs something but the sound is like a moan, a sigh – a word filled with pain. I lean forward.

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Friend,’ he says.

  I run my finger under the seal and tear open the envelope. The paper is so light – the crease has been pressed precisely; it crinkles and flutters in my fingers as I unfold it – and yet the words, neatly written in blue ink, are heavy, and their meaning filled with weight.

  ‘Dear Sophie and Bean,’ I begin. I take a deep breath and reach for Charlie’s arm. I place my fingers firmly around his wrist, putting pressure on his vein so that I can feel it pulsing against my fingertips.

  ‘I’ve tried to start this letter so many times that it seems there is no right way to begin, so here it is.

  ‘I suppose the first thing I should say is sorry. I know what I have done is selfish— You’re damn right it’s selfish,’ I mutter, wiping the tear away from my cheek, the paper whispering inside my fist as I bring it back into view.

  ‘It’s unfair to leave you with this mess, but please understand that it’s because of the strong, wonderful person that you are, that I know I can go. I have never met anyone else in my life as strong as you. I’ve never had a friend who I could trust my life with, or in this case, my death.’ The word hovers, tangled in my vocal cords, barely making it out of my mouth. Charlie’s eyes open again fleetingly, searching me out before they close beneath heavy lids.

  ‘I’m so glad to have met you both. You have given me a purpose for the last few months when I thought I would never have one again. Having you as a friend has brought meaning to my life, Sophie. I see so much of myself in you – the person that I used to be, the person that I wish I could become again – but I know that it’s too late for me.

  ‘This letter should have been written a long time ago. I’d begun to hope that there is a life for me on this earth, but I know now that this isn’t true. You stupid idiot, of course there is!’ I look at his face and see the glimmer of a smile on his lips. I take a deep breath and continue. ‘I know that you will say there is, Sophie, – smart arse,’ I say to him, leaning in so I can just make out the sound of his shallow breathing. Satisfied, I carry on.

  ‘I know that you will always try to fix the problem and find the answers, but without Olivia and Jack, my life has no answers. I’m sorry but this is one puzzle that will never have the right answer. I don’t belong here without them.’ My chest rises as I hold my breath, then let it out so I can continue.

  ‘All of my documents are in the spare room. It’s all tidy so it won’t be difficult for you to find the red box. Inside you will find that everything is in order. I’ve left the house to you and Bean in the hope that there will be some happy memories made here, not sad ones.

  ‘Go and find your Samuel, Sophie, With much love and thanks, Charlie.

  ‘Oh Charlie, you stupid, stupid man. We’ve already started making happy memories . . . we don’t have to stop.’

  The grey light in the room begins to blink with blue; it fills with people, questions are thrown at me, a mask is put over his mouth and Charlie is carried out on a stretcher.

  Blood is running down my leg and pooling into the hem of my nightie, the pain in my thigh a dull throb. As I look down at the stain, it grows and spreads like the bruises that used to creep along my mum’s body. Bean and I are guided out of the house as my home is, once again, covered in a blue-lighted morning.

  Week Twenty-Nine

  Samuel

  So, what do I do now?

  I plug in my headphones and try to dull this question with some techno gym mix that I downloaded last night. The treadmill can’t see either and it’s able to do its job, managing its day-to-day life without any bother. So can I. My running speeds up with the pace of the music, my breath becomes shallower, my body begins to ache, but I carry on, running down this black road that leads nowhere but takes me away from here.

  It’s times like this that I miss DC and the life I had there. I would have talked to Bret about Sophie as we ran; I would have been distracted by my job, by the speed of my old life. But then I remember that Bret wouldn’t be at work for the n
ext few weeks anyway because he always volunteers at the sports camp during the last two weeks of August.

  Sleeping has become as much of a battle as the rest of my life; the images that used to fill me with colour every time I closed my eyes are now replaced with Sophie and her new family. The picture that I tried to burn into my memory won’t be extinguished.

  I set the incline to six percent and push my legs through the damage that sitting around for so long has done, replaying my conversation with Sarah.

  ‘Nothing has really changed, Mule, not since before you knew she was looking for you. You’d accepted that she was gone, that you weren’t going to spend the rest of your life with her.’

  ‘I know, but Christ, if you could have seen the way she looked.’

  ‘Is there any chance that it could be yours?’

  ‘No.’ I didn’t tell her how I had sat down with my diary, circling the date Sophie was with me in DC and counting out the weeks that had passed since. I knew if that baby was mine she would be going on seven months.

  Sarah came to visit me when she was seven months pregnant with William. I remember that she was seven months because I’d laughed at her wobbling through the airport gate and asked her if she was sure she had her dates right, and teased that she couldn’t get any bigger surely? She’d burst into tears and said she had another two months to go yet and what kind of greeting was that? To tell her she looked like a whale? Sarah crying was a very strange phenomenon. If only I’d known that the secret to getting her to cry was calling her fat, I’d have had her under my thumb throughout our childhood rather than the other way around. Sophie was nowhere near that size. Even if she was that big, I still would have known, deep down, that she’s not carrying my child. It was in her face; it was the way she looked as she stood there holding them both; the pure joy that she was feeling is something that I’m sure could only come if you have everything you have ever wanted, and in that moment, she had it. Sophie lives her life with her ‘i’s’ dotted and ‘t’s’ crossed; if there was any chance that child was mine, she wouldn’t have just not told me; she would want everything in order, everything correct and accounted for.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Well, I guess that’s that then.’ She rubbed my knee.

  ‘Sarah . . . when we were kids, were you always picking on me because deep down you know you were a bit, well, on the fat side? Did you do it to make yourself feel better?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fat. When you were younger.’ I tried my hardest to keep my face straight as Sarah stood up.

  ‘I was not fat. I’ll give you a fat lip if you carry on talking like that, broken heart or not.’

  I shrugged my shoulders but could see that I’d hit a nerve. My ten-year-old self jumped up and down like Rocky.

  ‘Fat indeed,’ she scoffed from the end of the tunnel as she left the room. I chuckled to myself. ‘If you could see the size of your own arse, Mule, you’d not be saying that! Too much time sitting around stuffing your face with biscuits!’

  I reach for the treadmill controls and push the incline to seven percent. I’ll give her fat arse.

  My legs begin to burn and my breath is hot. I can’t hold back the door that I have closed against the images of Sophie and her baby and her new life. The door flies open, and whether I want to see the images or not, they play out in front of me. My legs continue to pump harder and faster, through the way she had smiled when her eyes were closed, the light reflecting on the pendant of her necklace as she leant forward, the curve of her neck and the peace on his face as he kissed her bump. The images come thick and fast. I lose my footing, the tunnel tilts on its side and I crash into the walls. Pain courses through my legs and shoulder as I slam against the treadmill base.

  People scurry to my side, like ants erupting from a colony, their hands touching me, their voices asking stupid questions: Are you OK? Are you all right?

  No. I’m not. I’m not OK. I’m not all right.

  The end of the tunnel has become blurred and smudged; tears are obscuring my view, like heavy rain against a window pane.

  I’m fine, I tell them, but the ants are everywhere; they are surrounding me. My hand taps around the floor as the ants pull me up: I can’t find Michael. Panic fills me. The ants swarm, and as I try to stand, they cover me entirely, dragging me away from Michael and the man I used to be.

  Week Thirty

  Sophie

  Charlie is home. Charlie is alive. Kind of.

  He has managed to convince the hospital that his attempted suicide was because he is obviously grieving and that it had all got too much for him. He had drunk too much, that’s all. Just a drunken mistake. No. He doesn’t want to die. Yes, he is relieved that his neighbour found him. Honestly. He’ll be fine. They’ll be in touch, here are some leaflets, phone numbers, you must go to your counselling sessions. Please contact us anytime.

  ‘Charlie?’ I call, trying hard to keep the fear from my voice every time I walk into this house. The cardboard against the window is taped awkwardly as though it’s ashamed to be there, and I ignore it the same way some people would when they walk past a homeless person if they haven’t got any change, almost as if they haven’t seen them, but I feel its eyes on me as I concentrate on looking the other way.

  ‘I’m in here,’ he replies as if nothing has changed, as if I haven’t spent the last God knows how many nights without sleep, fearing the sound of the letter box which may deliver another envelope.

  Since that night I feel like I’m spending my time worrying about what I can say, what I can’t. Should I ask him if he’s OK? Should I pretend everything is OK when it’s not? Every action, even making a drink, is calculated. Should I offer him one? Is that what he wants, for me to be here asking him if he wants a drink, or should I just leave him alone? Maybe I should stay away, but then, should I be here in case he needs me? I can’t go after Samuel yet; I can’t leave Charlie alone.

  The whole evening was planned, right down to the conversation we had had earlier that day when he mentioned that his paperwork was in the room that he had cleared out, but what is more worrying is the will. That you could plan your own demise in a day is one thing – we’ve all had days when life gets too much – but he had to have seen a solicitor days before.

  The note was written before I arrived that night. The handwriting was clear; there was nothing to suggest that it had been written after he had been drinking. If I had slept through that night, he would be gone. And what’s to say he won’t make that decision again? What if he decides he was right in the first place and that he does want to die?

  In the lounge, he is hanging a picture of Olivia and Jack on the wall. A week ago, I would have thought that this was a good sign, but the thing with living around someone who has thought about their suicide so methodically, is that you cannot trust anything they do afterwards. I watch him humming to himself and seeming to get on with his life, but I am filled with fear that he is doing this for my benefit, so I will believe him, leave him alone with the pills, or a knife in the kitchen drawer or the gas from the cooker or the rope that is in his cupboard from when he replaced the tattered one on the gate outside. These are the things that tease and worry my thoughts when I’m away from him, and I don’t know when that feeling will stop, if it ever will.

  ‘That looks nice,’ I say instead, as if this is all normal.

  ‘I thought I should stop hiding the photos away. I’ve spent enough of the last few months avoiding them.’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’ I smile. ‘I’m about to make some lunch, if you want some?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ve just had some soup.’

  I try to ignore my suspicious mind as it tells me there is no smell in the house to confirm it. ‘OK. I’ll pop in later then.’

  ‘Sophie, you don’t need to keep coming here every five minutes.’ He adjusts the picture and steps back to look at it, checking that it’s hanging straight.


  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘I’m sorry. For what I’ve put you through.’ He puts his hands into the back pocket of his jeans and looks at me.

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘It’s not,’ he answers.

  ‘No. No, it isn’t, not really,’ I reply, breathing out a loud sigh. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ I say honestly, as has always been his way.

  ‘You don’t have to do anything.’ He reaches into a brown box and brings out another picture and smiles at it. ‘I took this at half-six in the morning on Jack’s third birthday. Olivia was so cross with me for taking it.’ He turns the photo towards me. She is looking away from the camera at whatever Jack is opening and she is in mid-yawn. Her hair is sticking up on one side and she has the remains of last night’s make-up under her eyes. ‘We’d stayed up late the night before, blowing up enough balloons to cover the carpet. He loved balloons. It had taken ages for him to give any attention to the bloody presents that we’d spent a small fortune on.’

  ‘I can see why she didn’t want you to take that, though. I’d hate to be caught with bed hair and my mouth wide open.’

  ‘You’ll have plenty of mornings like that.’ He nods to Bean.

  ‘Luckily, I won’t have anyone to take the photo.’

  ‘Well. You need to go and find what’s-his-name then.’

  I had been starting to feel a little more relaxed as we had been talking, but his flippancy about Samuel’s name had jarred somehow. I know he knows his name, because he had told me to go and find ‘your Samuel’. I think of how convenient it would be for Charlie if I was to go away for a few days.

  ‘I will,’ I reply, ‘but not now.’ I look at him directly, letting him know that I am under no illusions of what my disappearance for a few days could mean. He throws his head back and laughs.

  ‘I’m not going to try to top myself again, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ He rummages inside another box, pulls out a wooden frame and slots the picture inside.