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

by Emma Cooper

  It’s my birthday today and I’m celebrating by meeting a new client in town, but my car is refusing to start. I turn the key again, but nothing happens at all. Great. Happy birthday to me.

  ‘Damn it.’ I knock on Charlie’s door and he answers it in his boxer shorts. His hair is a mess and he is rubbing his eyes, blinking against the midday sun. ‘I’m sorry to wake you.’ I bite back the urge to add ‘at lunchtime’. ‘But my car won’t start, and I’ve got a meeting with clients in town . . .’

  ‘All right.’ He yawns and rubs the back of his hair. ‘I’ll just throw on some clothes.’ I follow him inside. The house is a mess – half-drunk cups of coffee on various surfaces, clothes hanging on numerous pieces of furniture – and it smells of the overflowing bin in the kitchen. I haven’t been inside Charlie’s house very often – he is normally at mine – but I’m shocked at how quickly it has deteriorated. The last time I had been here, the kitchen had been old-fashioned and dated but it had been clean; this looks like another person entirely has been living here. I hear Charlie stomping around upstairs, swearing at something as I walk into the lounge. The brown leather sofas are littered with photos; there are some on the floor along with a duvet and a pillow. It takes me a minute to take in the scene; it looks as though he has slept in here, the photos surrounding him. I bend down and pick one up. It’s of the Charlie and Olivia I remember from school, both smiling at the camera, young and in love.

  ‘I’m ready.’ His voice startles me and I drop the photo. His eyes watch it fluttering to the floor, and he looks me straight in the eye, almost challenging me to say something, but then the moment is gone as he turns his back, the car keys jangling in his hand.

  The journey is awkward, the car filled with the unspoken and unexplained. His hand reaches for the volume on the radio, drowning out the questions, and we stay silent until we arrive. I hate not knowing what to say to him, hate how I can’t seem to find the words to make him feel better.

  The meeting goes well: a small café in town that has been made into an American diner. They’ve tried to do the accounts by themselves but saw my card in the corner shop and thought they’d make life easier for themselves.

  Charlie attempts to make conversation on the way home, asking me about my old job and why I left. It’s easy to talk about now, as if it happened to another person in another life.

  ‘I can’t imagine you, all high-flying and ball-busting.’

  ‘Who said I busted balls?’ I grin at him.

  ‘We owned a restaurant. Me and Olivia.’ He smiles as we drive through the narrow roads, the hedges scraping the windows as another car passes.

  ‘Wow, was it hard, working together all day?’

  ‘Not really, I was in the kitchen most of the time, she was in the restaurant. Olivia was good at that, always went out of her way to make people feel welcome. It was only small, seven tables, but we liked it like that. We weren’t expecting things to change as much as they did when Jack came along, we thought we would just carry on as we were, but he didn’t sleep. It was tough on Olivia. He just wouldn’t settle with anyone else, not even me, so she stopped working and stayed at home instead.’

  I think of the state of Charlie’s house earlier, the pictures of his family cocooning his bed. My eyes fill with tears, and I blink them back and look out of the passenger window.

  ‘So, what happened with the restaurant, when . . .’ I don’t finish the sentence; it doesn’t need to be finished.

  ‘I sold it. Bought this place instead.’

  ‘Why here, though?’ I ask as we drive through the open gate.

  ‘I thought I would be on my own,’ he answers as he pulls on the handbrake. ‘Whose car is that?’

  ‘It’s Greg’s. My brother-in-law . . . what is it doing here?’

  The door is unlocked, and Charlie follows me through to the kitchen, where sounds of the radio playing ‘Sweet Home Alabama,’ and delighted squeals from Jessica and Caitlin are filling the house. The smell of home baking swirls around them as Helen spins Jessica around. Greg, huge, bearded and wearing my Laura Ashley apron, is carrying a tray laden with cups and saucers.

  ‘Um . . . hello?’ I announce myself. Helen stops twirling and shouts ‘Happy Birthday!’ They all begin to sing ‘Happy Birthday to You’, Greg still holding the tray, Caitlin conducting us all with her fingers and Jess stuffing a sandwich into her mouth. Charlie stands awkwardly by the door.

  ‘You didn’t have to travel up! It’s not a special one.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Helen dismisses me with a wave of her hand. She kisses my cheek and reaches her hand out to Charlie. ‘I’m Helen.’

  ‘Yes. I know,’ he replies. She frowns at him then shakes her head as he turns to me. ‘You never said it was your birthday.’

  ‘It’s not a big deal . . . I’m thirty-one, not sweet sixteen or anything.’

  ‘Obviously.’ He furrows his eyebrows at me.

  ‘Right, now close your eyes, Sophie!’ Helen commands. ‘Action stations, everyone else! Charlie, if you can wait there and then guide Sophie when I give you the nod.’ The hustle and bustle of the house continues past me and out into the garden.

  ‘OK!’ Helen yells from outside.

  ‘Should we go outside?’ I ask Charlie as he remains still.

  ‘She hasn’t nodded.’

  I bite back a smile. ‘I don’t think she meant literally.’

  ‘Anytime now, Charlie!’ Helen shouts as the girls snigger. ‘And keep your eyes shut!’ she adds.

  ‘Why are women so complicated? You’re all mad,’ he sighs.

  ‘We’re all mad here.’ I hear Mum’s voice mimic the Cheshire Cat against the sound of her hand as she stroked down the page; I can smell the lemony shampoo she used.

  ‘Right, hold on to my elbow then.’ Charlie interrupts my memories and I take his arm and we make our way outside, Charlie giving me instructions, one step to the right, left, careful, up the step to the lawn.

  ‘Read the directions and directly you will be directed in the right direction.’ I picture Mum licking her finger as she turned the page.

  ‘OK . . . you can open your eyes now!’

  The old table weaves its magic, the moss campion’s pink flowers cascading out of the teapot and spilling over the rims of the cups. The sun is glinting against the tarnished tines of the forks and reflecting off the small gifts wrapped in shining pink and silver paper which are nestling between the crockery. But next to that is another table. A pink tablecloth, laced at the edges, sits beneath a china tea set; blue and white cups and saucers are balanced next to a sugar bowl filled with brown and white sugar cubes. A three-tiered cake stand holds pastel-coloured macaroons next to a jam jar filled with marmalade, and in the centre of the table is a home-made Victoria sandwich surrounded by jammy tarts. ‘Eat Me, Drink Me’ labels are attached to each item. I drink in the scene in front of me, searching out Helen’s eager eyes with my own.

  ‘Helen, I—’ She grins and puts a top hat on her head as I make my way towards her, Bean and I wrapping our arms around her and kissing her cheek. She smells of baking and sun.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ she whispers as she pulls herself away from me and reaches for a jammy tart. She passes one into my hand and knocks her pastry against mine as though we were clinking glasses together, before sitting down on her chair. Her eyelids shut as her teeth sink through the thick strawberry jam, and into the pastry beneath. A dusting of flour gathers at the corner of her mouth, which she wipes away with her thumb; cleaning away the past. She leans back and lifts her face to the sun.

  The yellow stripe of a bumble bee bounces in front of me as I sit down, the same shade as the coat I had been wearing the day I met Samuel. I think about the woman who had been sitting outside the café that day, how alone she had felt, and as I reach into the birthday party that my mother had planned, accepting my final gift from her, I realise that I’m not alone any more.

  Week Nineteen

  Samuel

 
‘So, what are you doing hanging about with Isabella Jackson, then? Come on, dish the dirt,’ Duncan says under his breath. ‘I saw you two looking very cosy in Costa yesterday.’

  ‘We’re just friends,’ I answer, shifting myself on the sofa.

  ‘Yeah right, I remember when you were “just friends” when I was first together with Sarah; your bed springs creaked.’

  ‘She’s helping me find Sophie,’ I reply, my hand floating around, trying to accept the beer he is passing me. Mam, Sarah and the kids are busy sprinkling E numbers on to fairy cakes in the kitchen.

  ‘I thought you’d given up on all that? She hung up on you, didn’t she? And she’s not answered any more of your calls. Mate, I’d think that’s a pretty big hint that she’s not interested, you’d be a fool to think anything else. And Isabella is . . .’ I don’t need to see to be able to work out that he is making big boob gestures or a woman’s curvy outline; I can tell by the way his eyebrows are wiggling up and down.

  ‘I’m not giving up on Sophie. I love her.’

  ‘That may be so, but perhaps she doesn’t love you. Sorry, mate, I love you like you’re my own brother and sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. I don’t think she’s the one.’

  The next morning, I wake up to hear Isabella’s voice downstairs. I can hear the rise and fall of one of her anecdotes and my father laughing uproariously at the punchline. He’s always loved her. When we broke up, he walked into my room and gave me an earful, telling me that women like that come into your life once and that I should get my spotty arse out of bed and grovel or do something to make her want me back. Mam had taken the ‘plenty more fish in the sea’ approach; I don’t think she ever really approved of Isabella after she’d seen her baby-oiled handprint on my bedroom wall. I close my eyes and listen to them, and it feels like the whole of Ireland is closing in on me. I can feel the houses, pubs, the schools, the whole population crowding around me, not letting me breathe, not letting me escape.

  ‘Sammy!’ Da’s voice pulls me away. ‘Get your arse down here! Isabella has something to tell you.’

  My hands feel the walls for the banister as I make my way downstairs. Something has been left on the last step and I curse as my foot slips, and my heel hits the floor with a crack. I reach down, feeling and looking for the culprit. My hand clamps around plastic legs and brings a startled-looking Barbie out of the tunnel and into my line of sight.

  ‘Barbie nearly killed me,’ I say as I throw her on to the kitchen table.

  ‘Do you know,’ Mam begins, ‘my friend who worked in the hospital said you’d be surprised just how many men “fall” on to Barbies. Strange world we live in.’

  ‘Never mind that now, Mrs McLaughlin. Isabella has a lead on this Sophie girl Samuel’s been harping on about.’

  My eyes trace my way around the room until I land on Isabella, leaning on the far side of the kitchen, and she looks very pleased with herself.

  ‘You missed one of the garages. This is a new branch and they’ve only just added it to the Fast Fix website. I rang them, and they checked their records for Sophie Williams and found that they did repair a car by that name.’

  ‘That’s great!’ I shout, making my way to her but slamming my shin into a chair that isn’t tucked under the table properly. ‘Fuck!’ I rub my injured leg. Isabella crouches down in front of me where I’m rubbing my shin. She’s so close to me that most of my vision is filled with her face.

  ‘That’s not all,’ she smirks. ‘One of the mechanics picked up her car. He couldn’t remember the number but . . . I’ve got a street name, Sam.’

  Week Twenty

  Sophie

  Charlie has stayed at home today waiting for Handy Huw to fix my car; he really is quite handy. According to my calendar, it’s not even officially summer and yet outside, the cars sweat, their leather insides melting and expanding; flowers lean heavily towards the hazy sun out of duty rather than enjoyment. It’s the type of day where the heat dampens everything: the clothes on the line hang heavily, the trouser legs cramp, desperate to kick themselves forward, but the wind, exasperated by the heat itself, is too lethargic to massage their movements.

  I’ve come into town to get a few things for the house. I buy a bunch of yellow roses to put on my new sideboard and swat away a fly as I stop to look through a bakery window. An alarm pierces through the seaside songs, slicing through my thoughts about fresh bread and strawberry tarts as a woman runs through the open doors of a boutique, her hair fanning around her in brittle waves, as if it had been in a plait but is now untied. Her white summer dress billows out from her thin frame as she tries to escape the advances of the security guard who is scanning up and down the street, his eyes latching on to her, his feet pounding the concrete in pursuit. My body begins to react. I step backwards as she turns her head, her eyes wild as they scan the road. The bunch of yellow roses in my hand is showered and fresh and the petals glisten inside the cool polythene.

  I take another step back as she runs towards me. It all happens so quickly, none of us able to react in the way we would have wanted to when we replay this later. I would have turned and run; I wouldn’t have stopped outside the bakery, and Charlie would have arranged for Huw to come on a different day.

  But as it stands now, as she slams her hands against my shoulders, sending me flying backwards, none of the things we could have done matter. My feet leave the ground, my back arches and the yellow roses escape my grip.

  It’s strange the things you notice when your free will is taken from you. As my back lands with a crack against the concrete path, my thoughts aren’t about the baby inside my tummy. I’m not picturing Bean sleeping with a thumb held in a rosebud mouth, the delicate spine curled into a comma; I’m thinking about my mother’s vase and how the yellow roses would have looked nice in it. And as I watch one of the petals float through the air and on to my stomach, I’m thinking that I should buy a new vase.

  I’m not thinking of those things that could have changed this outcome, because we didn’t do any of those things.

  As the midwife arranges the paper blanket over the bed in the assessment room, I tap a message to Helen but delete it. She would ring me and I don’t want to talk. Instead I message Charlie:

  I’ve had a fall, I’m in the hospital, could you come?

  My legs dangle over the edge of the bed as she checks that my blood pressure is OK and then asks me to lie back, put my feet together and relax my legs as she examines me.

  ‘The swab is clear of blood, and you’re not dilating.’ She peels off the gloves with a flick that snaps into the quiet room, looping the stethoscope around her neck and placing the metal disk in various places on my bump.

  ‘The little monkey is in a bit of an awkward position.’ She smiles at me, but the smile is guarded. ‘We’ll take you for a scan now to check baby.’ My mouth won’t form the words to ask her if she could hear Bean’s heartbeat.

  As we leave the room, she holds on to my elbow and guides me towards a seat alongside the corridor where the ultrasound rooms are. The carpet tiles sit neatly, side by side, maroon twine twisting around vertical tubes.

  The sounds around me, the chatter, the calls of patients’ names, fade behind the images on the walls. Posters of babies in the womb taunt me and so I focus my sight on the inoffensive: the fire alarm, the signs for the emergency meeting point, the fire extinguisher, the fire door. I look back at the alarm: I could pull it; I could pretend that this isn’t happening. But my chance is missed: the same technician who I saw at my twelve-week scan smiles at me, calling my name. My feet drag my body inside, even though my fingers itch to pull the alarm.

  ‘We’ll check baby first,’ the technician says, ‘then we’ll take you down to get your back checked by a doctor. How are you feeling?’ she asks as I lower myself on to the bed. How can I tell her that this baby means more to me than I ever imagined it would? That Bean is the reason I get up every day, that it’s the only thing in my life that I have ever done t
hat feels right. Without Bean, I have nothing. What will happen to me? Will I go back to London, back to the noise and the demands, back to days where I don’t notice the things in life that are special? Without Bean I will be back to a life where I am alone, a life in black and white.

  There is a gentle tap on the door just as she lifts my top up to reveal my swollen stomach. The idea that within it Bean could be hurt, that it could be in pain, fills me with an ache so acute that a small whimper escapes my lips, making the midwife stop her movements.

  ‘Sophie, are you in pain?’ she asks, her concern embedded in her frown. I shake my head, but I can feel that my legs are shivering beneath the blanket.

  There’s another knock on the door and a small crack of light breaks into the room. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone here to see Sophie. He says to tell her Charlie is here?’

  The midwife turns to look at me. ‘Would you like Charlie to come in?’

  I nod my consent, the door widens, and he steps into the room, sits beside the bed and takes my hand.

  ‘I’ve brought you an overnight bag; there’s a toothbrush and some toothpaste. In case you need to stay here. Overnight.’ His voice is stilted, and it stretches around the words that are trivial, snapping at the words that aren’t. Cold gel is squeezed on to my stomach, the scanner pushes down on to my skin; the screen fills with the image of my baby.

  The picture swirls as she moves the scanner, and there, lying on its back, is Bean. The white outline of its skull, large belly sticking up, legs – cramped but perfect – shine from the screen, but Bean is still. She moves the scanner a touch and smiles, pointing to the screen where the flashes of Bean’s heart can be seen.

  ‘Baby is fine, Sophie, just asleep.’ Charlie’s hand tightens around mine as I begin to cry, relief escaping and rolling down my cheeks. ‘Let’s see if we can wake baby up, oh there we go.’ Bean’s mouth begins to open and close, ‘Look! baby is having a little drink, and . . .’ Bean shifts, kicking legs and moving arms, ‘looks like it’s having a natter there, look.’ She points to its little mouth: open, close, open, close. ‘Your baby is going to be a chatterbox!’ I smile through my tears. ‘Would you like to know the sex?’ I’ve thought about this, but I have decided that I would rather wait. Bean is Bean and it doesn’t really matter to me whether it is a boy or a girl.