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

by Emma Cooper

  I wonder how different my life might now be, if I hadn’t been distracted by Sophie in my shirt, if I hadn’t fallen asleep after, if she hadn’t somehow misunderstood how the company had found out that we were together and left without speaking to me about it. Would there still have been an explosion? Would I still have put the kettle on the stove without lighting it, or would we have been doing something else? Would she have been the one to notice that it wasn’t lit? Would we both have been there? The image of her being hit by the white light turns my stomach. I’ve got to stop this. I have to start my new life, and that life doesn’t have her in it.

  My faithful friend Michael leans against my bed and I reach out for him; he guides me into the bathroom. Hot steam fills the room as I turn on the shower and carefully step into it, my muscles relaxing as I close my eyes while the strong jets pound my back, the water washing over my face as I try to wash away the thoughts of Sophie.

  The door to the bathroom opens and closes. We only have one bathroom and so the lock is never used; we have an unspoken rule, even if someone is in the shower. Ma had a code brown once when Sarah was in the bath; I don’t think I’ve ever heard Da laugh so much. It was the twenty-ninth of March and in our house, that date is known as The Day Mrs McLaughlin Shat Herself. We have a curry every year to celebrate. Anyway, from then on, the door stays unlocked. Besides, Da always needs a shite when I’m in the shower.

  ‘Could you not have waited ten minutes?’ I ask as I lather shampoo into my hair. The shower curtain is pulled back, my eyes flying open in shock as the shampoo runs into them, stinging like a bastard. I attempt to cover my tackle with one hand whilst trying to wipe the shampoo out of my eyes. ‘Jesus!’ I shout, turning my face to the streams of water, washing the suds away as Isabella stands there.

  ‘I think we’ve waited long enough,’ she answers as I look over my shoulder at her. She disappears from sight, and I hear the lock complain as it is guided into its latch.

  She pulls her dress over her head, steps out of her knickers that are more elastic than material and steps into the shower. She has always been stunning to look at and I feel myself responding to her. I’m still half-turning towards the shower but she takes my hand and turns me around.

  ‘I don’t think this is a good idea,’ I say, trying to address her face, but my eyes are hungry for more. If all we’re going to see for the rest of our lives is darkness, they say, then we’re damn well going to enjoy what’s standing in front of us.

  ‘Ah Sammy, I’m not proposing marriage,’ she answers as she reaches for me. ‘Just a little fun.’ She smiles as she kneels.

  It’s been a while since I’ve had a little fun and I’m sure it’s going to be over before I have time to think about whether it’s a good idea or not.

  ‘Stop,’ my mouth says, taking over the decision. My eyes do not enjoy this decision and they frown and tell me that it will serve me right when they stop working. What are you doing? they say. ‘I can’t. I’m just not ready.’ She looks up at me with a puzzled expression and then gets up.

  ‘For the love of God, Sammy, what did she do to you?’ She strokes my cheek and looks sadly at me. I cower further away from her reach at the same time as I register the sound of the lock being opened – Mam had insisted on a lock that could be opened from the other side of the door – but I’m too late to react.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Mam shrieks as she is met with what I’m sure is a clear view of Isabella’s – it has to be said – magnificent breasts.

  ‘Waahheeeey! Sammy boy!’ Da’s voice booms from behind.

  ‘Mr McLaughlin, you avert your eyes this instant!’

  ‘Good on you, my boy!!’ he shouts. Isabella is laughing and reaching for a towel as the door closes on Mam reciting the rosary.

  Bret’s face fills the screen; the edges of the monitor are held in place by the closing passageway. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him that I’d forgotten just how American he is.

  ‘Sammy, everyone sends their love, buddy.’ He grins his pearly whites. ‘The place isn’t the same without you – are you sure you’re going to leave? I know how difficult it’s going to be for you, but we’ll all help.’ I smile at him. His words are genuine, but I know that if I went back there, they would all soon be taken up with their own lives, their own priorities.

  ‘DC isn’t for me any more,’ I tell him. ‘At least not for now. I need to get to grips with things before I think about going back to work.’

  ‘Did you get the insurance money from the house yet?’ he asks as he slurps a health food shake that I know he got from the gym we used to go to together. I think about how we would run first, how he would stride ahead of me. I have another gut-wrenching moment when I think about how much I loved to run. Will I ever be able to do that again?

  ‘Not yet, but it should be here soon.’ I push the thought away. I’ll still be able to use a treadmill.

  ‘What are you going to do with it? Buy somewhere over there?’

  ‘Nah, not for a while.’ I don’t tell him that the thought of being in a house on my own, once the fog rolls in, terrifies me. ‘I’m enjoying Mam’s cooking too much,’ I laugh. ‘So, what’s new with you?’ I change the subject.

  ‘I, my friend, am in love.’ He puts the drink out of shot and leans towards the right so that the screen is filled with the side of his face.

  ‘Are you indeed?’ I grin, knowing full well that the only thing Bret falls in love with is the measurements of his biceps. He holds up a picture of a car and I burst out laughing. I hear Da opening the front door and making a huge fuss as Isabella arrives. Bret is telling me about his new car as Isabella comes into the lounge. She stands behind me then leans forwards and kisses me on the cheek, halting Bret’s talk about sweeping indicators and virtual cockpits.

  ‘Seems like I’m not the only one,’ Bret says. ‘Hi!’ His voice booms through the tiny speakers as he leans towards his own screen.

  ‘How d’you do.’ Isabella smiles and I can see Bret’s eyebrows rising as he takes in her full figure, her heavy dark curls and long eyelashes. ‘I’m Isabella.’

  ‘Ah, just like that nymphomania—’

  I interrupt Bret before he says another word about the stories I used to tell him about Isabella.

  ‘She’s an old friend,’ I interject, trying to telepathically urge Bret to shut up across the thousands of miles over the Atlantic Ocean.

  ‘Riiiighhht . . .’ he responds. ‘I hope you’re taking good care of our Sammy?’

  ‘I’m trying to.’ She leans forward and bites my ear as I try to lean my head away from her, and then she leaves the room to join Mam and Da in the kitchen.

  Bret starts to talk in an overly loud whisper.

  ‘Didn’t take you long,’ he whispers as I glance towards the open door. ‘What happened with Sophie?’

  ‘It’s nothing serious,’ I say but I can hear the doubt in my voice. Isabella’s visits are becoming more frequent after our bit of fun in the shower. ‘And as for Sophie . . . I just can’t torture myself any more. My sight is going, man, I’ve got enough to deal with. I’ve got to tell you, I think I was starting to lose my mind a bit.’ I tell him about the phone call and the trip to Shropshire.

  ‘You sound like you were starting to go all stalker-like, buddy. I think you’re right. You took the chequered flag, I think it’s time to throw in the towel. I mean, if she hung up on you . . .’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking . . . except for the sports metaphors, obviously. Anyway, lots to be keeping myself busy. I’ve got to learn to cook.’ I laugh.

  ‘But you can already cook,’ he answers, looking puzzled.

  ‘Not as a blind person, mate, not as a blind person.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot about that.’

  Michael catches my eye and I wish that I could forget about it too.

  ‘Right, Sammy boy.’ Da slams a pad of paper on to the kitchen table as Mam opens and shuts the oven. Even in the bloody summer
, we have to have a roast. ‘Your bucket list: number one?’

  ‘Drive a car,’ I answer, the words leaving my mouth without much thought.

  ‘Right you are . . . number two?’

  ‘See a match, a real match. Not on the telly.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘I want to see a show.’

  ‘A show?’ He hesitates.

  ‘Just write it down,’ I snap. ‘Jesus, Mam could you open a window? I’m melting in here.’

  ‘Four? Sammy? Four?’ Sophie’s image pushes its way into my thoughts: the way she looked at me when she first opened her eyes in the morning.

  ‘Christ, I need some air. Can we do this later?’

  ‘Sure, but—’

  ‘Da! Just give me a minute to think, will you?’ I grab Michael and leave the room, trying to escape the six things on the list that all involve Sophie.

  Week Twenty-Four

  Sophie

  There is a stillness to this evening. The sky is blood-red and starlings in their hundreds swoop and dive across the sky as though they are one pattern. I describe them to Bean, who is now the length of one of the rulers at school.

  ‘The type that Lewis Slater used to twang elastic bands at my head when the teacher wasn’t looking,’ I tell Bean as I make a salad. My hair is escaping a plait, resting in between my shoulders; my loose lemon camisole leans forward as I take the baked potatoes out of the oven. The heat of the day is still and warm, but it is a breathable heat, not like the oppressive heat of the first rush of summer at the beginning of the month. I put the plates on a tray and carry it around to Charlie’s house. The door is open and as I walk into the kitchen he is sitting staring blankly at the wall. He blinks as I walk into the room, as if trying to re-focus his eyes.

  ‘Hi,’ I smile. ‘Just baked potatoes today. Have you got any sour cream?’ I ask him, trying to nudge life into this room where grief floats around like an empty ship adrift after a storm.

  ‘Why are you here, Sophie?’ he asks, blinking slowly and meeting my eyes. His eyes look clouded and unfocused, as though he is drunk, but I can’t smell any alcohol. Bean doesn’t like the smell usually and my nose will wrinkle at it.

  ‘Well, it’s dinner time and—’

  ‘I mean, why are YOU here? Why are you making me food that I don’t want, talking to me about things I don’t care about?’ His voice is rising and there is spittle at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Charlie, I know that you’re hurting—’

  ‘No, you don’t know. You don’t know anything about me. You’re just using me to fill your dull little life. You have nothing to do other than to poke your nose into mine, because you have no life of your own.’

  His words are ricocheting off my skin. I feel their small nips and bites, but I know that he doesn’t mean them. I place the plate in front of him, but he takes his hand and swipes it to the floor. The sound does more than shatter the silence; the silence implodes. ‘Get out,’ he says.

  ‘I’ll just clean this up—’

  ‘I don’t want you to clean it up. Can’t you see how difficult it is for me to see you, to see you talk about your bump in the same way that Olivia did? You’re not her; why are you forcing your way into my life? Do you think I don’t know how you used to watch me in school? Don’t you know what everyone in school used to think of you? You think that by leaving and getting a ball-breaking career that it changes who you are? You’re still the fucking same: a leech. You attach yourself to whoever will take you and just won’t. Let. Fucking. Go. I bet Samuel sighed a breath of relief when you left Washington. I bet he couldn’t believe his fucking luck. I bet he—’

  I don’t let him finish his sentence because my hand has slapped his face. My hand stings and my insides are crawling; they want to escape me; the anger that I have always said could be contained has broken free. Is that how Ian felt? Like he couldn’t contain it? Maybe I’m just as damaged as he was.

  ‘Get. Out.’

  He needn’t have said the words because I am already leaving, backing out of this house that I don’t belong in, a life that I don’t belong in.

  My whole body is shaking. Bean is still; is Bean scared of me?

  I slam the door behind me, my back sliding down its ridges as I sink to the floor. My palms turn over and I look at them as if they are holding a knife, as if they belong to someone else. The sun is beginning to sink, the blood-red sky seeping through the windows, staining the clean surfaces, tainting everything I have tried to create with doubt.

  Week Twenty-Four

  Samuel

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ I ask Da, who is sitting in the passenger side of his car. Da seems to think that the old dirt track we used to go tobogganing down when we were kids never gets used, so it’s OK for a blind man to drive down. It leads on to the field that we used to make dens in and where I popped my cherry on a very cold night with Carol; I can’t say the ground shook for either of us unless you count the herd of cows that wandered past us after my cherry had been very quickly dispatched.

  ‘Ah, will you stop complaining, Sammy, and turn the key?’

  ‘I’m just saying that as I can’t even see you, or the steering wheel, this might not be the grandest of ideas, you know?’

  ‘Stop being a wet blanket and turn the fecking key.’ My head shakes in response while I feel for the key and turn on the ignition. The car splutters and coughs rather than the purr that my car in DC gives out.

  My vision through the window is small and filled with the bumpy lane stretching in front of me and the green grass of the field up ahead, but I can’t see through my passenger window and I can’t see through the side mirrors either; I know that this will be the last time I drive a car. ‘What are you waiting for?’ Da asks.

  My foot feels the resistance of the accelerator pedal beneath my sole as I add a little pressure, the car beginning along the bumpy track. ‘Jesus! You’re driving like my Great-Aunt Nelly.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of a Great-Aunt Nelly,’ I tell him, pouring all my concentration into the small hoop of fields and mud in front of me.

  ‘Well, if we did have one, this would be how she would be driving.’

  I press my foot down a little harder and feel around for the gear stick, sliding it from first gear into second; it grinds in protest as Da swears under his breath. From the black hole where my peripheral vision should be, a growling sound starts up; I hear something pass us and it takes a moment for it to swerve into my vision: a teenage boy on a quad bike veers in front of me.

  My foot responds by hitting the brake and we lurch forward, the seat belts tightening sharply across our bodies.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Sammy, you’re not going to let that little shite Timmy from down the road overtake us, are you? Put your foot down, you great Jessy.’

  ‘I could have hit him! You need to tell me if something is coming from behind me, Da, I can only see what’s in front of me! I can’t see if Little Timmy or Little Tommy or anyone comes from the side, OK?’

  ‘As long as you don’t make me the laughing stock of Ireland. Now put your foot down on the accelerator – do you want to feel like you’re driving like a man or my Great-Aunty Flo?’

  ‘We don’t have a—’

  He grabs Michael and pushes him down on to the accelerator, and we hurtle down the track.

  ‘That’s more like it! Ha, ha! Off we go, Sammy boy!’

  ‘Da! Move Michael away from the pedals!’ I screech as we bump our way down the lane, the tyres dipping into potholes, with the sound of mud splashing up the sides of the doors.

  ‘Michael? Who the feck’s Michael?’ The image of the open gate is sucked closer towards us as the car jolts and bounces its way through the dirt towards the field.

  ‘The cane, Da, move the cane!’ We speed through the open gates and on to the field, splashing into a deep puddle that sprays mud on to the window. I need to look down to find where the wipers are but I daren’t look away from the little g
reenery of the field that I can see.

  ‘Wipers, Sammy!’

  ‘I can’t find them!’ My hand begins flicking the sticks around the steering wheel, one of them activating the radio, which begins blaring out Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Holding Out for a Hero’. I finally find the wipers and they begin swiping the mud away at a furious pace. ‘Move the cane, Da!’

  ‘I can’t! Mikey is stuck!’

  ‘Oooh, whoooo, whoooo, whooooo! Ahh! Ahhh!’ Bonnie sings.

  ‘Michael!’ The car continues to bounce, the low gear screeching alongside Bonnie’s questions about where all the good men have gone.

  ‘Ah, Michael Caine! Ha! I get it, Sammy.’ Da seems oblivious to the way I’m gripping the wheel.

  He pulls the cane away as I slam on the brakes. The adrenaline is pumping through my body, making me breathe in short gasps while my heart hammers inside my chest. I sit still for a moment and stare ahead where Timmy has stopped his quad bike, the image of him encircled in darkness as he revs the engine at me. He adjusts his helmet and sticks up his middle finger at us.

  ‘That little—’ I say.

  ‘Buckle up, Michael,’ Da says as I slip the gear stick into first, take my foot off the brake and begin hurtling after Timmy from down the street with Da shouting, ‘That’s it, my boy! Show him not to mess with an angry blind McLaughlin driving a car!’

  Timmy drives his quad bike around in a semi-circle as I come hurtling after him; he tears off towards the summit of the field and dips down beneath the horizon. We bump and creak our way after him, the mound of the hill coming into my view before we hurtle over its peak and career downwards where Timmy is flying off ahead, giving lewd hand gestures over his shoulder. We gain on him, my fingers gripping the wheel, my head leaning as close to the windshield as I can get it. We begin to catch him up, but the front of the car suddenly dips, and we find ourselves trapped in the clutches of a hidden ditch, the back wheels spinning and the car remaining stationary. Timmy zooms away, flies past us and gives us a wanker sign as he does.