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

by Emma Cooper

  I think of how she snorts when she laughs, how she covers her mouth in embarrassment, the way her hands can turn a sugar packet into a flower, the look in her eyes when she sees something beautiful. ‘That’s it, Sammy, that’s the look you want when she opens the door,’ he says before I have time to answer. ‘Like a lovesick idiot. That’s what’ll win her heart.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Worked for your mother.’

  I laugh.

  ‘But what about when I introduce her to Michael?’

  ‘What she thinks of Mikey doesn’t matter.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ I ask, returning my gaze to the circle of countryside flashing past the telescope in shades of sage and ash. ‘Of course it matters what she thinks of him.’ Michael stops tapping and sits still.

  ‘Because if she looks at you with the same dopey expression, then she won’t give a flying fuck about Mr Cane here.’

  Sometimes there isn’t a word to describe how you feel about your parents either.

  ‘Oh, here we go. Looks like this is the place.’

  He slows down the car as I scan the view in front of me. There is an old gate closing the road, leaving a small T-shaped piece of land, just big enough to be able to turn a car around.

  The engine ticks as the ignition is turned off. I can see Sophie’s building from here, it’s far enough away to let me see it whole. It’s a low building made of old stones and a slate roof. It has a red door to the right and a black one further over on the left; two cars are parked next to each other and the light is on in one of the bottom rooms on the right-hand side of the building.

  ‘Stay here while I have a look.’

  ‘I can see the building, Da. I’ll be OK, I think.’

  ‘Right, well, the first thing you need to watch is that the ground is going to be really uneven. Let Mikey take his time, don’t rush. It looks like the land beyond the gate has been overgrown for a while, so there are bound to be things in your path. I think it may have been cut recently, so maybe let Mikey do that swishing thing rather than letting him rock and roll; he’ll get tangled up otherwise.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Da. I’ll take my time, it’s not like we’re on a cliff face or anything.’

  ‘Just . . . be careful.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Well. Good luck then.’

  The seat belt unbuckles, and Michael and I leave the car, closing the door softly behind us. The ground beneath my feet is spongy and uneven and with each step I take, I can hear the squelch of the mud sucking under my walking boots. I pull the zip up on my waterproof coat as the rain pounds down from the sky, the warmth of the fat raindrops the only hint that it is still officially summer. I look downwards and focus on the end of the tunnel, to the top of the gate. I follow it with my hand until I reach the rope that holds it in place; I slip the rope off and open the gate wide enough for me to walk through, securing the rope back around its neck.

  Michael swings about in front of me as I try to keep my eyes focused on the ground and not towards where the warm light shines from within the house. It takes me some time before my feet feel a smoother surface, and as I look down, I can see the remains of an old pathway that has recently been cleared. I lift my chin and look at the house. I know I should be going towards the door, but the light draws me in. Michael swishes in front of me as I make my way towards that side of the house; the ground has a slight incline that I make a mental note to be aware of when I walk back down, but then I stop, because I can see her. The tunnel is trying to swallow Sophie, but she hasn’t been taken from me just yet. Her face is fuller, and her hair is longer, hanging loosely over her shoulders, but there she is. I thought I would never get to see her again. I make myself take notice of everything about her: the tilt of her head as she leans forward and takes her food off her fork; how she is wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb; the way she shuffles her position on the chair. I try to commit it all to memory. The relief and joy I feel is clouded by the other component to this scene in front of me; it’s probably just a split second that I have spent watching Sophie, a split second where I felt happy before I noticed she was sitting opposite a man.

  I stand still, the rain easing off as though it knows I need a moment of time without anything else to contend with. I look at him; he’s got that kind of rock-star thing going on, like he’s been out partying all night but still somehow manages to look the part the next day. I, on the other hand, tend to spend the next day with the shits and the shakes. They are talking about something important; this isn’t a conversation about the weather or when to book a holiday. Sophie looks upset by something he is saying. From where I am, I can’t take in the two of them together and so my head switches from one to the other like I’m watching tennis. Sophie is trying to explain something and then she flinches. She doesn’t jump back or anything, but it’s there in the sharp breath she takes; it looks as though she’s trying to apologise for something. My head switches back to the man. He is watching everything she does, responding to everything she says, but then he looks away as though he doesn’t want to hear any more. I return my focus to Sophie, but she is moving. She stands, and I track her face, taking a moment to adjust to her movement. I stay focused on her face as she arrives at his side; she goes to move away, but he has done something to stop her. She looks upset; her teeth are holding her bottom lip. I track downwards to where I can see she has tried to take his plate away, but he has hold of her hand; this gesture is so intimate I feel breathless. I’m trying to keep up with the different components that are making up the whole: they’re eating a meal together, her make-up and hair looks natural, so this is someone she feels comfortable with. I can’t describe the pain that I’m feeling as I watch her hands begin to stroke his hair, but that is nothing to how I feel as I notice how much has changed for Sophie since we last saw each other.

  She’s pregnant.

  My mouth begins to water as though I could be sick at any minute. I watch their faces as they look into each other’s eyes, a look filled with raw emotion, one that you could only show to someone who you care for deeply. His hand reaches for her stomach and he smiles. As he wraps his arms around her, I can feel part of me falling away. The part of me that thought I could be happy without her is the first to go. As he leans his head against her bump, I can feel my hopes peel away from my insides, but what strips me bare is the look of pure happiness as she closes her eyes.

  Her life has started again. Her world is expanding, her life filling with new things: a new man, a new home, a new life.

  I watch her for as long as I can, even though with every second that I stand there I can feel each part of me that made living inside of this tunnel bearable begin to crumble into dust.

  I study every aspect of this scene, putting myself beside her, leaning my head against our child as we stand in our new home. As much as watching this is killing me, I drink it in. I store away every detail: the tear of happiness rolling down her cheek that she leaves unchecked, the rhythm that her fingers follow as they flow through his hair, the way her bump must feel to him as he rests his head against it, the joy that is written on his face as he gently kisses it. I keep every detail because I know that for the rest of my life . . . this will be what I want; this will be what I am missing.

  The rain picks up its pace again, telling me to move on, that this is enough for one man to bear. Da’s feet tread quietly behind me and I try to straighten my shoulders, but I can’t; they are slumped, the weight of the scene in front of me too heavy for me to brush off.

  ‘Come on, lad . . . time to go home,’ he says, the pain I’m feeling cracking his deep voice as though he’s feeling it too. I nod and take a final look at the life I will never have. The gate slams behind us as Da leads me back to the car and to my new life: a life in darkness.

  Week Twenty-Nine

  Sophie

  Charlie is starting to look better. I wave through the window as he walks past, his gait giving the impression
of a man in a rush, the rise and fall of his steps reminding me of the horses on a carousel. He’s eating more. I rub my large stomach: I’m eating more, too. I’ve tentatively suggested that Charlie think about starting up a new restaurant; I received a blunt ‘no’ in response, but I’ve noticed this week that his house is clean, the bags beneath his eyes are less bruised and our meals have become more extravagant.

  I look up at the minute hand as it ticks time away with a nonchalant smile. It doesn’t care that with every click of its tongue, more time is passing since I’ve heard from Samuel. The envelope icon sleeps at the bottom of the screen, and I click my finger, waking it. Samuel hasn’t been in touch. This is a fact that pulls at my centre. It toys with my balance as though I have no anchor to keep me tethered, to keep me in the place where I know my message has been passed on. He would have been in touch if Bret had told him I was looking for him. I replay the way that Bret had spoken to me – would he have even told Samuel I was trying to find him? I was stupid not to push him for more information. My fingers tap in Bret’s email address, but then I stare at the screen – what do I say that will make him change his mind? Bean shifts and fidgets, my baby’s kicks taking my breath away.

  ‘I know you want me to tell him,’ I say, looking down, ‘but I want to tell him myself. I don’t want some American man that I barely know telling Your Dad he’s going to be a father.’

  Charlie taps on the door then walks in as I close the lid on my laptop. I don’t know why I haven’t told him about Samuel yet. I’m finding it harder with the passing of time, like when you’ve told a white lie and don’t quite know how to get yourself out of the fallout that it causes.

  ‘I’ve sorted out the spare room.’ He walks over to the sink, fills the kettle and scoops coffee into two mugs.

  ‘Oh?’ I’m left wondering why he is telling me this information. ‘Have you made it into an office?’ I hazard a guess.

  ‘Yes,’ he answers, shaking his head as though it’s obvious. Did he always answer things so bluntly? Is it one of the things Olivia loved about him? He turns his head and pours the boiling water into the cups and adds milk. ‘All of my paperwork is in the desk in there, anyway.’

  He passes me my coffee and slurps his noisily. ‘What are you up to?’ he nods at my closed laptop.

  ‘Nothing, just, you know . . .’

  ‘No, because you haven’t told me.’

  I think of the straightforward way he handles things and so jump in.

  ‘Right, well, the thing is . . . I’ve found out a few things about Samuel.’

  I tell him about the accident and about my trip to DC. He blinks at this. Did he even notice my car wasn’t sitting outside our house for a week while it was parked in an airport car park? I continue about my conversation with Bret and how I have been waiting for Samuel to get in touch.

  ‘Right.’ He drains his cup as though I’ve just commented on the weather. ‘Don’t forget dinner at seven. I’m cooking my favourite.’

  ‘Um, sounds lovely,’ I say, thrown by his reaction to my story.

  ‘Why don’t you wear something posh?’

  I swallow my coffee so quickly it goes down the wrong way. He frowns, walks over and thwacks me on the back. I hold out a hand to let him know I’m fine, even though I’m coughing my coffee everywhere. The coughing stops and I sneeze twice. I don’t know why that happens, but it always does. ‘Have you got a cold?’ he asks.

  ‘No, I always sneeze in pairs.’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He turns to walk away.

  ‘Charlie?’ I call. ‘What should I do? About Samuel?’

  ‘Find him, I expect.’

  And with that he closes the door softly behind him as I begin to smile.

  I’m wearing the only ‘posh’ maternity clothing that I have in my wardrobe, which is a black knee-length dress with a sweetheart neckline. The swelling in my feet has gone down and so I slip on a pair of black high heels, which until now have remained in one of the boxes from my London home, and I put on more make-up than I have for weeks. Did I really spend this much time on my make-up every day? I rub my lips together and place the lid back on the lipstick case.

  I knock on Charlie’s door, feeling exhilarated from my day’s work and the sense of occasion that a pair of heels and a bit of make-up can bring. He opens the door wearing grey trousers, matching waistcoat and a white shirt.

  ‘You’re on time!’ he announces by way of greeting. Not the standard ‘you look lovely’, and I can’t help but bite down a smile as I follow his retreating back into the kitchen. His hair is washed, and it bobs up and down on his head as I follow him. The table is set beautifully with a silver candelabrum holding three white candles. Grey napkins are folded beneath heavy cutlery, and crystal glasses catch the light, sending shards of rainbow reflections on to the walls.

  ‘Do you want a small glass of champagne? It’s not as if you’ve got to drive or anything.’ His words sound neutral but there is colour behind them: a flash of red, a flash of anger. He takes a large sip of his glass and gestures for me to sit down.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  He nods and pours me a glass of sparkling water. I take a sip, picturing Bean wiggling about as the cool bubbles fizz their way through my insides. ‘Thank you.’

  He smiles and chats about the fish market in town and then serves me a starter of squid in a chilli and ginger glaze. As we begin to eat, he begins to talk. He tells me about the first time he saw Olivia at school and how when he finally picked up the courage to speak to her, she had scowled at him so viciously that it took him a whole year to find the courage to try again. This time she let him walk her home from school, let him come in and introduced him to her parents, all on the same day. As I asked him why she had scowled at him the first time, he cleared the plates away and refilled his glass, pouring sparkling water into mine. ‘Her great-gran had told her that you would only find a good husband if he was scared of you first.’

  I laugh at this. ‘How old were you both then?’

  ‘She scowled at me when I was thirteen, introduced me to her parents when I was fourteen.’

  ‘Sounds like her gran had the right idea.’

  He serves us goat’s cheese moussaka with fresh garlic bread and a salad filled with herby olives and pickled asparagus. The food is delicious, but listening to Charlie talk about his family is as beautiful as anything he serves. He talks about when Jack was born and how he had his first proper temper tantrum when he couldn’t fit both of his feet inside a vase. He tells me about Jack’s first day at school and his first Christmas play when he had to dance around as a flame. I sip my drink and listen to his stories as he becomes more animated with every glass of champagne.

  As we begin to eat chocolate brownies drenched in a chocolate orange sauce, Charlie becomes more subdued. He describes how the last words he and Olivia had said to each other were about not forgetting to get milk from the shop.

  ‘All the things I could have said to her, and that was it. Don’t forget to get milk on the way home.’

  ‘You couldn’t have known that was the last conversation you would ever have, Charlie.’

  ‘I know . . . but I was being a dick. She’d been in a foul mood that day, moaning at me for every little thing I hadn’t done around the house. I can’t help but wonder if that’s why she’d had a drink at her friend’s . . . because she was pissed off at me for not doing the washing-up enough, not picking up my clothes from the floor.’ He pushes his plate away and pours the rest of the bottle into his glass. ‘I held the phone for twenty minutes after the hospital had called me. It felt like hours, but I couldn’t let go of the receiver because I knew that when I did it, it would all become real.’

  Brandy is poured after he’s placed the cheese board on the table. I watch him drink his glass and refill it; I get up and make coffee. He’s forgotten that I can’t eat half of the cheese on there, I think, but by now, his eyes are blurry, and he is beginning to r
epeat things that he has already told me. I begin to clear up the dishes and tidy around the kitchen as I hear, again, about how he had closed the restaurant, sold the house and looked for a cottage in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘But you . . .’ he points a wobbly finger in my direction, but he is smiling, ‘you were already here.’

  ‘I was.’ I smile and lean my back against the sink, my hand covering my mouth as I yawn.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he says. ‘Thank you, Sophie, for everything.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ He stares at the wall, thinking about something else already. I glance at the clock: it’s half-one in the morning. ‘And thanks for a wonderful dinner. You really should think about starting again, when you feel up to it.’

  He smiles with his eyes half-closed.

  ‘Right, me and Bean are going to love you and leave you.’

  ‘Yes. Sleep awaits,’ he says, standing up and swaying as he sees me to the door. I turn to hug him, and he holds me tight, putting his hand on my stomach and saying, ‘Goodnight, Bean. Look after Mummy for me.’

  I kiss him on the cheek, thank him again and go home.

  Bean and I try to get comfortable, but something is bothering me, like the feeling when you walk into a room and have forgotten why you went in there in the first place. I pull the covers over us, falling into a sleep which is splintered with broken dreams.

  I’m awake again but it’s still dark. I toss and turn for a while. It’s getting harder to find a comfortable position and Bean is awake, kicking me so hard that my breathing becomes irregular. Something about the evening with Charlie is bothering me.

  I flick on the light and reach for Mum’s clock: it’s not long after four. The salt in the cheese has left my mouth dry and heartburn simmers in my chest. I go downstairs to get a glass of water and some Gaviscon, flicking on the fairy lights that hang beneath the counter and thinking about how Bean will be here before Christmas. The glass is refilled twice, my thirst quenched.