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

  Copyright © 2019 Emma Cooper

  The right of Emma Cooper to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook in Great Britain by Headline Publishing Group in 2019

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Cover designed by Yeti Lambregts

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 6501 2

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Emma Cooper

  Praise

  Also by Emma Cooper

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Autumn

  Chapter One: Sophie

  Chapter Two: Samuel

  Chapter Three: Sophie

  Chapter Four: Samuel

  Chapter Five: Sophie

  Chapter Six: Samuel

  Chapter Seven: Sophie

  Winter

  Week One: Sophie

  Week One: Samuel

  Week Two: Sophie

  Week Two: Samuel

  Week Three: Sophie

  Week Three: Samuel

  Week Four: Sophie

  Week Four: Samuel

  Week Five: Sophie

  Week Five: Samuel

  Week Six: Sophie

  Week Six: Samuel

  Spring

  Week Seven: Sophie

  Week Seven: Samuel

  Week Eight: Sophie

  Week Eight: Samuel

  Week Nine: Sophie

  Week Nine: Samuel

  Week Ten: Sophie

  Week Ten: Samuel

  Week Eleven: Sophie

  Week Eleven: Samuel

  Week Twelve: Sophie

  Week Twelve: Samuel

  Week Thirteen: Sophie

  Week Thirteen: Samuel

  Week Fourteen: Sophie

  Week Fourteen: Samuel

  Week Fifteen: Sophie

  Week Fifteen: Samuel

  Week Sixteen: Sophie

  Week Sixteen: Samuel

  Week Seventeen: Sophie

  Week Seventeen: Samuel

  Week Eighteen: Sophie

  Week Eighteen: Samuel

  Week Nineteen: Sophie

  Week Nineteen: Samuel

  Week Twenty: Sophie

  Week Twenty: Samuel

  Summer

  Week Twenty-One: Sophie

  Week Twenty-One: Samuel

  Week Twenty-Two: Sophie

  Week Twenty-Two: Samuel

  Week Twenty-Three: Sophie

  Week Twenty-Three: Samuel

  Week Twenty-Four: Sophie

  Week Twenty-Four: Samuel

  Week Twenty-Five: Sophie

  Week Twenty-Five: Samuel

  Week Twenty-Six: Sophie

  Week Twenty-Six: Samuel

  Week Twenty-Seven: Sophie

  Week Twenty-Seven: Samuel

  Week Twenty-Eight: Sophie

  Week Twenty-Eight: Samuel

  Week Twenty-Nine: Sophie

  Week Twenty-Nine: Samuel

  Week Thirty: Sophie

  Week Thirty: Samuel

  Week Thirty-One: Sophie

  Week Thirty-One: Samuel

  Week Thirty-Two: Sophie

  Week Thirty-Two: Samuel

  Week Thirty-Three: Sophie

  Week Thirty-Three: Samuel

  Autumn

  Week Thirty-Four: Sophie

  Week Thirty-Four: Samuel

  Week Thirty-Five: Sophie

  Week Thirty-Five: Samuel

  Week Thirty-Five: Contractions Forty-Five Minutes Apart: Sophie

  Week Thirty-Five: Contractions Forty-Five Minutes Apart: Samuel

  Week Thirty-Five: Contractions Thirty Minutes Apart: Sophie

  Week Thirty-Five: Contractions Thirty Minutes Apart: Samuel

  Week Thirty-Five: Contractions Twenty Minutes Apart: Sophie

  Week Thirty-Five: Contractions Twenty Minutes Apart: Samuel

  Week Thirty-Five: Contractions Two Minutes Apart: Sophie

  Week Thirty-Five: Contractions Two Minutes Apart: Samuel

  Week Thirty-Five: Sophie

  Week Thirty-Five: Samuel

  Week Thirty-Six: Sophie

  Week Thirty-Six: Samuel

  Epilogue: Four Years Later: Charlie

  About the Author

  Emma Cooper is a former teaching assistant, who lives in Shropshire with her partner and four children. She spends her spare time writing novels, drinking wine and watching box-sets with her partner of twenty-four years, who still makes her smile every day.

  Emma has always wanted to be a writer – ever since childhood, she’s been inventing characters (her favourite being her imaginary friend ‘Boot’) and is thrilled that she now gets to use this imagination to bring to life all of her creations.

  Praise for The Songs of Us

  ‘Quirky, clever and original, this will break your heart, but put it back together again’ Katie Fforde

  ‘A warm and touching novel about love and loss, and the healing power of family’ Woman and Home

  ‘Poignant and beautifully written’ Woman

  ‘[A] sweet, moving debut’ Good Housekeeping

  ‘This is a very special book indeed: funny, powerful, heart-wrenching and so poignant. I have laughed and cried and cried . . . it reminded me to hold my family close and tell each of them how much I love them’ Jo Thomas

  ‘The Songs of Us is an emotional rollercoaster of a book that made me laugh and cry in equal measures. A tragically beautiful story of love and loss, family and hope. Emma Cooper has been swiftly added to my list of authors to read’ Fiona Harper

  By Emma Cooper and available from Headline

  The Songs of Us

  About the Book

  Six-foot-two Irish man who answers to the name Samuel McLaughlin.

  Has weak shins and enjoys show tunes.

  If found, please return to Sophie Williams.

  Before Sophie met Samuel she saw the world in grey.

  Before Samuel met Sophie, he never believed in love at first sight.

  When they first meet, something tells them they are meant to be.

  But fate has other ideas.

  Now they have lost each other and can’t see a way back.

  But they’ve already changed each other’s lives in more ways than they could have predicted . . .

  For Russell . . .

  who always shows me there is light at the end of the tunnel

  Acknowledgements

  The First Time I Saw You began as a very different book. It has been shaped and moulded, loved and championed by so many that I don’t honestly know where to begin thanking people, so I’ll start as before, with the woman who made my
life as a writer possible: my wonderful agent, Amanda Preston. When you learn about literary agents as a newbie writer, you learn about the contracts they negotiate, the doors they open and the advice they give you . . . what you don’t hear about is the voice at the end of the phone talking you off the ledge when you’re having a meltdown, the ideas and inspiration they pass on to you when trying to karate chop writer’s block and the endless hours they work behind the scenes. Thank you Amanda, for everything.

  My next words of gratitude go to my wonderful editor Jennifer Doyle. Jen is there at every stage, always answering my stupid questions even when she’s on her way home, always speaking sense – yep . . . there was way too much sick in this book! And always cheering me along. She is Mr McLaughlin Senior’s biggest fan and am I hers.

  To Katie Sunley, who has been a wonderful support through the whole editorial process, even going so far as to send me a Google map so I could find my way from my hotel to the RNA Awards, I’d be lost (literally) without you.

  And Phoebe Swinburn, who has now gone on to pastures new. I will miss working with you so much, you have been an absolute dream to share this journey with; there at every turn with a smile and a tweet. You’re an absolute goddess and will continue to take the world by storm.

  Huge thanks go to all at ILA who work tirelessly on my behalf, giving my words sexy accents all over the world.

  The biggest of thankyous go to the writing community. This job can be an incredibly lonely process but thankfully I’m part of some amazingly supportive Facebook writing and reading groups. The Fiction Café admin staff who work so very hard to make it such a wonderful, safe environment to be part of, I’m so incredibly grateful for everything you all do. Your support over the last year is something that I continue to cherish. Wendy Clarke, I count my lucky stars every day that you created this group, thank you. A special mention to the following members who are often the ones I turn to when I’m having a rough day or when I’ve had some exciting news: Jenny Kennedy, Kate Baker, Julie Morris, Natali Drake and Kiltie Jackson . . . you’re all rock stars.

  I’d be nowhere near as savvy about the publishing industry if it wasn’t for the Savvy Authors’ Snug! Ahoy to all the members, thank you for helping me, laughing with/at me and for your constant support. We might all be slightly mad but at least we’re in the very best of company!

  To the RNA for their support and guidance, I’m hoping to see you all again very soon.

  I have some very dear friends who I left behind when I changed my career but who never leave me behind. They are my shoulders to cry on, my openers of prosecco and the most focused of focus groups. Thank you to Emma Jackson, Claire Ashley, Julie Henry and Louise Brindley-Jones.

  This book wouldn’t have been finished at all if I didn’t have my very special writing buddy Nicki Smith working alongside me. She is the kindest, most generous person I know. She listens as I babble on about my ideas, my worries, my hopes, my waist size, my bladder control and my word count. You are my rock.

  The greatest of thanks to my mad family, both close and extended, and without whom there would be no fodder for my books!

  And last in my acknowledgements but always first in my heart: Russ, Ethan, Ally, Max and Bean, without you all, I wouldn’t be able to find my way.

  ‘Life is not about what you get, but what is taken from you. It’s in the things we lose that we discover what we most treasure.’

  – Adriana Trigiani – The Shoemaker’s Wife

  AUTUMN

  Chapter One

  Sophie

  At the beginning of our life, we see things differently. As a small child, I would look at the world and it was innocent. I could see the smile on my mother’s face as she sang to me, see the creases in her skin as she smiled, see the love in her eyes as she kissed me goodnight. The scene before me had been clear and pure, but as we get older the image changes: like a hologram, you tilt the scene one way and you see a woman smiling; tilt it the other way and she is crying.

  My damp feet pad into the hotel bedroom; the reflection in the mirror catches my attention and my mum stares back at me. It’s happening a lot lately – the older I get, the more I look like her. I trace the shape of my face with my finger: the same shaped face, the same point at the tip of the chin, the same dimples either side of my mouth.

  I know how I must have seemed to everyone when she died. Cold and indifferent. Someone at the trial said that my heart must have been made of stone; after all, how can someone not attend their mother’s funeral? How could I not scream and shout, or cheer and whoop when her killer was put behind bars? I did cry, though. I did scream and shout, but then, after I hit the darkest waters in the deepest depths of grief, I suddenly realised that he was winning: he was still hurting us. So, I stopped. I closed the door on the what-ifs and the whys and instead just accepted that it was: that’s how I am still so close to Helen; that’s how I still call her my sister.

  My back turns on the mirror; I don’t have time for this today. I have to be the woman that I have worked so hard to become, who no longer speaks with the Welsh accent of her childhood, who can walk into a company and exploit its faults; who lives a life without close friends because they take up too much time.

  I slip into my underwear, the silk camisole sliding over my pale skin: the first layer of the armour. The white blouse eases off the hanger, expensive material eradicating my memories of cheap, supermarket-bought school shirts, sharp creases protecting my bare shoulders from the images of being teased at school; the buttons fastening firmly across my chest, enclosing my heart. The stockings glide over my legs: legs that walked me into the school that I hated, legs that were grazed as I tried to pull him off her. I step into the winter-white pencil skirt – zipping myself in – before sliding my feet into shoes that my mother would only have ever dreamed of, the heels like daggers, their soles the colour of blood.

  I cover my freckles with concealer, cover my eyelashes with heavy mascara and apply a deep crimson lipstick. With each subtle layer, my armour becomes tougher; the natural waves of my hair are straightened and sprayed, my natural scent covered in a mist of perfume that I haven’t acquired by rubbing my wrist on the inside of a magazine advertisement.

  Before I leave the room, I reach for my calf-length yellow coat – a coat my teenage self would have shied away from; the colour too bold, the style too confrontational. I shrug on this final piece of my defence and turn back towards the mirror: my mother’s reflection is gone.

  My heels clip along Pennsylvania Avenue just west of the White House, my reflection in the towering buildings showing a confident woman in charge of her destiny. I stop and look up at the Greenlight regional office, but I don’t enter the building. I’m here just to get a feel for the city, to visit Greenlight’s competitors and to see what we’re up against.

  I never set out to do this job; I just fell into it. Funny phrase, ‘fell into it’. How do we just fall into something? We don’t fall: we don’t tumble like a gymnast with a CV in our hands; we don’t jump off the end of a cliff and land in the cradled arms of an interviewer. We don’t ‘fall’ in love; we just find ourselves part of something that we didn’t know we were missing from in the first place.

  My job found me, I suppose. I have always been good at maths, always been able to analyse problems and see a solution. It was a natural path for me to go into accounting. It suited me; I liked the solitary, irrefutable answers it gave me, until the small company that I worked for after university gave me the wrong answers. Answers that revealed money being hidden in the private accounts of my employer. After I exposed this, I was approached by the agency – Sandwell Incorporated. It felt strange to be sought after, to have somebody asking me to work for them, and at first, I didn’t think I could do it, but I soon found out that I could. I could work up to eighteen hours a day, analyse their data and find a gap, a thread; a hook to make it easy for us to help them – or if not, for us to make them an offer they couldn’t refuse.

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sp; The afternoon is spent in meetings with other small loan firms. I ask difficult questions, find holes in their processes, manipulate conversations with smiles and understanding nods.

  My throat is dry and my work for the day is done, so I find a café and take a seat outside, grateful to be breathing in the fresh air after an afternoon in stuffy offices. I’m confident our new software is a strong enough tool for us to merge with Greenlight. It will put them head and shoulders above their competitors, and if they fight us, I know we will win.

  Unfamiliar accents and unfamiliar smells surround me. I watch the couple on the opposite table; they aren’t speaking a word to each other. She slurps her soup as he sits, devouring a giant pretzel, which he intermittently dips into sauce. They look past each other, that place just above the shoulder where life carries on even if you can’t quite see it. How odd that they should both be watching life pass them by, but from opposing views. The man begins to cough – a rogue piece of pretzel, lodged where it shouldn’t be. His companion is out of her chair, passing him water, rubbing his back, wiping away the tears that have formed around his eyes. The coughing stops: he pats her hand; she strokes his face and then sits back down, the world beyond their shoulders continuing.

  I watch the concern on her face; the gratitude and love on his.

  Nobody knows where I am.

  This thought startles me. I haven’t spoken to Helen for weeks; I’ve told work that I’m having an informal visit to our next project – the details of which are, at this moment, still very much under wraps. A few people know I’m in DC, but other than that, nobody knows that I’m here, sitting outside a restaurant; invisible to the lives around me just as I am invisible to the lives back home.

  What if a photographer were to pass by this café today and take a photo – the scene frozen: not a sound, not a blink, not a breath? The woman leaning towards her soup; the man with the pretzel halfway to his face; a waitress looking out of the corner of her eyes at a blond businessman drinking beer and laughing loudly; the group of women on the pavement, smart shopping bags in mid-swing, their heads thrown back in laughter . . . and me. A thirty-year-old English woman in a stylish white suit, sitting still with an almost cold cup of coffee in front of her. A click, a close of the shutter, the image captured as an advert for the café, perhaps? Perhaps the photographer would see the English woman in the centre of the frame and decide to take her out of it; she doesn’t quite fit there. He crops the photo, cutting the scene in two, then drags the halves back together: the woman is gone. He sips his coffee, smiles at the screen at a job well done, pleased with the result: it’s as if she was never there at all.