Page 11

Sophie

‘This is where you’ve gone wrong – here and here.’

Cynthia, my least favourite customer, stabs a glossy red fingernail at my neat stitching along the seam of her black taffeta evening gown.

She’s about sixty-five and will pick fault with everything and everyone until her last breath in her nineties.

Her hands drip with diamonds and her new handbag is Chanel, yet she haggled over the price of my alteration.

She’s accusing me of taking in too much fabric at the waist, but my measurements were accurate.

It’s much more likely she’s put on weight since she dropped off her dress a month ago and forgot to collect it.

‘I can let it out by another centimetre or two,’ I say calmly.

‘Fantastic news!’ Her voice drips with sarcasm. ‘But I’m not prepared to pay extra since this was your mistake.’

I’m opening my mouth to argue when Bernard approaches. He smiles warmly while hanging on to the counter to steady himself.

‘We’ll fix this at no additional cost, Cynthia – just the flat ￡20 fee.’

I shoot him a look. My study of the accounts last night confirmed they’re dismal.

Despite his arthritic hip, Bernard will live for another 15 years.

His shop, however, might not survive the summer unless trade picks up dramatically.

But Cynthia is one of our few regulars, along with Maz, who helps to keep the business afloat.

She leaves her husband’s shirts for washing and ironing every week and frequently asks me to alter the designer outfits she buys on a whim.

‘Thank you! I’ll collect first thing on Monday.’

I stifle a sigh. This means staying late tonight to finish my other repairs.

‘Before you go, have you seen the quilt in the window?’ Bernard says quickly. ‘Sophie makes bedspreads from people’s old, loved clothing. Perhaps you’d like to take a flyer?’

Cynthia shudders. ‘No, thank you. My husband and I prefer White Company bedding.’

She sweeps out of the shop, the bell above the door feebly tinkling.

‘Sorry, dear. I think it’s lovely.’ Bernard nods at my triangular-patterned creation. ‘And it is early days.’

‘Hopefully, business improves,’ I reply. ‘Talking of which, we have to take another ￡400 this month, at least, otherwise we won’t cover the overheads.’

‘I need a cuppa before we close up and talk numbers!’ He rests his hands on the counter, his lined face pinched with pain.

‘Sit down and I’ll make it.’

I retreat to the tiny kitchen and fill the kettle, checking my emails. No more nasty messages have arrived, thankfully. The bell above the door rings . Cynthia! She’s probably changed her mind about the seam measurements.

‘You’re just in time before we close.’ Bernard pauses. ‘I love your giant panda!’

‘Thank you!’

‘We usually dry-clean clothes, not toys, but we can make an exception.’

‘What? No! I’ve just bought it. This is going to sound slightly mad, but I want to talk to you... well, about Pascal’s triangle.’

My hand freezes on the kettle handle. Who is Pascal and why is the man’s voice strangely familiar? Water drips into the sink, the sound amplified above the light buzzing from the fridge, but I can’t reach out and turn off the tap properly. I’m unable to move.

‘S-s-sorry, what?’ Bernard stammers.

‘The quilt in the window! It’s a reproduction of a famous number pattern.’

I turn to face the door, which is open a crack.

‘I’m a bit of a maths geek – well, a lot of one. I caught a glimpse of the shapes when I came out of the gift shop opposite and had to cross the road. I wanted to ask...’

The rest of his sentence blurs into white noise, punctuated by the rhythmic patter of water.

My heart hammers loudly against my ribcage as I step towards the voice.

It can’t be him. It’s impossible. The probability of being in the same country, same city, same shop as Adam Bailey is around three million to one. This is a random guy.

Heat rises in my cheeks as I try to concentrate on the hum of conversation. Bernard’s asking the guy if he wants to take a closer look. The stepladder creaks as the man climbs up to unclip the quilt and jumps down with a thud.

‘This is what I mean about the numbers. See, here and here.’

I press my hand against the wood, holding my breath as Bernard mutters something and the man laughs. It sounds like Adam. One push of the door and I’ll find out.

‘It’s amazing!’ he exclaims. ‘You can find the same pattern in nature with the number of petals in a flower and the way tree branches split.’

‘And this is useful? To, erm, mathematicians like yourself?’

Bernard is being polite, but he’s struggling to keep up. I have no idea what the man’s talking about either. I saw the triangular patterns from the bridge and wanted to get them out of my head and into fabric.

‘Yes! Pascal’s triangle can be used to solve any probability problem... the likelihood of heads or tails in the toss of a coin.’

‘Well I never. Who’d have thought a quilt could carry such meaning?’

‘I know! This is the perfect example of what we’re discussing in my next lesson.’

‘Ah, you’re a teacher?’

Bernard sounds relieved as they move on to safer ground.

‘I teach maths at an 11 to 18 academy close to the city centre.’

I don’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved that it’s not Adam. He was super ambitious, pushed on by his dad. No way would he abandon his plan to become a professor at Stanford to teach in an inner-city Bristol secondary school.

‘I don’t suppose this is for sale, or I could hire it?’

My mind is telling me this isn’t Adam, but my heart feels differently. Something tugs at my chest, drawing me towards him. I have to know. I open the door a fraction wider but panic pinwheels inside me, snatching my breath away.

When I came round after the crash, Mum had 383 days to live.

Lily, 7.

Joan had 112 the day we met.

Everyone I love dies before their time. Nothing can stop the countdowns.

I can’t take those six or seven steps closer.

‘I’ll ask Sophie,’ Bernard says. ‘She does all my repairs and makes patchwork quilts from people’s clothes. They make wonderful presents. She may be prepared to loan you this one for free since it’s for a good cause. Here you go. You can read about her sewing here.’

He must have handed over a flyer, which has a photo of my 8-point-star bedspread and contact details.

‘Sophie made this?’ the man-who-cannot-be-Adam asks breathlessly. ‘Sophie Leroux?’

‘Yes! Do you know her?’

‘Erm, I’m not sure... It’s an unusual name. I used to know someone called that, but it was a long time ago. She didn’t sew or make quilts though. She was outdoorsy and loved to surf.’

‘Well, she’s about so high,’ Bernard says, as if indicating my height. ‘Pretty, with hazel eyes and long curly strawberry-blonde hair. See?’ He must be pointing to the framed picture on the wall. ‘That’s her with me, Bernard, and my late wife, Enid.’

The silence feels like it’s stretching for millions upon millions of seconds, but I haven’t counted past five when the man finally speaks in a low voice.

‘Yes, that’s her. We were at school together.’

‘Oh, how wonderful! Was that here in Bristol?’

‘No, south Devon. My parents moved there from Birmingham when I was sixteen.’

The room spins and shadowy dark spots fly before my eyes. Potential numbers flit through my mind. The pressure intensifies in my chest. I can’t breathe.

‘Well I never! What a wonderful coincidence.’ Bernard’s footsteps shuffle closer. ‘Sophie!’ He stops briefly. ‘What did you say your name is?’

‘Adam. Adam Bailey.’

No, no, no.

‘She can’t have heard, sorry. I’ll fetch her.’

I fumble with the key in the back door and burst out into the alley. It’s slippery from an earlier downpour. I trip over an abandoned tyre from next-door’s car workshop and fall. Something sharp punctures my fingers, leaving a crimson smear.

That’s what I remember most in the seconds after the crash: the brightness of the blood, the drumming of rain through the smashed windscreen and the crackle of flames from the other car.

I run and don’t look back.