Page 14

Sophie

The wind buffets my body, slapping hair into my face, as I walk briskly across the suspension bridge. I’m trying to stabilise my breathing by counting my steps.

Thousands of paces separate me and Adam, but it needs to be millions more. The temptation to run back and tell him I’m sorry is too strong.

We’ve been apart almost five times longer than we were ever together.

I pick up my pace.

2,043 steps . . . 2,044 . . . 2,045.

I want to tell him he shouldn’t blame himself for that night, or the sequence of events that began long before the prom at the golf club. None of this was his fault. It was all mine.

Now I’m running faster and faster.

I don’t stop until I’m gasping for breath and the nagging pain in my side is unbearable. I stop, wheezing, outside a huge mansion protected by tall wrought-iron security gates. I stare through the metal bars at all the numbers: anything to take my mind off the weight that presses down on my chest.

The drive contains 3,256,000 gravel chips.

Embedded in the Tudor-style windows are 15,673 tiny diamond shapes.

The nearby birch has 3,240 geometric shapes.

Only two words can have this devastating effect on my heart: Adam Bailey.

When I finally return, Bernard’s locked up and gone home.

Flyers flutter on the counter from the draught as I let myself in; I’d stuffed the key into my pocket earlier.

I flick on the light and lock the door in case Adam’s hanging around outside.

My face immediately stings from my idiocy.

Why on earth would he wait for me? I’m a painful blip in his past. He left dozens of voice and text messages pleading to see me after the accident. I ignored them all.

I fetch my coat and bag from the rack before returning to my worktable, sweeping stray pieces of cotton from the surface and putting the reels into their correct order. My phone sits next to the sewing machine, with a yellow Post-it stuck to the screen.

Please let me know you’re safe and sound. Am worried! B x

I pick up my phone and fire off a message:

Sorry. Felt sick and needed fresh air. Better now. Will put on burglar alarm. Sophie x

Bernard starts typing but it takes him ages to compose messages.

I pull the dust cover over the sewing machine and tidy up, double-checking he’s remembered to put the customers’ tickets in the right-hand side of the till.

I’ll work on Cynthia’s ballgown early tomorrow.

I’m pulling on my coat when my phone pings.

Glad you’re okay. Your old friend, Adam Bailey, left a note. I put it by your sewing machine. See you tomorrow if you’re well enough. Maz dropped off carrot cake again, but I ate it, sorry. It was dry. B x

My heart flips when I spot a white envelope at my feet, my name printed in Bernard’s spidery handwriting.

The breeze from the door must have blown it off the table.

I pick it up, my hand trembling. Is Adam’s letter recriminatory?

I doubt it. He’s moved on. He’s probably married, possibly with children, which would explain the soft toy.

Hopefully, he’ll be coldly polite. That’s far less dangerous for my heart than sad reminiscences.

I shrug off my coat and sink on to the seat, unpeeling the sewing machine cover.

I will make a start on Cynthia’s dress. Going home is too risky – I’ll be tempted to crack open a bottle of wine and pore over the ‘before’ photos of me, Adam, Lily and Tom.

Blood pounds in my ears. I work quicker, but thread catches in the metal foot and snags my neat row.

I rip the thread with my teeth and try to unpick the ugly stitches, but my hands are trembling.

Dammit!

I can’t put it off any longer. I rip open the envelope, steeling myself for whatever Adam wants to get off his chest. I pull out a scrap of paper torn from Bernard’s notebook.

Air escapes from my lungs as I stare at the page.

Adam hasn’t written a single word; he’s simply drawn a mathematical symbol.

It’s a Mobius strip.

Memories of that fateful summer come flooding back.