Page 19

Adam

I catch a glimpse of Sophie outside the door, a cloud of long, coppery blonde hair, a heart-shaped face and full lips.

My mouth dries and my heart pounds wildly.

I stand, almost knocking over my chair, but catch it in time.

This is exactly how I remember us : her gorgeous and way out of my league, me clumsy, flustered and unable to co-ordinate my limbs.

‘Adam?’ Wren glances up, her pencil poised mid-air.

‘Yep?’

‘Why is your smile so goofy? You look silly.’

‘Hmmm?’

‘Your neck is bright red. Now your cheeks match.’

I lock eyes with Sophie and lift a hand, waving. But instead of reciprocating or pushing open the door, she blanches and shoves on large black sunglasses. Then she runs away.

‘Wait!’ I bump into the table, almost tipping over Wren’s drink. ‘Sorry!’

I can’t let Sophie leave without speaking to her.

‘I’ll be right back... Stay here and finish your picture. I’ll be two minutes.’

Wren shakes her head, sighing, as I streak towards the door. I fumble with the catch before flinging it open and sprinting down the street.

‘Sophie! Come back!’

I can’t believe we’ve fallen into old, familiar patterns so quickly. Sophie is fleeing and I’m giving chase, looking and feeling like a total idiot. I need to start exercising again; I haven’t been running or gone to the gym since living with Wren.

‘Wait! For God’s sake! This is ridiculous. Please!’

Sophie stops, giving me a chance to catch my breath.

Slowly, she turns around, brushing away something from below the rim of her glasses.

But instead of looking straight at me, she stares above my head.

I look up and spot a magpie perched on top of the lamp-post I’m leaning against. I open my mouth to speak but am winded further when she takes off her glasses.

Her eyes are shiny, that extraordinary mixture of brown and green with gold streaks, and her cheeks are pale porcelain.

A hard, painful lump forms in my throat.

My fingers automatically reach for my Mobius strip tattoo, brushing against it.

‘Sophie?’

I lower my voice and take a hopeful step towards her, but she shrinks back the way Wren does. Am I that repellent to everyone? Yes, apparently. She closes her eyes to block me out.

‘ Sophie. ’

I repeat the word as a plea to remember we once shared such strong feelings we believed we’d be together forever. It’s also a reminder we can surely be within touching distance without tearing each other apart.

‘Adam.’ She opens her eyes but can’t look at me. She’s unable to disguise her horror.

‘I’m sorry, so sorry,’ she murmurs.

‘That’s all right,’ I say, attempting to play down her extreme reaction. ‘I’ve always had this effect on girls... they take one look at me and run in the opposite direction!’

She was the exception, of course.

Sophie took me in her arms the first time we met and wouldn’t leave my side after I’d described my panic attack.

Later, much later, I remember holding her, touching her wrist where I’d drawn a Mobius strip with a Biro, hearing her cry out with pleasure as I kissed every inch of her body. The memory makes me light-headed.

‘That’s not true, Adam. Lots of girls at school fancied you. You just didn’t notice.’

She utters the words softly. Before I can contradict her, she continues talking, louder.

‘I’m sorry to do this at short notice, but can we rearrange? I feel unwell.’

Tiny daggers pierce my heart as she keeps her eyes fixed on the pavement. She really does want to escape!

‘Yes, but look... Can’t we try to put everything behind us... start afresh after all these years?’ I’m stumbling over my words. ‘I know it’s awful how we lost Lily, but we were kids. We’d both make different decisions... We’re not the same people we were back then.’

I’m stating this to convince me, as well as her, but it doesn’t have the reaction I’d hoped for. Sophie darts to the kerbside and bends over, heaving.

Aagh. She is poorly! Perhaps I’m not 100 per cent repulsive, just circa 75 per cent. I hesitate before joining her as she retches.

‘May I?’

She nods. Gently, I pull back the hair from her face. She hated having it loose when she threw up after a few too many alcopops. Her locks feel like silk between my fingers.

‘This is like old times,’ I say teasingly.

‘Says the world’s biggest lightweight!’ she retorts, bent double. ‘Have you forgotten how you were slayed by a single alcopop? There’s a plaque in our school marking the achievement.’

I burst out laughing.

‘In my defence, mixing drinks was never a good idea and that sip of your tequila proved lethal. Especially when I finished off the evening with half a lager.’

She smiles as she straightens, meeting my gaze fully.

For a fraction of a second, I feel ‘it’, whatever it is.

My heartbeat quickens. The world around us slows down and the noise of traffic fades into the background.

Nothing else exists except for the two of us in this moment.

That’s how I always felt when I was with her.

‘That was a long time ago and, as you pointed out, we’re different people now,’ she says stiffly.

‘Some things don’t change.’

‘ Everything ’s changed.’

The moment shatters as quickly as her smile disappears. I hear the roar of an approaching bus and notice a woman pass us on the pavement, holding the hand of a crying toddler.

‘Thanks for the hair duties. I must have eaten something dodgy.’ She dabs her mouth with a tissue. ‘I should go. Can we find another time for the appointment?’

‘Sure.’ I catch hold of her elbow as she sways. ‘But why don’t you come back to the café until you feel better? We could have a cup of tea.’

‘I don’t think so, sorry,’ she replies in a small voice.

‘Just for a few minutes. You’re pale... I don’t want you to faint.’

She hesitates, looking at my hand. I immediately let go. ‘Please? To put my mind at rest?’

Sophie steps back, creating more space between us. ‘Okay, I guess.’

Despite her obvious lack of enthusiasm, she hasn’t flagged down a taxi or thrown herself in front of a bus to escape, which is progress.

‘Erm, can I help carry anything?’

I’m expecting her to brush me off, but she passes two bags, which contain books and albums. Our fingers touch briefly and I’m hoping she doesn’t hear the breath catch in my throat.

She coughs. ‘Bernard reminded me you’re interested in my bedspread in the window. He said you’re a big fan of triangles and giant pandas, apparently.’

‘What can I say? My hobbies are pretty niche these days.’

She gives a small laugh and fumbles inside the tote she’s clutching, revealing triangular-patterned fabric. ‘I brought it for you.’ She clears her throat. ‘For your pupils.’

My eyebrow shoots up. In her email, she’d said someone else had reserved it.

‘Thank you, Sophie!’ I lick my dry lips. ‘This is amazing. I had no idea you were good at sewing when we were...’

I catch the look on her face and correct myself.

‘But obviously, it must be something you’ve been doing after...’ I gulp. ‘Since we last saw each other.’

She doesn’t offer any information and we fall into step, a large paving-stone-sized distance between us. Unspoken words swirl around that gulf, and I don’t know how to find them.

‘Thank you for doing this,’ I say, breaking the awkward silence. ‘For seeing me... I’m extremely grateful.’

She shrugs, staring straight ahead. ‘Bernard needs the money. Me too. And all this.’ She waves at the gap between us, which may as well be Grand Canyon-sized. ‘Is all good.’

‘100 per cent. Anyway . . .’

She inhales deeply. ‘How are you, Adam?’

‘Great! Never been better!’

I feel my neck warm from the lie. It’s been the week from hell.

‘How about you? You look fantastic, by the way!’

Her cheeks flush. ‘Thanks, but I meant healthwise. Are you ill?’

‘Aagh! Do I look it?’ I don’t give her a chance to reply. ‘You know, it’s probably the lack of sleep. I’ve aged ten years in the last seven months. I’m permanently knackered and stressed and had a monster hangover this week. I had more than one beer... a total disaster!’

‘Sorry to hear that – apart from the self-inflicted hangover.’ She casts a curious sideways look. ‘I never pictured you here in a million years. I thought you’d still be at Stanford, partying with all the postgrads.’

My mind whirrs. She’s been picturing me?

‘I was at Stanford . . . I mean, I did . . .’

I wonder whether to bring up the past, our shared history. I’m debating what to say when we reach the café. I steel myself for the introductions, but Sophie speaks first.

‘Well? Shall we go in?’ She stares as I hang back.

‘Erm, just to let you know... I’ve brought someone with me today. I hope that’s all right?’ I take a breath. ‘Wren’s waiting inside. She’s my daughter.’

Sophie pauses for a beat, the corners of her mouth curving into a small smile.

‘You’re the client – you’re paying for my time and can bring whoever you want.’

Client, not even an old or former friend.

Her words feel like a stab to the heart, but it’s probably better she’s businesslike.

I’ve felt ridiculously nostalgic ever since learning she lives in Bristol.

I’ve wondered what her home looks like and who she shares it with, whether she has a long-term boyfriend, a new lover or even a fiancé or husband.

I thought the latter categories were unlikely since Shirt Guy was trying to win her over with carrot cake.

Mostly, I’ve looked through old photos in bed, remembering what we once had.

But she doesn’t have any residual feelings, which is good to know.

Well, obviously it isn’t, but it means I must temper my expectations.

‘I’m only telling you because the quilt is for Wren,’ I clarify. ‘That’s why I thought the two of you should meet in person. I mean, the three of us.’

‘What about your wife? Or partner? Will she be joining you?’

‘Carley . . . We’re not . . . I mean, well, we weren’t married . . .’

Something travels across her eyes. Is it surprise? Pain? Her face hardens as if she’s steeling herself for something worse.

‘You don’t owe me an explanation, Adam. It’s your life.’

Invisible knives grind deeper into my chest. She’s drawn a strict line and doesn’t want me to step over it into anything remotely personal. I must follow her lead.

‘I agree, but there are a few things you should know before we go any further. Wren’s mum... Carley died from breast cancer last August.’

‘No!’

Her hand flies to her mouth and I notice she’s not wearing an engagement or wedding ring. She heaves as if battling more nausea.

‘You’re a single dad?’ She steps closer.

‘Can’t you tell?’

I point to the bags under my eyes, hoping to make her laugh again, but the corners of her mouth don’t twitch.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss. And Wren’s. It’s terrible you’re both having to go through this. I wish—’ Her voice disappears into the loud hum of traffic.

‘Thank you. Carley and I got together at Stanford... Anyway, we never... I didn’t know—’

‘Look! The magpie’s back.’

The bird flutters overhead, landing on a signpost. It peers down at us curiously.

Sophie’s right to change the subject..

. this should be a professional, contractual arrangement.

I mustn’t venture into anything personal if the project is going to work, and it must , for Wren’s sake.

I don’t have any other solutions up my sleeve.

‘Carley’s clothes are... well, badly ripped. I didn’t want to throw them away and thought a quilt would help comfort Wren. I need you to create something new and beautiful. Things have been... bad recently.’

This is the understatement of the year.

‘You always were kind and thoughtful.’ Her voice trembles. ‘Your daughter’s lucky to have you.’

‘Wren would never say that!’ I wince, hating the bitter edge that’s crept into my voice.

‘Whyever not?’ Her forehead crinkles.

‘I mean, you choose your friends, not your family. Doesn’t every kid want to swap their parents for someone else? We both did at times when we were teenagers!’

I’m trying to sound light-hearted and share common ground, but Sophie quietly studies my face as if she’s trying to read my thoughts. I don’t want to admit how dysfunctional my relationship is with Wren and lower her opinion of me even further.

‘I was sorry to hear about your dad,’ she says quietly.

My eyes moisten at the unexpected mention of him. ‘Th-th-thank you for the flowers!’

White roses arrived at the church four years ago.

The card accompanying the bouquet said Sorry for your loss and had a squiggle at the end but no name.

The florist had drawn the shape incorrectly, but I instantly knew what the loop meant and who must have sent it.

I’d delivered a similarly mathematically coded message and flowers when her mum died at the end of my freshman year.

I’d signed it and provided contact details that she never used.

‘You care enough about your daughter to reach out to me,’ Sophie says gently, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Wanting to comfort her when she’s grieving and unhappy makes you a good dad. Actually, strike that – a great dad. ’

I cough to disguise the strangled noise that escapes from my throat.

Sophie always knew the right thing to say whenever I was stressing out or, worse still, having a full-on panic attack.

Making a memory quilt for Wren is absolutely my main objective, but I could have hired a stranger online: plenty of sewing companies offer similar, cheaper services.

The truth is, I desperately wanted to see her again.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about us over the past week.

How can we be in the same city, so close geographically, but not in each other’s lives? It’s a mathematical impossibility... and it’s torturing me.

I swing open the café door, inhaling the scent of fresh coffee wafting over from the counter. ‘Come and meet Wren. Please? For her sake?’

And mine.

She watches the magpie cawing noisily and flapping its wings, before taking a deep breath and walking inside.

The saying about these birds comes to me as I follow after her.

One for sorrow, two for joy .

The magpie’s companion must be lurking about . . .

This chance to spend time with Sophie, even for a few grabbed minutes, fills me with indescribable happiness.