Page 20

Sophie

A wave of heat smothers me as I step into the stuffy café.

This is a huge mistake. I managed to keep a lid on my feelings outside by concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, but the walls feel like they’re pressing in.

They’re trapping me with Adam’s appalling number.

I should have fled as soon as I saw that lone magpie: it’s definitely a bad omen.

One for sorrow.

I’m consumed by it. Adam overtakes and my fists clench as I follow behind, trying to breathe through my racing heartbeat. I can’t hide my emotions behind my sunglasses and instead resort to digging my nails into my palms to prevent tears from welling.

We pass the elderly couple, who are pulling on their coats.

They’re in their eighties but both have far longer left to live than Adam.

So does the fifty-something woman at the till who has deep lines around her lips and carries a pen between her fingers the way she probably holds cigarettes.

I’m guessing she’s desperate to finish work and have a fag, which might contribute to her death in about fifteen years’ time.

Why does she have longer to live than Adam? Why do these pensioners?

More questions race through my head, torturing me.

What will happen to Adam in a little over three weeks? Is he terminally ill? Will his heart suddenly stop? Or is he about to fall victim to an accident or a crime?

Who will look after his orphaned daughter when he’s gone?

Why is life so Bloody unfair? What is the point of having this freakish ability if I can’t do anything to help?

Adam hovers by their table, waiting for Wren to make eye contact.

She bristles and doesn’t look up. I saw Wren’s number when I stood outside the café and didn’t think anything of it since she’s a kid – I’d expect her to have a high digit.

But now, her figure is horribly poignant.

Wren has more than 29,200 days to live – 80 years – and virtually all of them will be without Adam.

Like me, she’ll grow up without her dad.

Mine was never on the scene, whereas hers will be ripped from her prematurely.

Adam will never see her landmark birthdays – her sixteenth, eighteenth and twenty-first – not even her next one, unless it’s imminent.

He won’t drop her off for Freshers’ Week at uni or collect her after a night out with friends.

He’ll never be guest of honour at her engagement party, give a touching, misty-eyed father-of-the-bride speech at her wedding, or kiss his first grandchild.

I grab for a chair as the room tilts. Adam doesn’t notice, thankfully –he’s trying to gain his daughter’s attention. He fake coughs for a second time.

‘Wren! This is Sophie Leroux, my old school friend I was telling you about. She’s agreed to make the quilt for us.’

His daughter peels her gaze away from the drawing and stares at me with large forget-me-not-blue eyes. They’re the exact colour of her dad’s. It takes all my strength not to flinch.

Adam has a daughter. He’ll be dead in less than a month.

There is absolutely nothing I can do to save him.

I grip the back-rest tighter. I need to stay strong for the next twenty minutes. Then I can walk away and try not to think about either of them again.

‘Hello, Wren.’ My knees weaken. ‘I need to sit down, sorry.’

Adam pulls out another chair for me. ‘I’ll get you a drink. Tea?’

‘That sounds good, thanks. Can I have a glass of tap water too?’

‘Coming right up.’

If I closed my eyes, he could be saying those exact words in the old beach café we used to haunt, sharing strawberry milkshakes, slices of carrot cake, kisses and a few furtive gropes in one of the back booths. I bat away the image as he heads to the counter.

‘It’s lovely to meet you.’ I wriggle out of my jacket, nodding at her top. ‘We’re both fans of bright colours.’

She picks up her pencil and continues drawing without replying, her forehead creased in concentration.

That’s her dad’s ‘work’ expression. Her bandaged hand rests on the table, steadying the paper.

I’m glad she can’t see the shock on my face.

I’m no expert on kids’ ages but Wren must be seven or eight.

Despite all those messages Adam left in the aftermath of the accident, he got over our break-up much quicker than me.

Did he meet and fall in love with Carley during his first term?

They must have been together almost a decade before her death.

Adam arrives and places a glass on the table next to me.

I’m conscious of how close he’s standing and catch a whiff of his musky citrus aftershave.

My stomach tightens. I remember a similar scent when we kissed, and all those times I wept in his arms over Mum’s neglect.

He’d hug me, making me feel safe and loved – by him, at least.

This is bad, really bad . My body has an automatic reaction to being around him; those feelings never fully went away. They’re simmering treacherously near to the surface, however hard I try to keep them bottled up.

‘Thanks,’ I say, without looking at him.

‘Why don’t you show Sophie what you’re drawing while I get the rest of the drinks?’

Wren shakes her head. I catch a glimpse of storm clouds and a choppy sea before her hand curls protectively around the picture, hiding it.

‘She’s shy with everyone,’ Adam says hastily.

‘It’s okay.’

Except it’s not. Wren is withdrawn and grieving for her mum. Unbeknown to either of them, she’s about to be bereaved a second time.

Adam returns to the counter as the waitress turns on a blender, making me jump. Blood-like streaks of red fruit whizz around at speed. I glance away, my nerves becoming more ragged by the minute.

‘Shall we look at some designs, Wren?’

She scribbles harder. I pull out the sewing books and lay them on the table, next to the album containing photos of my work, and shuffle the chair closer. The leg catches on a plastic bag. Brightly coloured women’s clothes peep out.

These must belong to Adam’s dead girlfriend, the mother of his child.

Despite my alarm, I can’t tear my gaze away.

Carley loved bold prints and vibrant hues, like me.

Is that what drew Adam to her? She must have been outgoing and confident, the way I was as a teenager.

Were furtive looks exchanged across the lecture hall?

Did she walk straight up to him and suggest a coffee after class?

Or did he ask her out? Carley was pretty, judging from her daughter’s lovely auburn hair and freckles.

I look across at the counter and feel my cheeks warm furiously. Adam is watching me as the lady puts a teapot on his tray. He blushes and rearranges the mugs. I turn my attention back to his daughter.

‘How old are you, Wren?’

She ignores me and colours in her clouds vigorously with a black crayon, making a small tear in the paper.

‘Seven?’

Her bright-blue eyes fix on my face, burning with fury. She picks up a pencil, turns over the page and draws a large number 8.

‘Sorry, eight. You do look bigger.’

She carefully writes five letters.

Idiot.

I lick my dry lips. ‘Did you know it’s the same word in French? You say it differently, like this: id-ee-oh.’ I lower my voice. ‘But don’t tell your dad! I’ll get into trouble if he realises I’m really here to teach you how to be rude to him in different languages!’

Wren covers her mouth, disguising a snigger.

‘Is your birthday soon?’ I ask.

She chews her lip and writes 5 Feb, which is 1 month and 15 days ago. It must have been her worst ever birthday – the first after her mum’s death.

‘I’m sorry, Wren. That must have been tough. I’ve lost my mum too and my first birthday without her was incredibly hard.’

She stares at me, unblinking, not giving anything away.

‘You might not believe this now, but things will get better. The pain you feel over losing your mum will always be there, but it becomes less intense, less overwhelming.’

Wren silently flips the paper back to her drawing.

She adds lightning to her storm, the yellow pencil carefully etching over the black clouds instead of the previous aggressive strokes.

While she works, I process the new information.

Adam was in the spring term of his freshman year when she was conceived.

He became a dad halfway through his degree!

Were he and Carley shocked when they discovered she was pregnant?

And how did Adam’s parents react? I’m guessing not well.

It must have been an accident because Adam’s life was mapped out from GCSEs onwards; this was never part of the master plan.

Did Adam’s mum and dad support them once they’d recovered from the surprise?

I shudder, thinking about how different the month of Wren’s birth was for me. I was still mourning Joan’s death and being harassed by her son, Trevor. Adam returns to our table, carrying a tray. He puts a smoothie next to Wren and distributes the mugs and plates.

‘This is supposed to be the best carrot cake in Bristol,’ he tells me. ‘I thought you might like to try it?’

He remembered!

My heart aches at the touching gesture. It splits in two when I catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his wrist.

It’s a Mobius strip.