Page 21

Adam

Our table is deathly silent. I’m trying to sip my tea quietly.

Wren is nibbling around the edge of her cookie, the way I used to attack Crunchie bars, biting off the chocolate first. Perhaps it’s a hereditary habit.

Sophie’s watching us, her hand covering her mouth.

She looks as though she might burst into tears or vomit again.

I chose this café because it supposedly serves amazing carrot cake, but she hasn’t picked up her fork.

I’m hunched forward, keeping my right hand on my lap so she doesn’t notice my tattoo.

It’s sweltering in here and I’ve had to roll my sleeves.

Sophie’s pale-faced and calm, whereas sweat is beading on my forehead and my heart is racing.

I put a forkful of sponge and frosting in my mouth and briefly close my eyes.

I wipe my mouth with a paper napkin. Sophie used to search for the elusive ten out of ten rating.

‘I’d give it seven out of ten for the cake and an eight for the topping, but I’m happy to be corrected!’ I say brightly.

She gulps, shifting position. ‘I might take a doggy bag, if that’s okay?’

‘Yes, of course!’

I want to put her at ease, but she looks increasingly uncomfortable.

It’s probably the shock of discovering I have a daughter.

.. and then meeting her seconds later. Sophie hated maths at school, but it doesn’t take a genius to work out that Wren was conceived while I was at Stanford.

There’s no easy way to bring this up, especially not in front of my daughter.

I’d thought about dropping Sophie an email last night to explain everything, but put off writing it. I wish I had now.

‘I think we should—’ she begins.

‘I meant to tell—’ I say at the same time.

Sophie nods. ‘You go first.’

‘I was about to say, I should have mentioned my... well, personal circumstances before today.’

‘Your mum must be thrilled to be a grandma,’ she says abruptly, changing the subject.

‘Hmmm.’

Wren shifts her attention from the drawing to scrutinising my face. I stuff a large piece of cake into my mouth to avoid answering.

‘Will she contribute to the quilt? Or would Wren’s other grandparents like to get involved?’ Sophie asks. ‘You could all pick out the fabrics together as a family?’

‘There’s no one left on Carley’s side, sadly, so it’s just my mum.’

‘Oh, right. Sorry.’ She bites her lip. ‘But I guess Mrs B must be a big help? Does she come to Bristol much or are you trekking back to Bigbury regularly?’

The sponge sticks in my dry throat. I take a large gulp of tea, wincing as the hot liquid burns my tongue.

‘Here, have this.’ She pushes her glass of water closer.

‘Thanks!’

I take a swig and focus on my plate until I can speak. ‘We haven’t seen Mum since Christmas. I’ve been busy with work, and thought it was important to get Wren settled into a routine at weekends, just the two of us.’

In my peripheral vision, I see Wren cross her arms tightly across her body.

‘But you’ll go back over the Easter break?’ Sophie presses.

‘Can we?’ Wren chips in. ‘I want to see Grandma and play with her dogs.’

‘I don’t think so, sorry. I’ve already booked you into the holiday camp you love.’

I smile at Wren, but she scowls back.

‘I hate sports camp!’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Yes, it is!’

Sophie grabs her glass of water and takes a large gulp.

‘We’ll probably visit over next half term or in the summer when things have calmed down workwise.’

I tear off small pieces of the napkin. I’m not in a hurry to go back.

Mum and I will argue, and I’ll feel fresh guilt about how much she and Dad invested in my education only for me to end up as a classroom teacher.

How I failed to keep my promise to my dad and let them both down badly.

Plus, I want to avoid bringing up Carley’s last wishes with Wren: she won’t allow me to dust her mum’s urn, let alone discuss emptying it on a beach during a storm.

Carley was surprisingly specific about the weather aspect.

I push the bits of paper aside. ‘About the quilt. Shall we get down to business?’ I point at her photo albums on the table.

My words come out sharper than I’d planned.

‘Sure,’ Sophie replies equally tersely, shoving a book towards me. ‘I need to shoot off. Why don’t I leave this one with you? Browse through it together at home. Take your time. There’s no hurry.’

‘That sounds good. What do you think, Wren?’

She shrugs, which is an improvement compared to her previous death stare. I ram it into my rucksack and pick up the bags of ripped clothes. ‘Do you want to take these?’

‘No!’ Sophie replies vehemently, before softening her tone. ‘I’m going straight from here by bus to another client.’

‘Of course. I wasn’t sure... I can take them with us. I brought the car.’

‘Great!’ Her voice sounds strained, and her knuckles are white as she grips the edge of the table. ‘Do you want to make another appointment after looking at the patterns?’

‘Great!’ I repeat the word back with the same amount of enthusiasm Sophie appears to be mustering for our project. Wren leans over and whispers in my ear that she needs the toilet.

‘Shall I come with you?’

She shakes her head and stalks off before I can explain they’re on the left, past the kitchen. Sophie’s gaze trails after her.

‘Actually, can I book something now?’

I tap on my phone’s diary app, which is as empty as the calendar in the kitchen. Sophie chews her bottom lip as she scans her phone.

‘Erm... how about next week?’ I prompt when she doesn’t fill the silence. ‘Thursday and Friday evenings are usually free. Most nights are good, to be honest, including weekends, if you want to pop round. It’s not as if I’m out partying. I’m home with Wren.’

God, I sound like a complete loser.

‘I mean, I do have a social life, but not, well...’

‘We could use the shop after hours,’ Sophie says, cutting in. ‘I’ll have my sewing machine and equipment on hand.’

She’s right... it’s far better to meet on neutral territory. That way I don’t have to worry about cleaning our house, which consistently resembles a disaster zone even when I can get the vacuum to work.

‘The next couple of weeks are busy workwise,’ Sophie continues. ‘I won’t be able to make a start on this straightaway. How about meeting the week beginning the twenty-first of April?’

‘In a month’s time?’ I blurt out.

‘Is that a problem?’ She doesn’t look up and taps at her phone.

‘Yes, well, no. But I guess I’d hoped...’ I rest both arms on the table, before remembering my tattoo. I snatch my hand back, almost knocking over my mug, and rest it on my lap. ‘I thought we’d begin sooner.’

My excuse sounds lame, but not seeing Sophie for another four weeks feels unreasonably long and painful, even though this is a fraction of the time we’ve spent apart.

‘I need the quilt to be made in the next month,’ I stress. ‘I can throw in a little extra if that bumps us up the queue?’

I cannot afford to go over ￡850 when I’ve agreed to increase Anna’s pay.

Sophie fixes me with a cool stare. ‘This isn’t about the money.’

‘Sorry. That came out wrong... To be honest, I’m desperate. I messed up and need to put things right.’ I point at the bags of clothes. ‘I have to help my daughter. Carley wanted me—’

‘You don’t have to explain about Carley, I get it,’ she says flatly.

‘I mean . . . Wren needs this.’

Sophie closes her eyes briefly as if attempting to block out something horrible. Me.

I cough, clearing my throat. ‘If you could find an earlier slot, we’d both appreciate it. This could help Wren come to terms with her loss.’

It sounds like emotional blackmail, but it’s 100 per cent true. I also have the nagging feeling Sophie is pulling away from me... mentally this time, not physically. I can’t let her leave without nailing down the prospect of seeing her again.

‘Please, Sophie. I’m not above begging!’

She suppresses a sigh. ‘Fine. Let me see if I can juggle a few things and I’ll let you know in the next few days.’

Result!

‘Thank you. Shall we exchange numbers? I mean... so we can keep in touch about the commission? WhatsApp is probably easier than email.’

Sophie looks as though she’d prefer to have all her teeth extracted without anaesthetic but reels off her number as Wren returns. I tap it into my phone and send a message back.

‘There, done! Thanks.’

My phone vibrates with a WhatsApp from Anna. I may have to rename our nanny ‘Harbinger of Doom’ in my contacts.

Smoke coming out of tumble dryer. Have turned off at mains and opened windows to air kitchen. Nothing damaged but you need to call a plumber demain. A.

‘Problem?’ Sophie asks, standing up.

‘The tumble dryer’s threatening to burn down our house!’

She breathes in sharply. ‘You shouldn’t leave it on a cycle while you’re out or overnight .’

Sophie is the last person I’d expect to give advice about hazards. She was always the risk-taker who pushed me to try things out of my comfort zone.

‘We’ve aged, haven’t we?’ I say, laughing. ‘Now we’re the responsible ones. Well, trying to be anyway!’

Sophie blinks, pushing her chair under the table. ‘I should go. It’s getting late.’

‘Don’t forget your cake.’

The cream cheese frosting has melted and slid off into an unappetising pool on her plate, but she heads to the counter while Wren packs and pulls on her coat. She skirts around her mum’s clothes and I attempt to bundle the bags into my arms, along with my rucksack and the shopping.

Sophie returns clutching a small white cardboard box. She doesn’t realise she’s also potentially holding our future happiness in her hands. She slides the books back into her tote, careful not to bend the pages, and throws on her cardigan and coat.

‘Let me help,’ she says, watching me unsuccessfully juggle our belongings.

‘Thank you!’

After scooping up everything between us, Sophie exits gracefully, but Wren and I bump into each other. She lets out a heavy sigh and dodges past. They both follow me down the street. No one would guess we’re together... we’re walking silently and in single file.

‘Here we are!’ I say, as we reach Mum’s battered Volvo estate.

She barely drives anymore and said it made more sense if I used the car when I returned to the UK.

I wish I’d taken Wren’s advice before setting off.

.. she’s written Clean Me with her finger in the grime on the boot.

I pop it open, pretending I haven’t noticed, and arrange the bags inside, delaying the inevitably awkward goodbye.

Should I air-kiss Sophie on the cheek or shake her hand?

‘Don’t forget this.’ Sophie passes the tote containing her triangular-patterned bedspread.

‘Thank you! I know one pupil in particular who’ll find your quilt helpful.’

‘You can keep it if you want? I have lots more at home.’

My mind returns to wondering what her flat or house looks like; has she made all the curtains and cushions? Do patchwork throws cover the sofa and bed? When did she learn to sew? She used to be outdoorsy and wasn’t into crafts. Does she make gifts for Shirt Guy? Are they an item?

Another more unsettling thought lands. Giving me her creation could mean she fails to fix another appointment.

‘No, that’s fine, thanks! I’ll return it when we meet up next.’

A tremor passes through Sophie. I’m hoping it’s not a shudder of dread. She turns to Wren with a faint smile.

‘It was lovely meeting you.’ Her voice shakes. ‘Don’t forget to practise your French!’

‘I thought you were learning Spanish at school?’ I say, frowning.

Wren rolls her eyes and mouths a word at Sophie that looks remarkably like ‘idiot’ before scrambling into the back seat and shutting the door.

I take a deep breath. ‘Can I drop you off at your next appointment? Or... somewhere along the way?’

‘No, I’m feeling better, thanks. The bus stop is nearby.’

‘Soooo . . .’

My head whirrs as I debate the pros and cons of air kiss versus handshake.

Sophie steps closer. My heart leaps as she stands on tiptoes and brushes her lips against my cheek.

Her hand presses briefly into the small of my back.

I catch a whiff of vanilla and white lily.

Everything blurs into the distance as I picture the two of us, laughing and dancing in her bedroom.

‘Good luck with everything, Adam. Goodbye.’

She steps away, leaving me breathless.

‘I . . . erm.’

Wren peers at us through the window, suddenly interested.

‘Until we meet to discuss the design... next month, if not sooner,’ I clarify.

She scrutinises my face as if searching for something. What, exactly? The Adam from her past? I barely know him. He’s a completely different person. I feel like an actor playing his part and not doing it well. Someone else could perform the role far better.

‘Yes, of course, ’til then. Bye.’

I’m trying to hold on to this moment for as long as possible, but she turns and leaves. I catch a glimpse of Wren sighing heavily and sinking into her seat. I’m deflated, but for different reasons.

I watch Sophie walk down the street, becoming smaller and smaller.

Please look at me one last time.

Show me you remember.

You still care.

She turns the corner and disappears without a backward glance.

I touch my cheek. The warmth of her kiss continues to linger, along with the feeling our farewell was final.

I’m 100 per cent certain Sophie has no intention of seeing me again.