Page 26

Adam

‘Welcome to our home!’ I throw open the front door with a huge smile. ‘It’s great to see you!’

Sophie startles, fumbling with her phone. ‘You too, Adam.’

She’s a blaze of glorious colour: a turquoise blouse, green coat and red lipstick. Her glossy hair tumbles around her face. I catch the scent of coconut as she flicks it over her shoulders and my abdomen tightens.

I’ve been counting down to 11 a.m. since I woke up and Sophie is exactly on time.

She messaged yesterday, offering to bump us up her schedule after another customer withdrew their order.

I misjudged her on Thursday evening. I thought she was on the point of cancelling completely, but her enthusiasm has increased fivefold.

She’s promised to work flat out on our bedspread over the coming weeks and wants regular appointments.

‘Come in!’

She steps into the hallway and looks at the ceiling.

I’m hoping she hasn’t noticed the spider’s web.

I didn’t have time to get out the vacuum attachments.

I’ve been running round like a madman, tidying and cleaning, since we got back from ballet class an hour ago.

I’ve also managed to shave and not slice my face to bits, which is a bonus.

Sophie puts down her bags and shrugs off her coat. Another faint scent wafts over: vanilla and lily. My stomach lurches.

‘Sorry I’ve interrupted your Saturday at short notice, but I figured you’d want to get cracking?’

‘Yes! This is serendipity or...’ I run a hand through my hair. ‘It’s perfect timing, for us, at least. We’re free all day with ballet out of the way. We can’t go swimming this afternoon... Wren mustn’t get her stitches wet.’

A smile flickers across Sophie’s lips. ‘It’s great you do that together. It must be fun.’

‘Oh no!’ I say hastily. ‘It’s a lesson. I watch from the side. Well, I work on my laptop. But you know what I mean...’

Why would she? Sophie has no idea what my life is like, and vice versa. But she probably remembers how I babble when nervous...

‘Go through to the kitchen and I’ll get Wren,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve left your book on the table.’

Sophie’s arm accidentally brushes against mine as she passes, making me jolt.

‘Wren!’ My voice comes out as a croak as I stand at the bottom of the stairs. I swallow and call louder. ‘Can you come down, please? Sophie’s here!’

She doesn’t reply as usual, but I’m guessing she heard. I head into the kitchen, my heart beating faster with anticipation. Sophie’s crouching down close to the sink.

‘Have you sorted this yet?’ she asks, straightening up.

‘What?’

She points to the tumble dryer. ‘Your nanny said it needs fixing.’

‘Thanks for jogging my memory! I must call a plumber.’

‘You shouldn’t put off stuff like that, Adam,’ she says firmly. ‘It could start a fire and you don’t have any smoke alarms in the hall or in here.’ She jerks her head at the ceiling.

I stare at her, touched by her concern and surprised, again, at her safety advice. Once, she ignored the lifeguard’s red flags to surf ten-foot waves during a storm. I bite back another observation about us both being grown-ups. Some days I wonder if I am...

‘I know, I know! It slipped my mind about the tumble dryer, but I’ll get on it. I need to buy new batteries for the alarms before I put them back up. Thank you for that reminder too!’ I clear my throat. ‘Can I get you a coffee? Or a cold drink? Anything?’

I wipe my damp palms on my jeans. Why am I so nervous? This is a brief chat about a professional service, nothing more. Sophie made that clear in the café, but still... hope flickers. I thought she was saying goodbye, permanently , yet she’s here, isn’t she?

‘A coffee would be great.’ She exhales heavily and hoists her bag on to the table, pulling out albums and books. After stacking them on top of the one she lent us, her gaze lowers to the sacks of Carley’s clothes next to a chair. ‘I definitely need a caffeine hit,’ she adds.

‘Late night partying?’ I feel a small stab of jealousy. I miss carefree evenings, drinking until late into the night with my colleagues on the PGCE course and my old friends at Stanford. We haunted the EVGR pub on campus or caught a train to San Francisco to tour the bars and clubs.

‘Sorry?’ Sophie frowns at me.

Was she on a date with Shirt Guy? Do I sound like a possessive stalker? Or a prematurely middle-aged dad who doesn’t get out much?

‘It’s none of my business what you’re doing!’ I clear my throat. ‘Or not doing.’

Aagh! That sounds even worse.

‘I’ll shut up and make the coffee. I need a caffeine hit too! I haven’t had much sleep either.’

The corners of her mouth twitch as she sits down, rearranging her albums. I open the cupboard and pick the two ‘best’ mugs I haven’t chipped yet, relieved she can’t see my cheeks reddening.

‘I was working late, which is why I look knackered,’ she explains.

‘You look great!’

I glance over my shoulder, catching her blush, before continuing to spoon the coffee granules into the pot. ‘So... are you sewing another quilt?’

‘No, I’ve cleared my schedule for you and Wren. I was sketching a new design. I’m trying to come up with something original, and time got away from me.’

‘I know the feeling!’ I lean against the counter, beaming at her. ‘That’s exactly what I’m attempting to do with my dissertation.’

Her mouth drops open. ‘You’re still doing research at Stanford? As well as working as a maths teacher?’

‘I haven’t stopped completely. I’m juggling both... badly, it transpires.’

I place her coffee on the table and realise I’ve made it white, no sugar, the way she used to like it.

‘That’s a lot on top of being a dad,’ she says, picking up her mug. ‘Are you enjoying it?’

‘Well, it has its ups and downs, naturally, but being a father is, generally, rewarding.’

Is it? Wren had a quick flick through Sophie’s book last night, but she didn’t want to discuss patterns and was more interested in finding out how and when Sophie’s mum died; they must have had a discussion in the café.

It’s the first time she’s properly spoken to me since Anna’s washing debacle.

Coming up with the quilting idea has broken the ice, but it’s definitely not 100 per cent thawed.

Sophie puts the mug down abruptly, almost spilling her drink. ‘I meant workwise – keeping up with your PhD while teaching full time!’

‘Oh! It is a lot at the moment, but it’s not forever. Being here is only a temporary stopgap until I finish my dissertation and...’ I break off as Wren appears in the doorway, frowning hard.

She’s wearing one of Carley’s undamaged green T-shirts as a dress with a pink belt. Her hair is suspiciously damp and has created wet patches on her top.

‘I told you not to wash your hair on your own!’ I’m trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. ‘You’re not supposed to get your bandage wet.’

‘I did it one-handed with the nozzle.’

‘Why didn’t you call me? I’d have come up.’

She folds her arms, scowling. ‘Because I don’t need your help.’

‘Well, I think you do . . .’

‘Hi, Wren.’ Sophie scrapes back her chair, smiling warmly. ‘It’s nice to see you. I love your dress.’

Wren’s face softens and she gives a little wave. ‘Hello.’

Whether she senses it or not, Sophie is acting as an unofficial intermediary and preventing the outbreak of World War Three.

‘Shall we make a start?’ she asks. ‘Have you had a chance to look through the quilt pictures?’

‘Not properly, sorry,’ I reply as Wren makes a beeline for the seat next to her.

‘That’s okay.’ Sophie points to the chair opposite. ‘Why don’t you go there, Wren? Your dad can sit next to you – that way, you can both look through the pages together, side by side.’

We change direction and collide. Sophie watches us closely, sipping her coffee. We manage to sit down without one of us tripping and she flicks open a red album containing photos.

‘Let’s start with some of my designs. You can pick anything from in here or these books.

’ She touches her stack. ‘I can adapt patterns and create something different, depending on the styles and types of materials. I’m happy to give advice but the decisions are all yours. You need to work as a team on this.’

She looks expectantly at us. I nod but Wren shuffles her chair further to the left and sticks out her elbow, putting more space between us. She places her hand on the table, and I surreptitiously check her dressing isn’t wet.

‘We can use different shapes like rectangles, squares, triangles, diamonds and hexagons, and in a variety of sizes.’ Sophie turns over pages of the album, studying Wren’s face for a reaction. But my daughter scans each photo indifferently and doesn’t speak.

‘When did you... do you mind me asking when you learned how to do this?’ I ask, filling the silence.

Sophie doesn’t lift her gaze from the pages. ‘A few days after my nineteenth, Mum went travelling and I moved to Plymouth. I met an old lady by chance in the city centre, and we became friends. Joan made memory quilts from her grandchildren’s old clothes and taught me to sew.’

‘That’s lovely! Are you still in touch?’

A haunted expression creeps into her eyes. ‘No, sadly. Joan died months after we met. We didn’t know each other long, but she remains my inspiration.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Interesting ... Sophie left Modbury in March 2016, which was my spring quarter.

I missed her terribly and continued to call, text and email.

Eventually, my mum discovered that Jude had converted their house into an Airbnb.

That was the only way I found out she and her mum had moved away, but I had no idea Sophie was in Plymouth.

‘You could choose a single block shape that repeats over the entire quilt or use different combinations, like this one.’ Sophie points to another photo. ‘This pattern contains 999 scraps of material, 200 triangles, 152 hexagons and 303 stars.’

I stare at her in surprise. ‘Your sewing is mathematically complex, like the one featuring Pascal’s triangle!’

‘Who’s Pascal?’ Wren asks.

Sophie shrugs.

‘A famous French mathematician,’ I explain. ‘A number pattern was named after him.’

‘Numbers! Yeuch.’ Wren pretends to shiver.

‘I hated maths at school,’ Sophie admits. ‘I wasn’t good at anything academically. I just wanted to surf and hang out with my friends.’

Fresh memories return: Sophie’s bright-green bikini; playing Frisbee and cricket on the beach; cooking sizzling hot dogs on our disposable barbecue and drinking warm beer from cans after our exams. We huddled together in sweaters as the temperature dropped, our bare legs touching as we kissed passionately.

I shake the recollections out of my head, hoping my face doesn’t betray me.

‘Maths is hard!’ Wren says, pulling a face.

‘Only if you don’t show your workings the way I’ve taught you,’ I point out.

Predictably, she rolls her eyes. I study Sophie’s handwritten notes next to each photo: she’s created grids for the total number of squares and their measurements in precise detail.

This is definitely another big change, along with her becoming more safety conscious.

The girl I used to know hated anything to do with figures.

I had to work out her share when we split bills with Lily and Tom in cafés.

‘You must be good at maths now.’

I look across the table. A strange expression settles on Sophie’s face.

‘I am.’

‘If you don’t mind me asking... I mean, well, what’s changed?’

I attempt to backtrack as the silence lengthens. ‘Sorry... That came out badly. I didn’t mean to sound patronising or that I’m mansplaining maths to you!’

The ticking of the clock on the wall sounds unnaturally loud. It feels like time is stretching yet contracting.

‘The accident,’ Sophie says tersely. ‘That night altered everything.’