Page 29

Sophie

I’m kicking myself for letting them see my drawing.

Why did I keep it, let alone accidentally bring it here?

That was another stroke of bad luck, along with giving Bernard a final push towards retirement.

I couldn’t turn down the developer’s improved offer on Mum’s house; I accepted it this morning and need to clear the property over Easter.

Likewise, I can’t refuse Adam and Wren’s pleas to use my structure in their quilt.

Neither will understand its deeper significance, but my failures will become permanently stitched into fabric.

I try to focus on my panel sketches, but my vision blurs and my lip throbs.

‘Can I use your bathroom?’ I stand shakily.

‘Upstairs, first on the left,’ Adam replies.

I take a quick peek inside the sitting room on the way.

It’s surprisingly neat for Adam – his bedroom was usually a tip.

Children’s novels and maths textbooks lie on the table by the sofa, along with soft toys, which have their price tags attached.

The mantelpiece has a row of awards, which must belong to Wren, but no family photos.

The bathroom on the first floor smells of a floral shampoo and is wet underfoot.

Wren’s brought the hairdryer in here even though there’s no socket – the plug dangles precariously over the basin.

I place it on the clothes basket, away from the dripping tap.

Wren’s and Adam’s toothbrushes are on either side of the sink, like generals from opposing armies.

I put them both in the same holder. What is going on with them?

Wren didn’t want to sit next to him when I arrived and her high-five was unenthusiastic.

Was their relationship always this tricky or has Carley’s death driven a wedge between them?

I dab at my bleeding lip in the mirror. Making this quilt is even more painful than I expected.

I must ignore the fluttering sensation in the pit of my stomach whenever Adam smiles at me; how my heart leapt when we accidentally touched in the hall, and when he tried to hold my hand at the table.

How it would have felt so natural to let him.

I shake the unsettling thoughts away and walk out.

Nothing will ever happen between us. We have no future. All that matters is giving Wren and Adam happy final memories.

On the landing, Adam’s bedroom door is ajar.

I can’t resist nipping in and immediately spot potential danger.

Trip hazards (mainly abandoned clothes) are strewn across the carpet and an extension lead is overloaded with electric plugs.

After switching it off at the wall, I stare at the bed, trying hard not to picture him in it with Carley.

It’s covered with books, a pile of Wren’s clothes and toy unicorns, as if he’s dumped everything in here after a tidying frenzy elsewhere.

The bedside table has framed photos of Wren as a baby and toddler, but none are recent.

Parenting manuals and maths journals are piled next to them.

The tip of a photo is sticking out of one of the books –it’s probably one of Adam and Carley.

Invading his privacy is wrong. I absolutely shouldn’t look but curiosity gets the better of me.

I tiptoe over and flick open the pages. My heart skips a beat.

It’s the selfie Lily took of the four of us on the beach after we discussed prom night.

We all appear jubilant and carefree. Beneath it is the pic Tom took later that evening.

I’m touching the side of Adam’s face, revealing the Mobius strip he drew on my wrist. He must have been reminiscing about our school days, but that’s all in the past. I snap the book firmly shut.

On the way to the stairs, I loiter outside Wren’s bedroom.

I feel even more guilty about spying in here, but I could get a better idea of the colours and styles she likes.

It’s equally untidy, with clothes scattered across the carpet.

Her white bedspread is covered with green bamboo shoots and pandas.

Crystals and multicoloured unicorn toys feature prominently on the shelves, which is useful to know: we can incorporate gemstones and mythical creatures into the design.

Breath catches in my throat as I spot a metal urn next to a photo of Wren with a woman who must be her mum: they share the same freckles, gappy smile and auburn hair.

They’re both wearing bright-pink T-shirts and standing close to a towering giraffe.

Only its legs are in the shot and Carley and Wren are laughing.

They were probably on a day out at Bristol Zoo.

My chest squeezes: they look happy. I glance around but there’s no photos of Wren with Adam, or the three of them together.

Why aren’t there any in the house? Has Adam put them away because they’re too painful to look at?

I head downstairs and find the pair hunched over separate pads at the kitchen table, but they’re sitting closer than before. Wren’s sketching an animal and Adam’s drawing a pointed shape.

My shape!

I inhale sharply and they both look up.

‘This is such a bizarre coincidence!’ Adam says, smiling.

‘My dissertation is all about identifying a shape that slots across a surface without creating gaps, overlapping, or the pattern repeating. I think you may have drawn something that does just that! Do you...? Would you mind if I take a photo and show it to my supervisor at Stanford?’

‘Oh, I doubt he’ll care. It’s a meaningless scribble.’

There’s no way I want more people to see my shortcomings.

‘I’ll credit you, obviously,’ Adam adds. ‘But this could be an important breakthrough in my research paper.’

His eyes are shining, his cheeks pink with excitement. I can’t snatch away his exhilaration. I must make his last few weeks as happy as possible, encourage him to feel that anything and everything is possible before it’s all over.

‘Sure. If you want.’ I return to my seat. ‘Shall we choose the materials for the different panels and decide on a colour scheme?’

He doesn’t reply and studies his drawing.

‘Adam!’ Wren nudges him.

‘Hmmm.’ He jumps and pushes the piece of paper aside. ‘Sorry. Yes, let’s do that.’

Wren hides her eyes with her fingers as I empty the sacks on to the table. A jumble of vivid fabrics spills out: cottons, silks and even brocade. Running my fingers over the materials, I notice deep gashes in the blouses and dresses.

‘Can you use any of this?’ Adam asks.

‘It’s not a problem to cut around these tears. I only need small pieces.’

I smile reassuringly at Wren as her fingers uncurl from her face. Neither volunteers what happened to Carley’s clothes and I’m not going to ask.

‘You should both choose pieces that represent your favourite stories about Carley,’ I advise.

Wren buttons her lip and Adam’s brow remains furrowed as he sifts through the outfits.

‘Erm, in that case, I would probably say this.’ He holds up a damaged red Stanford sweatshirt, his cheeks matching it. ‘Because... well, that’s where we met.’

I try not to let emotion flicker across my face, or – worse still – picture them holding hands and kissing on campus, laughing and drinking together in bars and making love in his room.

‘What do you think, Wren?’ he asks gruffly.

She shrugs. ‘I don’t remember. I wasn’t born then!’

‘True. Well, what about this top?’ He finds a green blouse. ‘When did she wear it? Or . . . how about this dress?’ He points to cyan-blue silk.

I stare at him, surprised. Why doesn’t he know?

‘Mummy said that was her lucky blouse,’ Wren explains.

‘Whenever she put it on for my swimming competitions, I won! And she wore the blue dress at my Christmas show.’ Wren rummages through the cottons and picks up a bright-pink T-shirt.

‘We had matching tops when we visited the zoo and saw giraffes!’

I recall the photo in her bedroom. It must have been taken two or three years ago, but Adam didn’t join them.

‘That’s a great memory. Let’s put this to one side since it’s so special. What else?’

Wren pokes at a mound of T-shirts. Her bottom lip wobbles and her eyes shine with tears. ‘Mummy wore everything . I don’t want to choose!’

Adam hesitates before putting his arm around her. She doesn’t shrug it off, which is encouraging.

‘In that case, why don’t we use small pieces from all of this?’ I suggest.

Wren manages a watery smile.

‘I love the sound of this!’ Adam exclaims.

He stretches his arms above his head, and I catch sight of his taut stomach as his white T-shirt rises. Something stirs in the pit of mine. He catches my eye and I look away quickly, tidying my books.

‘We’ve made a good start, thank you.’ I neatly fold the clothes, slipping them back in the sacks. ‘I’ll leave you to your Saturday.’

‘Here, let me help.’

Adam reaches over and we both pick up the same skirt, our fingers grazing. Electricity shoots between us, and I drop it.

‘Sorry!’ he mumbles.

‘No problem.’

‘Sophie, can we . . .’

‘I’m starving,’ Wren says, interrupting. ‘What’s for lunch?’

Adam flicks a look at the clock. ‘Wow! Time flies by when you’re having fun... I mean, it’s been nice...’ He coughs. ‘Would you like to stay, Sophie? I can’t offer haute cuisine, but I make a mean tuna melt.’

Wren screws up her nose. ‘It’s not bad. But it’s not good either.’

‘That’s an outrageous slur on my abilities as a chef!’

She giggles. ‘It’s the only thing he can cook without burning.’

‘This is 100 per cent true. Although, I had wondered about us baking together. We could learn how to make a cake.’

‘When?’ Wren demands.

‘I don’t know . . . Soon, I guess? I’ll have to buy the tins first.’

She sighs and walks over to the cupboards. ‘I’ll get the plates.’

‘How about it, Sophie? Has my sous chef persuaded you to join us?’

I hesitate. It’s tempting but my eyes are pricking; a lump is forming in the back of my throat. I shake my head, continuing to pack up my stuff. ‘I should get back. Thanks for the offer though.’

‘Are you sure?’ Adam looks crestfallen.

No! I want to stay with you and Wren, but it’s too difficult. I need to get my head straight and have a private cry.

‘How about we meet tomorrow?’ I suggest.

Flora won’t mind if we rearrange our pub lunch with Stefan – she hasn’t got round to booking a table yet.

‘So soon?’ His face brightens.

I blush, realising this sounds ridiculously keen. I’d never ask future clients to meet as quickly. But Adam isn’t just anyone, and today isn’t purely professional.

‘I’ll cut the strips of material and put together the colour schemes tonight. I don’t want to go ahead with everything until you’re both completely happy. Unless you’re busy?’

‘I was only planning to work on my paper. Do you want to come here?’

I remember the lack of family photos, Carley’s pink T-shirt and what Walter said about building lasting memories. He sent a supportive text this morning, after I let him know I’d followed his advice and arranged to meet Adam and Wren.

Well done, Sophie! he wrote . Keep collecting those tiny joys for the three of you.

‘I have a better idea,’ I say slowly. ‘I think you’ll both love it.’