Page 3

Sophie

‘Can we exchange numbers before you leave?’

‘I’ve heard so much about you from Flora!’ Stefan roars. ‘It’s like she’s your personal publicist. She gives you great press.’

‘She usually introduces me as her friend who doesn’t get out much and does her tax returns for free!’ I shout back.

I’m only half joking – that’s a blunter summary of how she once drunkenly described me to a random stranger on a night out.

‘Well, that too. She calls you the Numbers Girl.’

I raise an eyebrow.

‘She said you’re amazing with figures.’

I will him to continue looking at my face instead of stealing another quick glance at my boobs, and not to clarify what he meant.

‘Figures as in maths, rather than your actual figure.’ His eyes glint suggestively. ‘Which is obviously fantastic.’

I feel my cheeks pinken. He’s definitely picturing me naked.

‘Thanks for clarifying. I was confused for a minute.’

He leans closer, speaking directly into my ear. ‘I’d love to get to know you more. We probably have tons in common.’

That’s doubtful. We have one mutual connection –my former flatmate, Flora, whose birthday we’re celebrating. She’s a social butterfly and has invited dozens of people tonight from her start-up events company, university, the gym, and God knows where else.

I force the corners of my mouth to curl into a small smile to avoid Stefan describing me as stand-offish in any post-mortems of our conversation later, but not a large enough one to give him the impression he has any chance.

‘How are our drinks coming along?’ I ask.

He turns his attention to the bartender, who is vigorously shaking a cocktail for another customer.

I need more alcohol to get through the rest of this evening.

Stefan is one of Flora’s old school friends who’s only recently returned to the UK after working in New Zealand.

I had the horrible suspicion Flora might be secretly plotting to set me up with him when she messaged earlier, saying: Wear some lippie and your lovely new red dress!

I did neither, sensing another disastrous attempt at matchmaking.

I also forgot to steam my latest silk creation and sew on a button, which is a feeble excuse when I mend other people’s clothes for a living.

But I do have on my best jeans, sparkly combat boots and a bright-pink blouse, so I can’t be accused of making zero effort.

Stefan produces another smile as he passes me a bottle of Prosecco to take back to our table.

I’ve already had a few glasses, plus a double gin and tonic, but it’s not enough to dull all the digits that keep popping up.

Sunglasses would make them hazier, but I can’t wear them in a dark, crowded pub.

I estimate three-quarters of the drinkers will enjoy longish lives.

Whether they’ll be happy or not is a different story. I never get to discover those endings.

‘Let’s go. Watch your back!’

I follow as he weaves through the crowd, holding the drinks tray above people’s heads.

My eyes remain fixed on the tall blonde in the corner.

Flora and I used to flat-share near Bristol Temple Meads station, but she moved out six months ago to set up home with Libby, her now ex-girlfriend.

Rakesh, who works nights as a security guard, took her room and most of the shelves in our shared fridge.

Flora is 30 today and has almost 26,000 days, or rather 71 years, left to live, which means she’ll get a message from the king or queen – if the monarchy hasn’t been abolished in the future.

She’s currently wearing a lopsided party hat and drunkenly embracing a friend.

We’ve reached that stage of the evening when she’s tearfully telling everyone she loves them, before dredging up a depressing anecdote about someone’s unexpected death.

She has absolutely no idea how lucky she is.

A dozen presents are piled on the table.

I flick a look at my watch. It’s almost 10.

30 p.m. and there’s no sign of a cake. I’m hoping it appears soon.

Once Flora has blown out her candles, I’ll make a quick exit.

Bernard’s arthritic hip plays up first thing, so I have to open the dry cleaners.

If I get in early enough, I can finish my bed cover; Bernard’s letting me hang it in the window to advertise my new quilting business.

Plus, the probability of being hit by a drunk driver or attacked by a stranger rises by 19 per cent after 11 p.m., according to my calculations.

While I’ll never know my own number, I can try to mitigate the risks of dying young.

‘There you are!’ Flora cries, as we arrive at base camp. ‘I’m gasping for a drink.’

Stefan is temporarily distracted by a guy talking about this weekend’s football fixtures. I seize the chance to step away and pour Flora a fresh glass of Prosecco, refilling mine.

‘Happy birthday!’ I say, clinking my flute against hers. ‘Here’s to the rest of your life. May it be as happy as it is long.’

She chortles. ‘You sound like the inside of a greeting-card my gran would buy!’

‘Thanks. I really am as old as her, but I have an exceptionally good anti-ageing face cream. People never guess I’m actually eighty-two.’

Flora smiles but her eyes mist over as we each take a sip.

‘I hate getting old! It’s depressing. Who knows what might happen now I’m 30? A friend of a friend received a cancer diagnosis recently and was dead two weeks later. It was really quick!’ She attempts to click her fingers and almost jabs herself in the eye.

‘You’re not allowed to get depressed on your birthday,’ I tell her. ‘We need more alcohol and cake, and fewer tragic stories.’

‘True. Is there a cake? I dropped hints to Libby before we broke up.’

Flora looks longingly at her red-headed ex, who has 23,741 days – 65 years – left to live. There’s a high probability Flora will forget why she split with Libby and end up in her bed tonight.

‘She wasn’t right for you long-term, which is why you called it quits,’ I remind her. ‘You both want different things.’

‘What I want right now is carrot cake,’ she sniffs tearily.

‘Libby might be reluctant to settle down and have kids, but she cares about you. She won’t have forgotten your usual fix. Mine too.’

Flora and I met when our train was stuck for hours in a tunnel close to Paddington station. We started chatting and bonded over our mutual obsession with finding the best carrot cake ever in a café or shop. It requires the perfect proportion of spicy, light sponge and sweet cream cheese frosting.

Flora takes a large swig and twirls the glass between her fingertips. ‘Fingers crossed. I need to soak up the alcohol before I get shit-faced.’

Her gaze drifts to Stefan. She jerks her head at him and not in a discreet way.

‘What do you think? I told you he’s fit!’

I shrug. ‘He seems nice.’

‘Stefan is single, hot and doesn’t just want flings,’ she says, frowning. ‘He’s looking for a girlfriend, probably marriage and kids. He hit the genetic jackpot and has all the good trimmings – like a turkey with roast potatoes, pigs in blankets and big stuffing balls.’

‘Nice image, Flora!’

She roars with laughter; everything she says somehow comes back to food or smut, sometimes both.

She’s right though – Stefan is handsome, with spiky blond hair, a slim, athletic physique and soft brown eyes with long lashes.

He’s friendly, not tight with money and doesn’t appear to be a player.

He’s received admiring looks from a couple of girls across the bar but didn’t surreptitiously glance at them mid-chat.

Unfortunately, he has a low number (1,801) and just under 5 years left.

Even if I overlook his annoying habit of staring at my chest, he’s not a long- or short-term prospect.

A few months ago, I created a new set of rules, which includes not hooking up with anyone who has fewer than 3,652 days – 10 years.

This avoids the risk of it developing into something serious post coitum.

‘What was he doing in New Zealand?’ I ask, attempting to distract Flora from mentally choosing her bridesmaid dress and a gift for our imaginary wedding.

‘Working as a tour guide, but he’s come back to be closer to his family. He’s an instructor at that rock-climbing centre in Brentry.’

I nod. His pursuit of dangerous sports might also explain what is doomed to happen.

‘He’s close by and available ,’ Flora points out.

‘So are EasyJet flights from Bristol airport,’ I say jokingly.

‘Funny.’ She takes a breath, going in for the hard sell. ‘Stefan’s funny, clever and great with children –he teaches loads of junior classes. And he’s had enough of one-night stands. He wants a serious relationship. I’ve double-checked.’

‘ Whaaat? He won’t do a three-way if one of your other friends is up for it tonight?’

‘Oh no, he’s agreed to that as a special birthday present. It’ll be round at yours later.’

I splutter on my Prosecco. ‘Touché.’

‘But seriously? Any stirrings? Anything? ’

Her greyish-blue eyes probe mine for the hint of a spark suggesting I share her keenness. I pick my words carefully, knowing she will forensically examine them.

‘Like you say, Stefan seems lovely, but he’s not my type.’

‘Er, hello? Can you remind me what that is? I can’t figure it out. You’re gorgeous, obviously , but way too picky! Why don’t you give him a chance, give anyone a chance?’

I can’t admit that my goal is to fall in love with a man who has more than 20,000 days – 55 years – left to live.

We’ll be in our eighties before we’re parted for ever.

It sounds unrealistic but my relationship rules will avoid future heartbreak.

I want marriage, kids and grandchildren playing at our feet.

Is that too much to ask after everything I’ve been through?

The prospect of grieving in old age for a soulmate terrifies me far more than being alone.