Page 4

‘You weren’t even interested in that hot geek, and he sounded right up your street.’ Flora’s tone is faintly aggrieved.

The bar is packed, and I’m distracted by all the competing digits.

‘Who? Adam?’

His name slips out before I can stop it. Why have I dredged up my first love after all this time? Maybe my subconscious is nudging me to stop making excuses. The truth is that no man, whatever their number, will win me over because they’re not him.

Flora’s brow creases. ‘Huh? I meant the IT guy who keeps dropping off fresh shirts at your shop so he can summon up the courage to ask you out. Daz or Gaz? He brings you slices of carrot cake, which sounds promising. He obviously knows the way to a girl’s heart.’

I laugh. ‘Ah, you mean Maz.’ Our regular customer has stunning green eyes and a friendly smile, but he has fewer days left to live than Stefan. I can’t see the point in getting to know him better.

‘He’s well into you.’

I shrug. ‘The relationship is doomed –his cakes are always stale.’

‘Gotcha!’ she slurs. ‘But who’s Adam? And how come I didn’t know you do have a secret hot geek on the side?’

Luckily, she’s distracted by Libby approaching with a gigantic carrot cake, candles flickering, and I don’t have to explain that Adam was my first – and last –serious boyfriend.

It’s too painful to talk about him to anyone.

He was definitely my type at school . Even though we were only teenagers, I couldn’t imagine a future without him.

I thought he felt the same way, but we turned into the tragic high-school cliché: splitting after a row on prom night.

I clutch the glass to my chest, swaying, as a round of ‘Happy Birthday’ rings out, and Flora tearfully hugs Libby.

It’s been almost ten years since we broke up, but I can still picture Adam’s piercing blue eyes, wavy light-brown hair and wide smile that lit up his face.

He wasn’t conventionally good-looking – his nose was on the large side and had a small dent from our disastrous first surfing lesson.

When I close my eyes, we’re all back on our beach in south Devon.

The light golden hairs on Adam’s arms glint in the sunshine and the air is thick with the scent of my best friend Lily’s coconut suntan lotion, strawberry bubble gum and Calvin Klein perfume.

I’m tracing my fingers along the freckles on Adam’s back.

I can hear his infectious laugh and feel his lips on my neck, making my skin tingle.

I shiver. No one has ever made my stomach flutter – or broken my heart –the way he did.

I wonder what he’s doing now. He’s probably teaching undergraduates in California.

Last time I checked LinkedIn, he’d graduated from Stanford with distinction and was completing a fast-track PhD ahead of maths postdoctoral research and gaining tenured professorship.

He’s probably in a serious relationship with another academic who’s as smart as him.

I’ve been afraid to stalk him online in recent years.

That’s not because of my freakish ability –I can’t see how many days someone has left from a photo.

But I can’t face discovering he’s happily married with kids or, worse still, that his numbers have run out prematurely.

I blink repeatedly as my eyes well up; a nagging ache grows in my chest. Regret and unhappiness crush my heart. I’m as bad as Flora after a few drinks –an emotional, nostalgic mess who fixates on a doomed relationship.

He hurt you –you wounded him and everyone else deeply. You’ve both moved on.

I glance at the door as a group of young drinkers burst in, laughing.

They look like they recently turned eighteen.

Me, Adam, Lily and Tom were forced to wait for our landmark birthdays before setting foot in The Admiral.

The landlady knew everyone in the surrounding villages so there was zero chance of blagging our way in and publicly drinking underage.

Bottles of cider and alcopops on the beach on Saturday nights were a different matter.

The tallest, loudest girl, with long blonde hair, steps aside.

My breath falters as I spot her red-headed, freckled friend with a pink sequinned handbag.

Her life should stretch ahead, brimming with promise – university, an apprenticeship or a junior position in a new job, the first rung on the career ladder.

She should have flings or fall hopelessly in love with The One.

There ought to be romantic dates, hot sex and holidays to look forward to, along with hen nights, and possibly her own wedding day and children.

But this teenager won’t enjoy any of these normal milestones because she’ll be dead in just over a week.

My throat tightens horribly as another gaggle of teenagers arrives and mingles with them. Two boys make a beeline for the redhead, laughing and hugging her. Her sparkly bag blinks balefully under the light.

All three have the same hateful number: 9.

They share the same fate next Thursday and must be destined to die together. Could there be a car crash? Or a bad batch of drugs at a party?

I take a step closer to utter a warning but stop myself.

You tried many, many times to save people and nothing worked. Your last attempt ended with Joan’s death, despite months of careful research. There’s nothing you can do.

Tears blind my eyes, and the oxygen is squeezed out of my lungs.

The teenagers’ numbers spin around like malignant sprites, taunting me.

The girl notices me staring and nudges her male friend.

They both glare. I turn my back, screwing my eyes tightly shut to block out the figures, but they shine vividly behind my lids.

I clutch the edge of a table, almost spilling a glass of wine, as the bar pitches like the deck of an unseaworthy boat.

When I finally feel strong enough to let go, I chug the contents of my glass. Someone in our party has abandoned their gin and tonic, so I neck that too.

That’s not enough. I grab the bottle of Prosecco and refill my flute to the top.

I need to drink myself into oblivion – anything to stop myself from thinking about all the countdowns.