Page 50

Sophie

‘Three, two, one, go!’ Adam cries.

We’re having a race after picnicking on the picturesque coastal trail and counting rabbits and seagulls.

Mrs B bought Wren a bike for Christmas, and I found my rusty old one in Mum’s padlocked shed at the bottom of the garden.

Wren shoots ahead, pedalling furiously to the brow of the hill before lifting her feet from the pedals.

‘Whoopee! Here I come.’

‘Careful,’ Adam calls after her. ‘Not too fast!’

‘I love being speedy!’ she yells.

‘Slowcoach,’ I say, overtaking him.

‘Hey! Don’t leave me behind.’

‘Too late!’

Hair streams down my back and the sun tickles my cheeks. Whirring numbers flash up: 57,821 leaves stretch along the hedgerow and 2,638 pebbles are scattered along the side of the lane. We reach the bottom, panting, and skid to a halt.

‘I won!’ Wren punches the air. ‘Sophie’s second, and you’re last, Da-Adam.’

‘I demand a rematch,’ he groans. ‘I’ll get at least second place next time.’

‘You’re a sore loser!’ Wren exclaims.

‘Your dad’s very competitive.’ I nod in agreement, tightening my helmet.

‘But he’s not fast enough to catch us,’ Wren declares, propelling herself forward, pedals spinning.

‘I’m competitive but 100 per cent irresistible,’ Adam says, leaning in for a kiss.

‘This is true.’

I tilt my head and his lips draw closer before he gives a determined push with his feet and races away.

‘See?’ he shouts over his shoulder. ‘I can definitely be number two!’

‘Cheat!’

He waves and catches up with Wren before she reaches the junction with a busier road. They cycle side by side, laughing and chatting, as Adam’s earlier words ring in my ears: ‘Don’t leave me behind.’

I’m trying my hardest to stop that from happening.

Adam glows with happiness. He says he made up with Wren and Mrs B on Saturday afternoon and they’re all getting on well.

He hasn’t mentioned today’s Stanford board meeting or been distracted; he’s completely in the moment, enjoying our day.

Everything is going great – we took Wren to an agricultural show yesterday, and she loved the petting zoo, craft workshops and fairground rides.

We all ate juicy barbecue ribs and chocolate crêpes until we almost burst. Adam and I chose artisan cheeses, freshly baked bread and cakes for today’s picnic.

Before we left, Adam gave me their finished shapes so I can stitch them into the quilt.

Despite all this, his number was 7 at the fair and 6 today. But that must mean his reconciliation with Wren and Mrs B needs longer to take effect. Walter’s numbers changed within a week.

I still have plenty of time.

Adam turns and waves as he and Wren climb off their bikes and press into the hedgerow to let a car pass. I stick out my tongue at them. Wren leans against Adam affectionately and laughs as they both pull faces back.

‘This is where I leave you, Mr Cheat,’ I say breathlessly, reaching them.

They’re heading straight over at the junction towards Bigbury, but I need to peel off right to cycle back to Modbury.

‘Would you . . . ?’ Adam begins. ‘Never mind.’

‘What?’

‘I was thinking . . . you could come back with us . . . and maybe stay for dinner?’

‘Oh, I don’t think—’

‘Please, Sophie!’ Wren begs. ‘I can show you Grandma’s dogs and our cake is good. We’ll make an even better one next time, won’t we, Da-Adam?’

‘100 per cent! You have to try it and Mum would love to see you.’

I’m not sure Mrs B will share their keenness.

Adam said she couldn’t join us today due to a book club meeting, but I can’t help wondering if she’s avoiding me.

However, this would be a great opportunity to see if they really are all getting on well – there might be something more I can do to help nudge his number up even by a few days or weeks.

‘Sure. Why not?’

‘Brilliant!’ Adam beams at me. ‘It’ll be like old times.’

Wren runs after a tortoiseshell butterfly further along the verge.

‘How much like old times?’ I ask playfully. ‘Trying not to wake your mum while I sneak in and out of your bedroom?’

‘That’s a great idea!’ Adam says, before seizing the chance to steal a quick kiss.

My heart beats rapidly as we wheel our bikes up the path to his childhood home.

The last time I was here, Mrs B caught me leaving and was unexpectedly kind.

Later, I realised she probably thought I already knew Adam’s bombshell news.

The front door swings open and she appears, joined by two dogs.

Mrs B looks smaller than I remember, and her number is 7,455.

She has another 20 years left, which means Wren will be an adult, possibly with her own family, when her grandma finally passes.

She smiles broadly. ‘Sophie! I’m glad Adam persuaded you to come.’

‘Thank you, Mrs B,’ I murmur. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘Please call me Jen.’

Adam raises an eyebrow as she steps back inside. She never suggested I use her first name when we were teenagers. Wren shoots straight in, abandoning her bike by the front step. We wheel it, along with ours, round to the back garden and prop them all against the white trestle table.

‘You see?’ Adam says. ‘Mum’s happy you’re here, but not as happy as me.’

He pulls me into a long, lingering kiss against the wall. It’s exactly like old times.

We all help make a big vegetarian chilli for supper, and Adam opens a bottle of Merlot.

He’s relaxed and cracking jokes with Wren, and gently teasing his mum at the dinner table.

They all seem close: a happy family. After our plates are scraped clean, Mrs B – I can’t get used to calling her Jen – cuts Adam and Wren’s cake, putting large slices on our plates.

‘What’s the verdict?’ Adam asks when I take my first mouthful.

‘Ten out of ten.’

I’m ignoring the fact it’s on the dry side – it’s my rating for this evening, the whole day. Yesterday too. Wren shoots a joyful look at Adam, bursting with pride, and wolfs down her helping.

‘Seconds, anyone?’ Mrs B asks.

‘I can’t eat another thing or I’ll burst.’ Adam groans, leaning back in his chair.

‘You said that yesterday and then you ate another two crêpes,’ Wren points out. ‘But you didn’t go pop. Neither did I.’

‘That’s true. I can probably squeeze in another small slice.’

‘And me! We never go poppety-pop.’ Wren reaches across the table and high-fives Adam.

He cuts the cake as Mrs B gathers the plates.

I follow her into the kitchen with more dishes.

Barely anything has changed in the house, including in here.

The large wooden clock is still fixed on the wall above the fridge, and 173 blue tiles line the splashback behind the sink.

I place the crockery on the table as Mrs B runs hot water in the sink to soak a pan.

‘Thank you,’ she says, turning round with a smile. ‘You’re very kind and thoughtful.’

‘It’s not a problem! I can stack the dishwasher if you want?’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ She steps closer. ‘Thank you for encouraging Adam to visit. He told me that bringing Wren here for Easter was your idea. I’d been trying for weeks, months even, to get him to commit to coming but he listened to you – he always did.’

‘I had to empty Mum’s house and wanted company, so my motives aren’t totally unselfish,’ I admit.

‘I can read between the lines... You’re helping him patch up his relationship with Wren and me. It means so much to have my family here and for us all to be getting along.’

I take a breath, unsure what to say. The ticking of the clock sounds magnified as we stare at each other. Mrs B breaks the silence first.

‘You had no reason to be kind to me. I wasn’t as welcoming as I should have been in the past. It wasn’t personal, Sophie.

I liked you, but I was afraid such an intense relationship would derail Adam’s A levels.

’ She continues before I can cut in. ‘I was wrong about a lot of things. I’m happy you’re back in all our lives.

I want you to know you’ll always be welcome here. ’

She walks over and embraces me for the first time ever. I inhale the scent of salty air and sand in her hair. Sadness and regret fill my heart that we’re only becoming closer now. There’s a new emotion: fear.

It’s raw and visceral. I’m suddenly terrified I’m going to fail and she’s going to lose her only child. Within days, her heart could break into millions of pieces, together with Wren’s. Mine too.

Tick, tick, tick.

I hold on to her, a woman I barely know in adulthood, feeling like I’m hanging on by a single thread above a bottomless black pit.

No one will be able to help me climb out if I fall: only I know what potentially looms at the end of the week.

Only I can try to stop it. I shiver. I’ve never felt more alone or under such monumental pressure to succeed.

‘Thank you for bringing my son back to me,’ she murmurs.

I screw my eyes tightly shut as the yarn snaps.

I plunge into darkness.