Page 7

Sophie

‘Are you sneaking out without saying goodbye?’

Shit!

‘No, of course not!’

I’d vowed to go straight home after that slice of disappointingly dry birthday cake, washed down with yet more Prosecco.

I’d also planned to discourage Stefan, but he was funny and attentive, briefly helping me to forget my misery.

We ended up in that awful club with the bad music and expensive drinks with the rest of Flora’s birthday gang.

Wincing, I remember suggesting coming back here.

I’m trying hard to block out what happened next.

Two things are certain: Flora will be ecstatic, and Stefan no longer has to imagine what my boobs look like.

My head is pounding, and my throat is horribly dry. I desperately need a glass of water. I could step over three more shapes on the floor, turn the handle and bolt, but Flora will go ballistic when she WhatsApps later, begging for an update.

‘What time is it?’ Stefan asks groggily.

Slowly, I turn around, attempting to look pleasant rather than horrified that I’ve a) been busted and b) broken my new rule about casual relationships.

‘Just after six. I need a shower before work. I didn’t want to wake you.’

He sits up, bare-chested, and gropes for his watch on the bedside table. ‘Jeez! I need to get up.’

Despite his impressive pecs, he looks rough around the edges – his eyes are bloodshot and gritty. I know I look far worse. My hair is matted; I can’t rule out that something might be nesting in the knots. I edge closer to the door.

‘It was fun last night, Sophs. I don’t mean in bed, which of course it was.’ His face reddens. ‘I mean chatting. I thought we had a real connection.’

Did we? And when did he start calling me Sophs?

More memories from the club return. We’d discussed my new quilting venture and how an old friend, Joan, had sparked my interest years ago.

I’d explained that my website, Instagram page and Etsy business were only recently up and running.

Stefan didn’t join in laughing when one of Flora’s friends asked, ‘Isn’t quilting something old people do?

’ He’d asked about commissioning a bedspread for his nan.

But he also begged me to try a bouldering class as an intro to free soloing.

The old me would have been there in a heartbeat – I used to love outdoor sports, the riskier the better.

But I’ve calculated there’s a 1 in 5 chance that a beginner like me could end up badly injured.

Not knowing when I’m going to die means it could happen any day.

Who knows? Rock climbing without ropes could be destined to kill me before Stefan.

‘I need to scarper, sorry. I’ll be late opening.’

‘Do you fancy grabbing a drink sometime, just the two of us?’

Unfortunately, Stefan’s digit is down to 1,800. He’s grown on me since the bar but not enough to break my dating rules for a second time. I rack my befuddled brain for a way of blowing him off without admitting my soulmate goal or relying on the worst cliché, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’

He notices my hesitation and frowns. ‘Ah, I get it. This was a one-off. Message received loud and clear. No worries! It’s all good.’

I open the door, smiling gratefully. ‘Bye, Stefan. I guess I’ll see you around.’

‘Sure. Wait, you forgot something!’

Dammit . He does want a better explanation, and he’ll probably report back to Flora.

‘It’s not personal,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not looking for any relationship at the moment.’

The second-worst cliché ever!

‘I meant you left this.’ My bra sails over from his bed in a perfect 45-degree arc.

I catch it one-handed and vow to stick to a new rule: no hook-ups with anyone who has less than 1,825 days, or 5 years. Preferably, no one-night stands at all. I need to focus on finding a soulmate with more than 20,000 days. He must be out there, somewhere.

‘Good luck with everything!’ Stefan adds. ‘I hope you smash it with your quilts. I’ll email for a quote if that’s okay?’

‘Sure, thank you!’ Heat crawls up my neck.

Stefan is a nice guy and Flora’s fond of him. While I can’t personally prevent his death, I can plant a seed of doubt in his head about his hazardous job and hobby.

‘Would you listen if I told you it’s way too dangerous to climb without a rope and gear? Would you stop taking unnecessary risks?’

‘Nah. Part of the thrill of free soloing is the rush of adrenaline, knowing that one wrong footing and you could be dead.’

I shake my head. ‘You could definitely end up that way if you keep doing it. Why take the chance?’

‘Because I want to live for today instead of worrying about tomorrow. I don’t want to regret not seizing chances.

’ He hesitates, rubbing his jaw. ‘Last night you talked about being safety conscious... Don’t take this the wrong way, Sophs, because I think you’re a great girl.

But why don’t you try taking a few risks?

It could be the best thing you’ve ever done. ’

I avert my gaze as he climbs out of bed and gropes for his boxers on the carpet.

‘How about sometime between now and never? I might have tried scaling a cliff face without ropes when I was a teenager, but it doesn’t appeal anymore!’

‘I don’t necessarily mean rock climbing,’ he replies. ‘Obviously, that’s not for everyone, but you only live once. You might surprise yourself if you face your fears. You should do something that scares you and see where it leads.’

Back home, I briefly mull over Stefan’s parting advice in the shower, discarding it along with my damp towel.

I get how he’s hooked on the buzz of danger.

I was once. But taking one too many risks changed my life forever.

That’s how I’ve ended up where I am. I’m never rolling the dice and taking a chance again – the cost to myself and others is too high.

In my bedroom, I feel beneath my wet hair for the long, raised scar that trails down the right-hand side of my scalp before grabbing the hairdryer.

I blow-dry my corkscrews in front of the mirror, rearranging the tendrils to disguise the small bald patch.

I’d hated my curls growing up because kids called me Goldilocks, but they were a blessing after the brain surgery.

Most people don’t notice this lasting reminder from the accident, but it’s all I see when I look in the mirror.

It never lets me forget what I did, the harm I caused to others, almost a decade ago.

I ignore my reflection and pull on jeans and a sea-foam-coloured sweatshirt, before searching for painkillers in the kitchen.

My can of Red Bull has vanished from the fridge, but a stack of post has appeared on the table: Rakesh must have accidentally scooped up mine along with his yesterday.

I resist the urge to stick another passive aggressive Post-it on the fridge, reminding him not to touch my stuff, and open the envelopes.

They’re mainly bills, as well as the written offer on Mum’s house that I’ve rejected.

I had to stop Airbnbing it due to the leaky roof and damp problem.

A property developer’s put in a cash bid below the asking price, but I’m pushing my estate agent to ask for more so I can buy a bigger flat in Bristol.

I’m also delaying sorting through the boxes Mum left sealed in the loft.

My gaze rests on another envelope, which has been forwarded from south Devon.

I pull out the crisp white paper with the heading Kingsland Academy .

My childhood address must appear on an alumni list – my old school is holding a fundraising 50-year reunion at the same venue as our old prom party.

I throw the invite into the bin on the way out and run down the stairs instead of waiting for the lift.

Nothing on earth could persuade me to return to the horrors of my past.

By the time I step off the bus in Clifton Village, the painkillers and Red Bull I bought on the way have kicked in and I feel more human.

Hardly anyone else is around. I take off my sunglasses and lift my face to the pale-blue sky, enjoying watching the drifting candyfloss clouds and listening to the cawing seagulls.

This neighbourhood is similar to Modbury with its boutiques, cafés and elegant Georgian townhouses.

I walk over the grass to the suspension bridge – my regular haunt before work.

I can’t resist the pull of water, even if it’s the River Avon rather than the Kingsbridge Estuary.

The ‘Samaritans’ signs are plastered to the brickwork.

They’ve been effective, together with the barriers – no one has died at this spot since I moved here nine months ago.

I stare at the long iron poles stretching above my head.

They look static but I read online they’re always in motion; the bridge was designed to move in the wind.

At the halfway point, I line up buildings in the distance with the safety rail, waiting for my vision to adjust. I shiver with pleasure as the angles of the roofs appear to shift, creating shimmering triangles.

‘I prefer to close my eyes and feel it.’

I jump, glancing over my shoulder. A familiar thin, elderly man in his usual pork-pie hat and grey raincoat smiles back, his walking stick propped against the railing.

Walter holds on with one gnarled hand, the lead of his small, scruffy white dog, Chico, in the other.

Walter’s one of Bernard’s old customers.

He’s a retired engineer and while he doesn’t drop off many clothes anymore, he still pops in to chat to Bernard and says hello whenever I see him around in Clifton.

‘You mean the vibrations?’

‘Exactly! It’s a fraction of lateral movement, almost imperceptible to the human eye. I can sense it – probably because my old bones are sensitive. Luckily, Chico doesn’t have this problem.’ He peers affectionately at the border terrier by his ankles. ‘He’s six today!’

‘Happy birthday, Chico!’