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I force myself to smile back, noticing his ripped lapel. Walter’s number is 24: he has a little over three weeks to enjoy the pet he loves so much. My phone conveniently pings with a message inside my handbag. I fish it out and hold it up.

‘I have to fly, sorry! Next time you pop into the shop, I’ll fix your coat. It’s not a problem – consider it a freebie in honour of Chico’s birthday.’

Walter tips his hat as I stride away, pretending my WhatsApp is urgent and needs an immediate response. Predictably, it’s Flora.

Hey Numbers Girl! Was 69 your lucky number?! Are you and Stefan an item now?

He’s a nice guy , I type quickly. But we’ve agreed we’re better off as friends, sorry.

Shame! Was he at least a decent shag? Quick – tell me before this meeting starts.

I reply with a zipped-mouth emoji and shove on my sunglasses, keeping my gaze fixed on the pavement until I reach the shop.

I unlock the shutters, switch on the lights and turn on the coffee machine – I’ll need a large mug to help me wade through Bernard’s chaotic accounting.

He always randomly stuffs customers’ numbered tags into the old-fashioned till.

I put them in ‘date of collection’ order and tot up yesterday’s receipts in my head: ￡59.

90. It’s worse than I thought! Bernard admitted takings have dipped as people continue to work from home post-Covid, but I’m hoping this total is one bad day, and not a pattern.

I scoop up the notebooks he uses to record transactions longhand and stick them in my bag.

I’ll create a spreadsheet tonight and study the finances properly, something he avoids like the plague.

I ignore another more explicit, probing WhatsApp from Flora, and make sure my 96 cotton reels are in the correct shade sequence before scanning my list of jobs: high priority is fixing the tear in the hem of a wedding dress and the elbow patches on a well-worn, much-loved sweater.

First, I pull out my bedspread from the plastic wrapping.

I have 30 minutes to finish a small section and hang it in the window before opening.

Bernard has refused to take a cut of potential commissions, but I’ll insist he does.

Even without deciphering his accounts, I have the horrible feeling he’ll need the extra income.

The knots in my shoulders loosen as I hand stitch the final panels.

The design is inspired by the triangular roof shapes I see from the suspension bridge.

Slotted perfectly together are 900 pieces of fabric.

There’s a soothing comfort in the rigidity of order: 30 perfectly proportioned triangles in width by 30 in height, encased in a bold emerald border.

These are the best numbers –the ones I can transform into something beautiful.

My phone pings with yet another notification.

Flora probably won’t leave me alone until I sketch her an actual diagram.

I grab my mobile, but it’s not my former flatmate.

It’s an email forwarded from my quilting website.

I might have my first commission – and not from someone I’ve slept with. I click it open excitedly.

You have a nerve making memory quilts after what you did! I Remember everything even if you don’t. Shame on you! I hope no one buys anything you make.

My stomach drops, and the breath is squeezed out of my lungs.

Who sent this? My past failures haunt me: the people I couldn’t help, like the Berg family and a teenage boy whose heart stopped while he was playing football.

But I doubt their relatives or friends ever knew about my attempts to prevent their fate.

And despite everything, Lily’s parents and her boyfriend, Tom, forgave me for her death.

The only person who ever held a grudge was Joan’s son, Trevor.

That’s unsurprising after I told him her death was my fault – I’d convinced her to stay indoors when he’d wanted to arrange a taxi.

Trevor swore he’d never forgive me. He banned me from her funeral, pushed accusatory notes through my letterbox and harassed me on Instagram.

I had to switch bedsits twice and eventually moved to Torquay, coming off my socials.

He last messaged me three years ago, around the anniversary of her death, so I thought it was safe to return online.

Clearly, this was a mistake. It’s tempting to reply and say sorry.

I could explain how I learned to quilt and mend clothes in memory of his mum, and that I’ll always love her.

But he’s never listened to any of my apologies and angers quickly. It’s best not to interact with him.

I force myself to continue stitching, my fingers trembling.

I squint at the black, white and grey fabric, my eyes blurry with tears.

Everything appears to vibrate and shift as it did on the bridge.

The smaller 3-sided shapes rebel and peel off, creating their own patterns.

They’re desperate to tell their private stories, but I mustn’t let them.

I must focus on the larger picture, the dominant structure that holds the whole design together.

If I let my guard down, my mind will drift to dark, forbidden places. It’ll remind me of the people I’ve loved and lost, and the strangers I desperately wanted to save.

It will dwell on imminent deaths: the doomed teenage drinkers in the pub last night and Walter.

I stitch faster and concentrate on the triangles.

I want to forget all the tragic numbers.