Nothing New for Sophie Drew: a heart-warming romantic comedy

by Katey Lovell

  I pulled my diary out of my everyday bag and flicked to a blank page. Other people managed to live on my wage, so it had to be possible. It’d just take a bit of planning, that’s all, a few little cutbacks to get out of the red and into the black.

  I picked up the pen, and started to budget.

  March

  Chapter 4

  “Are you sure I can’t twist your arm? You’re not doing that thing where you hide away again, are you?”

  I’d made excuses not to go out with Tawna and Eve for two Saturdays in a row. The first week had been easy. I’d told them I had one of my migraines and needed an early night, and they’d left me alone to recuperate. By the time nine o’clock had rolled around I’d climbed into bed with my laptop, logged into Netflix and settled down to watch Gilmore Girls for the millionth time. Lorelai and Rory always cheered me up, not least because their lives were as messed up as my own.

  “Honestly, I’m fine, and I promise I’m not hiding away with my glue gun like I did when I split up with Darius. I’m just tired.”

  It wasn’t an out-and-out lie, I was tired, but I also wasn’t ready to share my financial struggles with my friends. They wouldn’t understand. At best they’d smile sympathetically, at worst they’d offer me pity-loans. Either way, I wasn’t up to it, but Eve continued to try to persuade me to join them, which was why I shared the other reason I’d rather stay home. “And as much as I love her, I can’t face listening to Tawna talking about colour schemes and whether roses or peonies are the more timeless choice when it comes to wedding flowers. Since Johnny popped the question the only thing she talks about is the wedding.”

  “She’s happy,” Eve replied, and I swore I could hear her shrugging.

  “I know, and I’m happy for her too, truly. But sometimes it feels like we’re having the same conversations over and over again, and the wedding’s not until August bank holiday! She’s still nagging me about getting a date in the diary to try on bridesmaids dresses too.”

  “You’ll be exactly the same when your time comes. Every bride wants their wedding day to be flawless.”

  “I don’t think my day’s ever going to come.”

  I clamped the phone awkwardly between my shoulder and my ear as I opened the kitchen cupboard to see what delights awaited me for tea. There had been baked beans galore since the phone call with the credit card company, and a fair bit of pasta. Whatever was cheap, basically.

  I craved pizza loaded with mushrooms, sweetcorn and red onion, but the freezer was empty and no way was I going to cave and spend on takeaway. My credit card payment on the first of March had been made (and was well over the agreed minimum repayment, because my knee-jerk reaction to sell a nearly-new pair of Louboutins on Depop had paid off) and I liked to think of nice-guy Guy sticking a celebratory sticker on a wall chart to mark my achievement (and I stuck my middle finger up to the woman who had made me cry, as though making the payment was a 1:0 victory to me). Saving money was a test, but watching the amount I owed decrease, albeit slowly, was already satisfying. I’d even converted to an online account so I could log in and check my balance. It was helping me stay focused.

  “Your day will come,” Eve promised, “but first you need to meet Mr Right.”

  “I used to think Darius was my Mr Right.”

  Eve snorted.

  “I know he wasn’t perfect…”

  “He was far from perfect, Soph.”

  “…but we did have a lot of good times together.”

  And oh, had the good times been good. The lazy Sunday mornings, where he’d nuzzled his nose into the back of my neck before kissing the spot behind my ear that turned me on so much I’d thought I was going to explode. The quickies on the sofa. The things he could do with that magic tongue of his …

  “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to come out? Just one little drink? I don’t like to think of you home alone, especially if you’re brooding over that twat Darius.”

  “I’m sure,” I said, closing the cupboard door and deciding to have a bowl of cereal rather than a hot meal. Nothing in the cupboard appealed and anyway, I couldn’t be bothered messing about with the oven. “I have a bowl of Coco Pops and a hot date with Milo Ventimiglia planned.”

  “Cereal and Gilmore Girls on a Friday night? That’s such a singleton cliché.”

  “I think you’re confusing singleton cliché for happiness,” I countered, reaching for the bright yellow box and a bowl. “Say hi to Tawna for me and have a good night.”

  “I’ll have a drink for you,” Eve promised. “I’m certainly in need of one.”

  “Everything okay?” I asked cautiously. “Is it your mum?”

  For the past few years Eve’s mum had been struggling with forgetfulness. Initially everyone put it down to her taking on too much – Lucille McAndrew was one of life’s do-ers and she worked long hours as a carer at a nursing home. The residents had loved her for her warm heart and good humour. It had come as a shock to us all when she had been diagnosed with early-onset dementia.

  As her mum’s condition deteriorated, leaving her incapable of looking after herself let alone the vulnerable elderly people at the nursing home, Eve had had to accept she wasn’t able to hold down her job as a research chemist and care for her mum. She’d made the difficult decision to move Mrs McAndrew into a care home the previous autumn.

  “You know how it is,” Eve replied bravely. “Good days and bad days, and today’s been trying. Anyway,” she added, with a bravery I was convinced was just for show, “I’d better get ready, I’m meeting Tawna in an hour. Have fun with Milo.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  After we said our goodbyes, I poured the chocolate puffs of cereal into the bowl, drowned them in milk, grabbed a clean spoon from the draining board and dug in. It wasn’t the healthiest tea and I knew it wouldn’t fill me up, but that didn’t matter. It tasted of childhood. Innocent times. Easier times.

  When I finished the bowl I refilled it, wolfing down the second helping too, not feeling remotely guilty about my greed because the Coco Pops had been a bargain price (due to the box being dented. The inner wrapper had been intact though, I’d made sure of that. I had my limits).

  After both bowls, the waistband of my work trousers was cutting into my stuffed stomach. It was a relief to change into my loose-fitting paisley pyjamas, wipe my make-up from my face and pull my hair into a rather severe and unflattering ponytail. Not that it mattered, no one was going to see.

  Once I’d settled into full relaxation mode, I climbed under the duvet, flipped open my laptop and checked my online credit card statement one more time. It reassured me that I was doing the right thing by staying in.

  I clicked on my chosen entertainment icon, and the familiar Gilmore Girls theme filled the room. I sank back into my pile of pillows and allowed myself to escape to Stars Hollow. It felt comforting and comfortable, and I was glad not to be heading out into the meat market that doubled as Newcastle city centre on a Saturday evening. Eve and Tawna could keep their nights on the town. I was saving money, avoiding hangovers and drooling, uninterruptedly, over my fave celebrity.

  What could be better than that?

  April

  Chapter 5

  Seven weeks and two payments had passed since the initial phone call which set my money-saving actions into motion, and other than going to work (which I’d have got out of if I hadn’t needed the money it brought in), I’d barely left the house.

  Painting my nails and binge-watching Netflix were losing their appeal. It didn’t help that I’d reached series five of Gilmore Girls – the lack of Milo definitely lessening my viewing pleasure. I’d even tried defecting to Party of Five to drool over Scott Wolf instead, but it hadn’t helped. Truth be told, I was bored, and I knew I’d have to brave going out sooner or later.

  My excuses were wearing thin and Tawna and Eve were continually haranguing me – we’d not seen each other in over a month, the longest we’d ever gone without all being together. It
was easier to avoid temptation from within the safety of my own four walls, but Tawna declared my suggestion of a girls’ night in as “boring” and my resolve had come close to cracking. So far I’d managed to stay focused, clinging tightly to the warm glimmer of pride that swelled within me whenever I checked my online statement, something I’d never have expected to get from being frugal, but it didn’t stop me feeling guilty for being a flaky friend.

  Sunlight streamed into my bedroom heralding a glorious Saturday morning and, after a week of cloudy gloom, with no hangover keeping me bedridden I pulled back the covers to face the day. My next-door neighbour, dressed in an ill-fitting vest and shorts, both an unflattering shade of grey that reminded me of over-masticated bubble-gum, was washing his car for the third time this week. He looked like he’d stepped out in his oldest, saggiest underwear.

  The glorious spring weather propelled me, pushing me towards leaving the house. I decided I’d head to the shops, something I’d deliberately been avoiding because it had the potential to be dangerous to my bank balance. Internet shopping was a temptation, but I was a tactile person by nature. It was easier to resist an on-screen image than an actual object that I could physically smell and touch.

  I couldn’t hide away forever. There were things I needed to buy. Toothpaste for one, and shampoo for another. Necessities not luxuries, although I needed to look at cheaper brands. I’d used the same shampoo for years, since giving in to my hairdresser’s hard-sell. Whenever I went back to the salon she’d compliment me on my hair’s condition and put another bottle behind the counter for me to collect when it was time to pay for my cut and colour. I’d find myself thanking her, as though she was doing me a favour, not adding twenty-five quid to the cost of my haircut.

  My honey-blonde hair was lying just below my shoulders rather than neatly on them as it did when I kept up with my appointments. My fringe was long too; long enough that I’d taken to sweeping it to one side and holding it in place with a grip so it didn’t flop about irritatingly in front of my eyes. However, my hair didn’t look hideous even though I’d missed my usual monthly appointment. It just looked longer. The ends weren’t splitting and, although my roots were peeping through, my natural shade was only a fraction darker than the colour I’d adopted back in the Darius days. The truth is, since stopping the spray tans (another former habit which had become a necessary cutback) my colouring had changed. Everything was that bit more muted, my skin more biscuit than orange (along with my scent, from smothering myself head to toe with an award-winning own-brand self-tanning lotion Kath had recommended). The natural hair colour I’d previously thought of as dull complimented my new-found skin tone.

  Once I’d chosen my outfit, eventually settling on a favourite designer ditsy-print dress, I ran a brush through my tousled hair and liberally spritzed myself with perfume. After wolfing down a yoghurt, brushing my teeth (using the very last of the toothpaste) and grabbing my over-the-shoulder bag from the peg next to the door, I was ready.

  As I’d skipped down the sun-drenched street, the heady scent of honeysuckle assaulting my nostrils, I’d instinctively known it was going to be a good day. With sunshine and flowers, how could it be anything else?

  I inhaled until I was dizzy, high on floral fumes.

  I’d grossly underestimated the dangers of popping into town for a few essentials. There was the lipstick and blusher that had all but jumped into my basket in Boots, and a sale at my favourite high-street clothing shop which had sucked me into the store. I’d tried on a teal-green jumpsuit – gorgeous, with a deep V-neck which made the most of my God-given assets – but even with the generous discount the price on the tag was well beyond my newly-tightened means. I’d reluctantly told the sales assistant it had been too short in the leg, even though it had fitted like a dream.

  The next hurdle had been bumping into Kath outside Ann Summers (I hadn’t wanted to dwell on what might be in the bulging carrier bag she was clutching).

  “Come for a coffee,” she’d urged. “We never see each other out of work these days.”

  She’d pointed to a coffee shop, one of the major chains you find on every high street, that sells the most delicious chocolate layer cake. Rich and moist and melt-in-the-mouth.

  My stomach had betrayed my will by grumbling. Loudly. Loud enough that Kath had taken it as an affirmative and guided me helplessly towards the overpriced latte and cake that yes, I’d badly wanted, but wouldn’t have caved and bought without her encouragement.

  Every guilt-ridden sip of my coffee had burned my throat as I’d listened to Kath share the gory details of her latest conquest. A postgrad student from Colorado apparently, who was into role play, she’d added with a cheeky nod towards the Ann Summers bag. After that I’d quickly made my excuses, scared she might whip out a French maid’s outfit or naughty nurse’s uniform.

  I’d breathed a sigh of relief as I’d set foot inside the pound shop. Admittedly, I’d looked furtively at the passers-by to make sure no one I knew saw me going in, but once inside I was amazed. It smelled a bit funny, like the cleaner had gone overboard with the bleach. In fact, the smell wasn’t dissimilar to the toilets at some of the less salubrious bars in town on a weekend.

  Some of what they were selling was tat, but I’d also spotted my usual brand of toothpaste, for half the usual price, and a four pack of my favourite chocolate bar. Ooh, and the branded teabags Jane favoured that I could take to work, and some of those nice chocolate-coated oat biscuits. When I checked my basket it was pretty full, especially as I’d also thrown in a variety of cleaning products (all the while knowing that despite my good intentions they’d most likely end up, unused, under the sink).

  I left the shop laden with bargains and, although it was money I probably could have saved, my body was abuzz with the rush that shopping brings. Granted, buying disinfectant and scourers wasn’t as exciting as buying a new outfit, but just being in town was a step up from the supermarket, which had been the limit of my shopping experience since the day of the dreaded call.

  A willowy mannequin in one of the windows was dressed in a beautiful silk maxi-dress I knew would look amazing on me, and I wondered how much longer I’d be able to resist buying new clothes. My wardrobe was fit to bursting, so it wasn’t as though I was short of things to wear, but I’ve always had a passion for fashion. I don’t want to wear the same clothes day in, day out. I like variety, having a choice, but sadly the days of buying top-brand names are in my past. Maybe when I’d made a dent in my debts it’d be different, but what was I going to do until then?

  A sadness washed over me, and although I knew it was a first-world problem, I pulsed with anger too. I worked bloody hard. Didn’t I deserve nice things?

  I gazed longingly at the shop windows as I dodged the shoppers coming toward me, weaving in and out of groups of teenage girls heading to the cinema, grumpy men who looked like they’d rather be anywhere but the town centre on a Saturday lunchtime, grey-haired women juggling carrier bags stuffed with purchases.

  That’s when I saw it. It wasn’t identical to the jumpsuit I’d tried on earlier in the day – the colour a dark cobalt blue, the neckline more demure – but the cut looked equally as flattering. I stopped abruptly to look in more detail, my brows furrowing as I tried to make sense of why this gorgeous jumpsuit was sharing a window display with a baby walker, a stack of dog-eared paperbacks and a set of golf clubs.

  Peering up, I took in the sign above the shop, and all became clear. I was looking into the window of a charity shop. I noticed overflowing plastic crates piled high with books on the pavement outside, so close to my feet that I could easily have tripped over them. I bent down to look, sifting past a bestselling bonk-buster Kath had raved about earlier in the year. I filtered past the Dan Browns and Jilly Coopers, surprised to find a stack of football programmes buried near the bottom of the box. Some gave me a sense of déjà vu, Newcastle United programmes I’d bought myself as a kid, with images of Shearer and Speed and Gillespie pl
astered on their covers, but then I came to an older programme behind them. It was from the early seventies, and I recognised Malcolm McDonald, one of Dad’s heroes of yesteryear, all sideburns and shaggy hair, gracing the cover. Dad insists he’s a legend, far superior to any of the current crop wearing the black and white stripes of our hometown club. Dad would probably already have the programme in his stash, but I found myself taking it into the shop anyway. It’d make a nice gift, and give him an excuse to reminisce of bygone days.

  “Hello,” said the man behind the counter. “Found something you like the look of?”

  It took all my willpower not to reply, “Yes, you,” because the man was undeniably attractive. His fair hair was swept over to one side. His T-shirt was just a touch too tight around his biceps, showing off well-defined tanned arms which were free from the tattoos that normally got me swooning. And he was wearing glasses with unapologetically thick-rimmed black frames that looked ridiculously geeky and made me think of Brains from Thunderbirds. He wasn’t my usual type, but something about him was insanely hot.

  “My dad will love this.” I placed the programme on the counter before tentatively adding, “And I wondered how much the jumpsuit in the window was?”

  He stood up from the stool he’d been perching on and headed towards the display. He found a label and named his price, significantly less than the teal version I’d fallen in love with in the high-end department store.

  “I bet it’d suit you. Bring out the blue of your eyes.”