Sophie's Turn

by Nicky Wells

  Slowly, slowly, my heart swelled with excitement, and I was fit to burst with joy. I had made it. I was in. I had no idea what to expect next, but I wouldn’t have to turn back in defeat.

  Chapter Five

  Tim kept his promise. By Tuesday of the following week, he had arranged—all by himself—a mini-break in Paris for the coming weekend. I thought he would have forgotten or tried to let the occasion pass, but over dinner at my flat, he placed an envelope of travel documents on the table. He had booked us seats on the Eurostar leaving Friday night at quarter past six in the evening and a room in Le Petit Grand near the Champs Elysées. The brochure announced that the hotel had four stars. In addition, Tim had hand-written an itinerary of the types of treats that he had planned, including sightseeing and dinners and lunches. I was completely bowled over. It all sounded too wonderful to be true. For some reason, a weekend mini-break seemed really significant. It promised romance and S—E—X and…who knew what else.

  Our trip started out wonderfully. We both had to skip out of work a little early to make the train, and I had slaved all day to get my copy in and edited early. I had packed my little pink carry-on suitcase and even had included the odd fancy negligee that Tim didn’t know I had. I wasn’t sure whether he was into that kind of thing, but it occurred to me that I ought to find out, after two years. As I bolted out of the building trying to make good time for the Tube, I bumped smack-bang into Tim trying to get into the building. He wanted to pick me up so that I could arrive at the train station composed and in style. I couldn’t believe the transformation that my beloved seemed to be undergoing. Gone all the miserliness about cabs and things? Was this permanent or was this a temporary blip? Still, I wasn’t about to complain and happily settled into the cab.

  It was fantastic leaving London on a Eurostar train full of weekenders rather than being squashed on the Tube on a Friday night. The atmosphere on the train was positively festive. It was early August, the sun was shining, and everyone was looking forward to a great weekend. Tim and I were very much in love. It was as though the events of our second anniversary dinner had broken some kind of routine that we had slipped into and reminded us both what we really wanted from the relationship. Tim had organized a picnic hamper full of little dinner treats to tide us over until we got to the hotel and could order room service. Room service. He had packed scotch eggs, sausage rolls, little ham sandwiches with their crusts cut off, hard-boiled eggs, prawns in cocktail sauce, cherry tomatoes, brie—to get us in the mood—fresh bread, and a small bottle of white wine. We spread our goodies out on the table and munched royally as the train hurtled toward the Channel tunnel. I felt the stress of the week lifting off me in great big chunks. Everything seemed unreal and exciting—a strangely old, strangely familiar feeling. Had to have something to do with being on trains going to new places…and also with all these memories that had been haunting me lately, wrapping me in a bit of a hazy cloud. Like now.

  Events took on a speedy, unreal quality. Darren returned waving a piece of paper, on which I had to sign my name against a hastily scribbled, last-minute addition to the backstage guest list. Then he grabbed my hand and dragged me along the corridor, stopping briefly in front of a door marked Tuscq, before flinging it open and pushing me inside. “Ta-da. Here she is,” he announced to the inmates of the dressing room. Everyone cheered and clapped, and I grew hot and flustered with excitement, basking in all the attention. My sweltering condition did not pass unnoticed.

  “You look boiling hot,” Darren suddenly remarked, tugging teasingly at my jumper, cursed, inappropriate outfit that it was. “Maybe you should take some of these clothes off…”

  The room erupted in cat whistles. Feeling my ears burn brightly, I took a few deep breaths. Serene, I advised myself. Calm. Casual. Ignore the innuendo. Behave normally.

  “Yeah, why not,” I gushed, wholly un-serene. “I think I just might. Take my jumper off, I mean.”

  I tugged my jumper over my head, trying hard not to disturb my carefully arranged and hair-sprayed rock-chick curls, and struggled mightily. The fabric clung to my sweaty skin and wouldn’t yield, and no doubt I cut an interesting figure as I stood there, both arms aloft and my clothes halfway over my head. I gyrated my hips trying to get a purchase on my top, and there was delighted clapping. Trust me to entertain everyone.

  There, I had done it. With a great sense of relief, I finally pulled the offending garment clear over my head without dislodging a single curl.

  “Whoop, whoop,” Darren cheered. “Encore, encore!”

  I looked around, hapless and confused. It was a raised eyebrow and a slight nod from Dan that alerted me to the fact that I had taken everything off, jumper, camisole top, and all. In fact, I stood there in my jeans and bra and I froze, literally and metaphorically. Then I thought, hey ho, what the heck, and gave a little twirl and a bow before casually putting my camisole top back on. Dan applauded loudly, but Darren looked slightly put out. “Aw, I liked the view better before,” he muttered.

  “Well, then,” I retorted brazenly, “something to remember, right?”

  “Or maybe we’ll have another go later?” he suggested hopefully, but I disregarded the comment, launching myself on the pre-show buffet instead.

  Taking a plate of food, I stood back and observed in silence as the band began to get ready for the show. Guitarist Darren performed little finger exercises on an acoustic guitar. Joe, the drummer, tap-tapped away on a table top. Mick, the bassist, re-wrote the set list. And Dan…

  Dan. Dan did voice warm-ups into a bunched-up towel. He was shouting rather loudly, but the towel muffled the volume considerably. I could make out the odd scale and little bits of songs. Delectable, yummy, gorgeous Dan. Dan with the honey voice that would melt your heart in the slow numbers and that would blow your head in the fast ones. Dressed in jeans—not leathers—and a soft, blue, silky shirt that was unbuttoned to about his navel. Dan, with his silky brown hair and incredibly blue eyes. To me, he looked like a god. I would have given anything, anything, to touch his chest. Or to be held. Now, if Dan made a proposition like Darren had…I didn’t know if I could refuse.

  I blushed when I caught myself staring at Dan for several minutes. I was doing a very good impression of a hapless, gormless, love-struck, star-struck teenager. Had anyone noticed? I looked around furtively, but—phew—everyone was too busy focusing on their last-minute preparations to pay me much attention.

  The Eurostar arrived at Gare du Nord just before ten p.m., and we took a taxi to the hotel. It was getting dark, and I sat wide-eyed in the back of the car looking at the just-wakening nightlife. The hustle and bustle of cafés and restaurants, the relaxed people milling about—how refreshing to spend a weekend as a tourist. Arriving at the hotel was just a little bit of a let-down—though I would never have admitted that to Tim—simply because it turned out to be a modern, futuristic skyscraper with lots of glass. I had hoped for something traditional and, well, French. But it had four stars, and the inside was lovely and posh. We had a big double bed and the room was done out in red and gold, which felt at once sumptuous and somewhat Christmassy.

  We took a shower together—and what a big shower it was, easily big enough for the two of us—and splashed away like two kids at the beach. I had to hand it to the French—they knew how to do their bathrooms. Afterwards, we wrapped each other in the white hotel towels and lounged on the bed while Tim perused the room-service menu. Okay, so he didn’t speak French, but he could always read menus, wherever we went. In the end, we settled on croque-monsieur, baguettes, olives, dips, and more wine. Not a huge dinner, but we had had a lot of food on the train, and it felt nicely decadent to nibble on things all night.

  I flicked on the telly, but Tim had other plans.

  “Nah, turn off the telly,” he ordered gently. “We have things to do.” Displaying uncharacteristic fancifulness, he had brought a game of Monopoly which he set up rapidly on the bed.

  “You see, I thought this was su
pposed to be a romantic treat,” he explained. “Telly doesn’t belong here. Instead, we’ll play Naughty Monopoly.”

  “Naughty Monopoly?” I asked curiously.

  “Yup. Very naughty.”

  “How so?”

  “Simple. I get you bankrupt, and instead of mortgaging your properties to me, you have to take your clothes off.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “A bit like strip poker then?” I mused. “Only it’s strip Monopoly!”

  “Exactly,” he confirmed with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Right,” I thought about this once more. “You do realize I’m only wearing a bathrobe, right?”

  “Absolutely. That’s the fun of it. When you’re done undressing, you’ll have to pay in other ways.”

  Saucy bugger! I couldn’t help but grin at him; that all sounded fine to me. But again, where did all of this come from? This was totally out of character. Had he been reading up on romantic treats? Maybe got advice from someone—his workmates, perhaps? No matter, I told myself. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Just enjoy yourself! And, I mentally rubbed my hands gleefully. Wait until Rachel hears about this. She’ll have to revise her opinion of Tim completely.

  We had a terrific evening, and I hadn’t felt so happy and so…certain about Tim in a while. Tim lost his bathrobe first, and I had great fun thinking up little things for him to do to me in order to repay his ever-growing debts. In the end, we collapsed laughing and giggling on the bed and made love naturally and excitedly. Twice—we never usually managed twice!

  The next morning, however, brought about a dramatic change. First of all, Tim had requested a wake-up call. How he had managed to do that without me noticing—or helping—I didn’t know, but the phone rang at seven-thirty a.m. and that was that. Tim was up. He leapt out of bed and had a shower before I could raise the tiniest word of protest, and then he came back to me all eager like a puppy-dog wanting a walk.

  “Come on,” he said, pulling the duvet off me completely. “We’re in Paris! We’ve got things to do. See places.”

  “All right, all right,” I grumbled. I really was not a morning person. “But do we have to go and see them so early?”

  “Absolutely,” he declared. “So few hours in the day.”

  His enthusiasm was contagious, so I dragged my reluctant body out of bed and into the shower. But by the time I came out, Tim sat sulking in the arm chair, and I was sure I had put my foot in it by taking so long.

  “Hey, don’t worry,” I shouted, now raring to go myself. “Sorry I took so long. I’ll just be a few more minutes…it’s only eight a.m., after all!”

  No response.

  “Come on, what’s the matter?” I wanted to know.

  A doleful look, and a withering “That!” accompanied by Tim’s outstretched arm. I followed his instruction and looked where he was pointing. What could possibly be the matter? He was pointing at the window, where he had meanwhile opened the curtains. Were the curtains dirty? Was there an unspeakable stain? Did we have a view over chimneys or the yard or something? I couldn’t really tell much; everything looked a little grey.

  “That what?” I asked, like I would of a small child.

  “It’s raining.”

  I looked closer. Indeed, it was. Tim had acquired some kind of obsession with pointing out the weather to me recently.

  “It is,” I confirmed. “So?”

  “It wasn’t raining yesterday when we got here,” he complained, acting ever more like a petulant child.

  “No, I know it wasn’t,” I conceded. “But so what?”

  “We can’t go sightseeing in this weather.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “We’ll get wet.”

  Ah. Of course. We would get wet. Hmm. That rather put a spanner in the works, didn’t it?

  “We’ll just buy an umbrella or a rain coat or both,” I soothed. “It’s only a little drizzle. Not like the stuff we get at home!”

  “But I’m supposed to be on holiday. And this is Paris. In August. It’s not supposed to rain,” he muttered.

  I took a deep breath. “Well, maybe it’ll stop later. Look, there’s already a brighter bit of sky over there,” I said in what I hoped was my most reasonable voice, although, even to me, I sounded more and more like a mother trying to calm a disconsolate toddler.

  “I’m not going out in this weather.”

  And there we had it. I couldn’t believe my ears. All the romance and excitement of the previous night dissipated in one go. I felt incredibly tired. And weary. I loved Tim, but I couldn’t spend my life being his mother, could I?

  I sat down heavily on the bed and put my head in my hands to help me think better. To a point, I shared his frustration. This was supposed to be a romantic mini-break. We were supposed to be strolling down the Champs Elysées in the glorious sunshine, holding hands, eating ice cream, sitting in the cool shade of plane trees while drinking coffees, and gorging on sweet crêpes sold by the many street vendors. None of that would be much fun in the rain. But then again, this was supposed to be a romantic mini-break, and so what if the weather didn’t cooperate? Surely, we had other ways of amusing ourselves? Sightseeing wasn’t the point of this trip. I raised my head, glancing around with sudden inspiration. Tim was still sitting in his chair, staring morosely ahead of himself and absent-mindedly shredding a piece of hotel stationery. Mummy wasn’t what was called for here to save the day…sex goddess was.

  I got up and sauntered through the room seemingly aimlessly, in search of something to suit my purposes—ah yes, here it was, my little chiffon scarf. I picked it up, swept some imaginary lint off one end, and then let it drop on the bed. I positioned myself behind Tim and started massaging his shoulders. He was tense, as though he had spent the day at work, and in a way I was touched. Okay, so most of this tension was due to his personal frustration at being crossed by the weather gods, but surely disappointment about not offering me the perfect weekend came into it as well? That must mean he cared and wanted to make things right for me, right? I felt all loved and gooey as I warmed to this train of thought. A much better way of looking at things. “Tim, love,” I murmured in my most seductive voice—a low, hoarse, grovelly affair that I tended to manage particularly well if I had been chased out of bed too early on a Saturday morning. “It’s only eight o’clock. It’s terribly early. The rain will stop, trust me.” I made a dangerous promise here, but I hoped that its fulfillment wouldn’t matter quite so much in a few hours. “What do you say? Why don’t we take a little more time in here while we wait for the rain to subside?”

  I could feel his shoulders tense even more, and he took a deep breath, mustering up some kind of response. I whipped round the chair and deftly sat on his lap, placing the index finger of my right hand over his lips.

  “Shh…don’t say a word…just hear me out.” He looked at me with astonished eyes, all at once taking in my still-wet hair and the bathrobe which had come open—attractively, I hoped, but I couldn’t look down to verify—and revealed critical bits of my anatomy to him just at eye level.

  “Let’s order some breakfast—we’ve got to eat something, somewhere anyway—so let’s have breakfast in bed and have a little snuggle, and then start the day again…okay?” I could still feel resistance in his very body stance, so I hastened to add, “Two hours, come on, that’s all it’ll take for a bit of romantic relaxation here, and then the sun will come out. It’ll only be ten o’clock, and we can still do a lot of sightseeing. Come on,” I coaxed. He relaxed a little. This is when I grabbed my scarf off the bed and quickly snuck it around his eyes, tying it in a big pink bow-tie right on the bridge of his nose. Tim gave an involuntary snort of amusement.

  “What is this all about then?” he asked. Hoorah, I had distracted him. He spoke in a normal voice. I was a genius.

  “Well…” I continued in my seductress voice, “Let’s just see if I don’t have a little surprise for my man.”

  I raced across to my pink ca
rry-on case and rummaged around. Where was that silky negligee thing that I had packed, anticipating an occasion just like this? Ah, there it was. I pulled it out from the bottom of the case victoriously. It was a little crumpled and could have done with intimate contact with a steam iron, but no time for that now. Quick nose test—why hadn’t I done this at home? Well, not exactly rose-dew fresh but not too pongy either. Nothing that a bit of perfume couldn’t take care of. I executed a rapid change from fluffy bathrobe into skimpy bedroom attire, semi-straightened the bed, and then ordered breakfast via room service, prattling away to the blindfolded Tim all the while. He seemed to enjoy his role and sat obediently during the ten minutes or so it took for me to organize everything. Then I undressed him, and led him back to bed, tucking him safely beneath the duvet—lest the waiter should peek around the door—and took away the blindfold.

  “Ta-da.” I gave a little twirl and the silk swirled around me obligingly.

  “Blimey!” Tim yelped in astonishment. “I had no clue you were into kinky underwear.”

  “Ah well,” I cooed, “now you know. Do you like it?”

  “It’s…” Tim actually had to clear his throat. “It’s spectacular.” I gave another little swirl and a girlie bow.

  “Why, thank you kind sir.”

  Tim giggled. He actually giggled. Things were looking up. Just then, there was a knock on the door.

  “Hello…,” I shouted unabashedly in English. “Just coming.” And then, as a whispered, naughty aside to Tim, “Well, soon, anyway…” I sauntered to the door in a wildly exaggerated swagger, then leant against it, looked back at Tim, and opened it. Just as I was. Tim gave the most almighty snort and blushed. Bless him.

  “Your breakfast, ma’am,” the waiter announced in impeccable English, balancing an enormous tray with two plates of food and a large pot of lovely, hot, fresh French coffee. Ah, a slight complication. I had hoped for a trolley that I could take off him and wheel into the room myself, thereby minimizing my exposure. I wasn’t really that confident in my role as the domestic tart after all. But there was no way I was going to take on that very heavy-looking tray and so there was no option but to let the waiter bring it in.