Sophie's Turn

by Nicky Wells

  Deep breath. And another deep breath. Good. Right, what now? Back out there, I guessed, and off to get a coffee or something. My tummy gave an ominous rumble. I hadn’t had a chance to have breakfast in all the hurry this morning and I began to feel a bit faint. Maybe that caused my momentary lapse of judgment? I seized upon that notion gratefully—excellent excuse.

  And then I remembered. The eyes, the hair, the look, the guitars. The shortness! Recognition had, in fact, bloomed. I did know this guy. I had more vivid flashbacks to a dark drizzly night in Edinburgh…finding that backstage entrance… fending off attentions on that coach. Yup, no question. I had found Darren. Darren, the guitarist of Tuscq. Not Dan, the lead singer who I had fancied so much. But Darren was pretty cool, too. Oh gosh, was he still out there? Could I talk to him? Should I talk to him? Thumpety-thump, my heart went again in joyful anticipation. Oh yes, please! But no, I couldn’t. First, he wouldn’t remember me. Second, I had left way back then under such…embarrassing circumstances. And third, well, third—I had Tim. So what would be my interest in speaking to Darren? What would be the point? But it would be so exciting, a small voice piped up in my head. I quickly shouted it down. All this was behind me. Indeed. And now I would go and get myself breakfast.

  Mental equilibrium and resolve thus restored, I crumbled immediately when Darren was no longer loitering outside the toilets. Damn. Double damn. I nearly cried out in frustration. Ah well, it was probably for the better. Breakfast it really was then. I had a quick look around to orient myself to the nearest, trolley-accessible café and spotted a sign for the lifts to the food court. Purposefully and full of new confidence, I started walking.

  Except my feet resolutely refused to head for the lifts. Instead, I appeared to be walking back toward the checkin area. Padding along gently by the windows, out of people’s way, and closely scrutinizing every face. Was I insane? Was I woman possessed? How come I wasn’t in command of my feet anymore? I had stomped around on them without paying them much attention all my life—were they finally staging a revolt? This was ridiculous. And yet I couldn’t stop walking and couldn’t turn around either. Ah well. I guessed one more quick circuit around the Terminal wouldn’t hurt before I had my coffee. Perhaps I would rest easier if I had convinced myself that I had really missed the opportunity, as opposed to always wondering what might have been if I had taken just another look—oh!

  My prey was leaning against a concrete pillar at the other end of the checkin area, one hand casually securing his trolley, the other shoved deeply into his pocket, no longer holding a mobile phone. He had a vacant, bored, frustrated, and expectant expression all at once. And I really went into overdrive.

  As yet, Darren hadn’t seen me so I snuck behind his back, traipsing as far as I possibly could along the windows. Then, I took a deep breath and mentally visualized the direction and angle I would have to take to head back. With all the force I could muster, I swung my trolley around, accelerated wildly and…

  “Oomph!”

  Bingo! I had managed to bump head-on into Darren’s trolley as though I really was en route to some important, unmissable appointment and had temporarily lost control over my own luggage carrier.

  “So sorry!” I trilled in a voice that sounded false even to my ears. “Such a klutz, me. Didn’t see where I was going just then.” I studiously avoided looking at Darren, pretending to take a deep interest in the contents of his and my trolley instead, ensuring that I hadn’t dislodged or broken anything.

  When everything was very patently in order and I couldn’t really pretend to be engrossed in luggage salvation any more, I finally looked up. Darren stood there, mouth half-open, grinning at me amusedly.

  “So sorry,” I reiterated and then, before I could even think about it for the teensiest fraction of a second, “You do look awfully familiar. Didn’t you used to play guitar for Tuscq?” There, I had said it. And there hadn’t been the tiniest hint of hesitation in my voice that would have made this “spur-of-the-moment recognition” remotely credible. No, not from me, not right there, not that day. It just came out.

  But Darren wasn’t in the least perturbed. Instead, his grin broadened and he pointed a finger at me. “I know you,” he exclaimed, and I nearly peed my pants with excitement.

  “I know you,” he repeated, scratching his head. “I know I do, I just can’t place you…”

  “I’m Sophie,” I reminded him. “I saw you guys in Edinburgh a few years back and you kindly put me on the backstage list.”

  Darren’s eyes widened, and he took in my appearance more carefully, as well he might. Gone were the rock-chick mane and the cowboy boots.

  He pointed his finger again, more purposefully this time. “Repeat performance,” he chuckled. “It’s all coming back to me now. What did you say your name was?”

  “Sophie,” I reiterated eagerly, refusing to be peeved. I was in the presence of greatness; he couldn’t be expected to recall trivial details like people’s names!

  “Sophie,” he repeated. “From…Bristol, right? You like taking your clothes of unexpectedly and you were still—”

  “Yes, yes, that would be me,” I cut in quickly, certain now that he did remember me and keen to quash any further embarrassing recollections.

  “I thought I’d recognized you,” Darren offered. “You looked familiar, but it has been what…five, ten years? Still, those amazing eyes are hard to forget.”

  That, and everything else that happened that night. I could feel my cheeks burn in what was no doubt a very unattractive shade of deep purple and wriggled in my clothes as I could feel the blush spread all the way down my toes for the second time in half an hour. The knuckles on my fingers stood out stark white as I clutched my trolley with all my might to prevent myself from swooning. Darren absolved me from the requirement to say anything for just a little while longer.

  “How have you been? What have you been up to?” he wanted to know. “You look…well. Grown…sophisticated.”

  “Um,” I blundered. “Thanks. I am well, indeed. Not sure about the sophisticated thing—ha, ha, ha…” Argh! “But thanks anyway. I’m a journalist now. On my way to New York actually for a conference. But what about you?” I nearly shouted the you, hoping he would take it as an invitation to talk about himself and…well, and Dan.

  “Doing fine, thanks. Hey listen, I’ve just been stood up. I’m on my way to Chicago to record some tracks with a friend of mine, but he’s stuck somewhere in Shepherd’s Bush. We’re on the next flight now. I was just waiting for the airline to bring over the confirmation tickets. Do you want to grab a coffee or something, or a bite to eat?” My meal ticket was burning a hole in my coat pocket, and my tummy gave another very loud rumble. We both heard it and laughed.

  “I take that as a yes,” Darren said. “Just wait here a minute. I’ll be back in a tick.” And he left me in charge of his guitars and luggage as he fought his way to the customer service desk.

  Chapter Eight

  “One tall cappuccino and a cinnamon Danish for the lady,” Darren announced as he placed the food on our table. We had made our way to a café, and he insisted on treating me, despite my many protests and waving of meal vouchers. “And one latte and a chocolate muffin for the gentleman.” He chuckled at labeling himself thus.

  “So, what have you all been up to?” I repeated, trying to sound casual and stirring two sachets of sugar into my cappuccino.

  Tuscq had long since disappeared from the radar screen of rock music. After that amazing gig in Edinburgh, they had done two more tours and two more albums, and then, among much public outcry, had dissolved. They had given no reason for ending their careers in that way. I hadn’t paid all that much attention then. Deeply embroiled in finals at college, I had had absolutely no mental energy to agonize over the demise of my favorite band. That wasn’t to say that I hadn’t occasionally wondered what the guys were doing these days, and I still listened to their albums every now and then when Tim was out of earshot. But on th
e whole, I had considered myself to have outgrown Tuscq.

  Darren informed me that their break-up had been amicable. After twelve albums and more than twelve years of working together, they had simply felt the need to do something else. Or nothing at all, in some cases. Darren confessed with a little wink that he would never have to work again if he didn’t want to. He liked to amuse himself by hiring himself out as lead guitarist to new, up-and-coming rock bands. Dan wrote and produced a couple of mainstream pop bands, although their style was so different from Tuscq that no one would ever have guessed. Joe had bought a little farm in Somerset and lived there with his wife and two kids, growing organic vegetables that they sold at local markets. Occasionally, he would get his drum kit out just to keep his fingers deft and nimble. And Mick had started a new fringe band of his own that kept him occupied but didn’t put him back into the mainstream limelight.

  Recently, they had all grown a little nostalgic for the good times they had had. Joe had invited all of them out to his farm and they had spent a weekend jamming in the barn. They had decided to play “just for fun.” They had given themselves a new name—Splat!—and played gigs in assorted pubs and clubs all over London. “It’s so totally different from the work we used to do. And because the clubs are so much smaller, there’s a much better atmosphere. We love it when the punters have a great time. It’s a real laugh. You should come and see us some time,” Darren offered.

  Oh no, I had déjà-vu here coming thick and fast. I nodded my head and said, as offhandedly as I could, that I might look out for their gigs. Inwardly, I was in complete emotional uproar. Wouldn’t it be great to go back?

  Before I even knew it, my cappuccino was finished and only crumbs remained of my Danish. The minutes had ticked by fast, and I noticed with a start that the airline was issuing boarding calls for my flight. Ears and eyes aglow, I said my goodbyes, and Darren, ever the gentleman, walked me to the security check so that I could abandon my trolley and no longer had to struggle with my bag. He gave me a great big hug and a kiss—on the mouth, quick and innocent, but still, lips touching lips—and said he hoped to see me again soon.

  Thus it was that I came to sit on that plane reeling with excitement—which was the only reason I to explain how I could have arrived in New York in such a sorry state. I was so distracted that I forgot everything I had ever been told about coping with long-haul flights and completely threw caution to the wind with regard to the old alcohol. When the nice stewardess came round with pre-lunch drinks and nibbles, I allowed myself a gin and tonic to steady my nerves. For lunch, I had an indefinable chicken dish and guzzled a half bottle of wine with that. Then, I started feeling very, very ill. Worried that the food had been off, I had a brandy to settle my tummy. Within minutes I felt much better—positively happy and lightheaded. Very much in a celebratory mood. And so I had a cream whiskey on ice for dessert. That was a lot of alcohol within forty-five minutes. On a virtually empty stomach. When every unit consumed in the air, as I should well have remembered, was double a unit consumed on the ground.

  I passed out during the opening scenes of the in-flight movie and had wild, disturbing dreams about running very fast and getting nowhere, about being locked out of an unknown but very important room and desperately needing to get in.

  Well, I had to get backstage if only to get my things. I had nothing on me except my clothes. So, for the second time that night, I would have to weasel my way backstage, somehow. I ambled back to the door that led to the inner sanctuary of the dressing rooms. What I hadn’t noticed before was the fencing that had been set up to guard said door from eager fans—eager female fans, mostly—which was just as well because there were dozens of tarted-up screaming ladies begging to be let in.

  I tried to look as sane and composed as I possibly could and resumed the purposeful stance that had worked so well outside. Stepping forward among the screaming girls—some younger, some older than me—I tried to catch the attention of one of the security guards.

  “Excuse me,” I eventually bellowed at full volume, finally succeeding in getting one of them to look at me.

  He did me the courtesy of bending down to listen to what I had to say.

  “Excuse me,” I repeated, somewhat breathless from being pushed against the fence by the heaving bodies. “I really must get back there. You wouldn’t mind letting me through, would you?”

  He just laughed at me incredulously.

  “You don’t understand,” I tried again. “I’m on the guest list. All my things are back there—my purse, my coat. Honestly.”

  “If you’re on the guest list, why haven’t you got a pass?”

  “Well,” I started, eager to explain, “ I got here rather late, and there was no time to give me a pass so Darren just put me on the list and…”

  “Yeah, me too!” screamed the girl next to me, swiftly ruining any headway I had made with the guy.

  The guard looked at me, then at her, shrugged and turned away. Damn again.

  What was I to do now? Calm, I told myself. Stay calm. They know you’re out here. They can see your things. They will sort it out. But would they?

  Minutes passed, and I patiently stood my ground under the patronizing gaze of the security guards. More screaming and histrionics around me. This was truly awful. How could these girls so demean themselves? What guy in his right mind would ever pick anyone out of this crowd? I searched my mind to figure out if I had behaved similarly when I was younger, but I honestly, honestly didn’t believe I had. This was just ridiculous. They were like banshees. And I was fed up waiting out there among them, but still held on firmly to the belief that I would be rescued. Had to be.

  Eventually it happened. Dan appeared, his hair still wet from a shower he had taken, wearing a fresh silk shirt and jeans, munching an apple, and looking bemused at the gathering of hysterical fans. He was so yummy! I almost joined in the collective swoon. Then my camisole top saved me. In reality, I probably stood out from the crowd just because of my attire, but I allowed myself to think that Dan had recognized me personally and come to the rescue. And everything went into slow motion.

  Dan looked at me, recognized me, and raised his eyebrows.

  When I came to a few hours later, the plane was preparing to land at JFK. I felt desperately ill. My head behaved as though it had been wrapped in cotton wool and then dunked into a pot of concrete that had set around it, crushing my skull. My eyes were raw and itchy like sandpaper. My tongue had swollen and tasted of dead animal. My feet were swollen too, and flesh bulged unattractively over the top of my shoes. My neck hurt. My back hurt. I was in a truly sorry state.

  Somehow I got myself through immigration and went to find a cab. But upon leaving the airport, the humid heat hit me like a hammer. I staggered as though I had been given a blow. The pressure on my head increased, and I was ready to faint. So when the driver asked me whether I wanted the scenic route via Queensborough Bridge or the fast route via Triboro Bridge, I simply mumbled “Triboro” and proffered a piece of paper with the address of my hotel before leaning back, closing my eyes, and preparing to die.

  I felt no better at all when my alarm clock rang the next morning. I was positive that I had to have meningitis or some similar disease. My neck was stiff, my eyes were sensitive to light, my brow was very definitely hot and sweaty and, I deduced, feverish. I couldn’t spot any telltale rashes on me, at least not on the bits of my body that I could easily survey. But how many symptoms did one need to know one was gravely ill? My tummy roiled in protest too, still trying to digest the pepperoni-and-four-cheese pizza that I had ordered late last night. I thought I might be sick.

  Still, I was here to do a job, and I feared Rick’s recriminations more than my clearly imminent death, so I dragged myself into the shower, washed my hair and, without consulting the mirror, slapped on the moisturizer and make-up. I couldn’t face any breakfast, so I ventured downstairs in my fragile state and stood by the curb in the early morning heat trying to get a taxi to t
ake me across town.

  Only eight o’clock and I was already dead on my feet.

  The morning passed in a haze. My head kept throbbing and I was in the grip of a persistent nausea. The lectures were truly dreadful. The much-amplified voices of the presenters reverberated in my head like echoes in an empty cave, and the slightest raised voice made me wince in pain. To my enormous relief, every lecture came with a meticulously detailed handout, which absolved me from the need to take any notes. So I slumped in my chair at the back and tried hard to keep the semblance of a composed, professional woman-journalist lest my co-attendees from The Times and The Telegraph—identified, like myself, by giant yellow badges attached to their clothing—should go home and report bad things about me to Rick.

  Really, I should have attended the afternoon lectures, but I just could not remain upright on my feet any longer. I had to skip out and sleep off whatever ailment had afflicted me. Making a hasty exit, I swiped a copy of every single handout for the afternoon and then asked the campus porter to call me a cab.

  Chapter Nine

  The red flashing light on the phone indicated that I had messages. Shit! I had totally forgotten to call Tim the previous night—I had been too preoccupied with getting food inside of me and then had fallen asleep, practically with my shoes on, before I could make any phone calls. I had also meant to call Rachel to tell her all about the amazing Darren incident, but that call, too, had fallen by the wayside.

  I listened to the messages.

  “Hi, Soph, it’s Tim. Just wanted to make sure you’re all right. I was worried because you didn’t call last night. I love you. Call me!”

  Beep.

  “Hi Sophie, it’s Rachel. Howya doin’ out there in the Big Apple? I am so jealous. Plus I have a shopping list for you. Call me urgently! Bye!”

  Beep.

  “Sophie. Rick. Remember, I expect a full summary of each session so that the whole news desk can benefit. Right. Bye.”