by Nicky Wells
“After all, this is part of me. You know, being honest and sticking to promises and principles, and not undertaking things lightly. I’d love to be different but I’m not, and so it’s part of my package.”
Dan was very silent. At a rational level of thinking, I observed that he probably wasn’t used to being rebuffed. But then, a little voice inside me screamed, I’m not rebuffing him. I’m trying to figure out how I can make this work. Well then, my rational side continued, maybe that’s what you should say?
I sighed. “Okay, let me start this again. I love you. I want you. And my, I need you. So can I give you a qualified ‘yes’, a sort of conditional ‘yes’, until I have had time to sort out the mess in which I find myself? Is that good enough for now?”
Dan suddenly laughed sadly. “It is. And you are wonderful for being so honest. You know, at the Royal I was sad for being too late. Now, I’m worried that I am perhaps too early, that I’ve asked too soon. I’ve always been an arse when it comes to timing. But when you went away…and then when you came back and you were so pleased to see me and so honest…and you weren’t wearing the ring…I thought, maybe she’s ready. And I didn’t want to lose you again. I couldn’t wait.”
I fell into his word. “No, no, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. This is…the loveliest thing that anyone has ever done for me. You know, taking me to the funfair, arranging this dinner. Making me feel special, treating me like a princess. I don’t know how I could live without you now. I’m just so awfully stuck. I need to sort this out, somehow. You’re making my dreams come true—how could I resist you?”
He smiled tentatively. “I do? Make your dreams come true?”
“Of course you do. You are my dream come true.”
We held hands. Dan’s ring sparkled merrily on my finger, and it made me feel proud. Unreal, but proud. I could be, would be, Dan’s wife. This gorgeous, funny, caring, sexy, creative hunk of a man, with a voice that would melt my bones even if I was a hundred years old…this man wanted to marry me. Me, Sophie Penhalligan. All of a sudden, I just wanted to shout ‘yes, yes, yes’, but I resisted the urge. I had a lot of thinking to do, and I thought I had probably said enough for tonight.
When we got back to the hotel, we made love like an engaged couple should make love. Slowly, passionately, leisurely, with the lights on and our eyes open. Twice. My heart was fit to burst with the prospect of making this man mine for the rest of my life.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I slept fitfully that night, despite the long day and the double exertion after we had returned to Dan’s suite. Scenes from Dan’s proposal kept swirling round in my head and intermingling with fragments of Tim’s proposal. At one point, I had the most absurd dream in which the two men proposed together, then dueled over who should get me. We were all gathered on a misty field on a murky December morning. Dan and Tim both held old-fashioned, enormous pistols. They walked away from each other, the arbitrator counting the steps they should measure out. Then it was time for them to confront each other and pull the trigger and…
Boom!
I fell out of bed, awash with sweat at this nightmare. I was glad to be awake, even though I would have been a little intrigued to find out who my mind would have let survive. Clambering back into bed, I found some comfort in being so close to Dan. I snuggled into his side and decided that I would love to live in his armpit, close to his heart and safely protected from all evil things the world might throw at me. I gave a tentative sniff. Yum, he still smelt good even after a few hours out of the shower. I clearly was addicted to Dan’s particular mix of perfume and pheromones. Eventually I fell into an uneasy sleep again, and I was very groggy when the alarm clock rang.
Alarm clock? Dan never set an alarm clock. I sat up with a start. Dan groped clumsily around next to the bed, eyes squeezed tightly shut, trying to silence the alarm. I reached over and across him and hit the big red ‘off’ button.
“What was that all about?” I asked. “You never set an alarm.”
“No, I know,” Dan groaned. “Must have been a mistake.” He pried his eyes open with some effort. “Morning,” he mumbled and kissed me. Then he reached under the duvet to look at my left hand. “You’re still wearing my ring,” he stated with satisfaction.
“Of course I am,” I retorted. “And a good morning to you too.” I kissed him back.
He was fully awake now. “So we are engaged?” he asked eagerly. “Can I tell people?”
I shook my head. “We are, sort of, but I wouldn’t tell people just yet,” I whispered gently. “Remember—a qualified ‘yes’? I’ve got things to sort out before we can go public.”
His face fell, but brightened again instantly. “It will do. I love you, Sophie.”
“I love you too, Dan,” I said, and I meant it with all my heart.
At that moment, a different alarm went off on a table across the room. Dan let out a few choice swear words, and then dragged himself from the bed to locate the offending instrument and switch it off.
“Oh bugger,” he exclaimed suddenly and with some considerable conviction. “Bugger, bugger, bugger.”
I was most alarmed. “What’s up?” I asked, fearing the worst.
“I forgot to tell you. I’m supposed to be in the studio in half an hour. I’m really late. That’s what the first alarm was for…” He hopped around in a flap for a second, then rushed into the bathroom. Within seconds, there was the sound of the shower splashing merrily.
The studio? What studio? I sat back in bed, perplexed, and pulled the duvet up to my chin. Would I be expected to be there, as chief tour chronicler? There was no way I was going to be presentable in half an hour.
He was back already, emerging dripping but clean and wrapped in a few towels. He started explaining as he pulled on a shirt, trousers and socks.
“Jack decided that we should do a lightning round of edits and retakes on some of the recordings from the gigs. Apparently”—he stopped while he concentrated on figuring out which way round the sock was out—“apparently, there has been a lot of demand for a live album, and the record company thinks we can knock something together for before Christmas. So basically, it is today,” he huffed, obviously distressed at the thought. “On a Sunday, no less. Well, really it shouldn’t be too much work as the cuts are pretty good, but it does mean we’ll be stuck in the studio all day.”
“I thought we were supposed to fly back to London today so that you all could get a few days of rest before the grand finale?” I asked meekly. Evidently, the change of plan had completely passed me by.
“That’s right. And trust me, we’d all much rather do that. But there was no studio time to be had in London. A big place here in Paris has agreed to let us come in on a Sunday, so Jack booked us in. He didn’t even consult us. He just told us yesterday morning. We’re going back home first thing tomorrow instead.”
Right. Okay. I guess I could live with that. But…
“Err…am I supposed to cover this?” I asked hesitantly. In truth, I wanted to ask what the heck I was supposed to do with myself for the day, but I thought that would come out rather too sulkily. And a few years with Tim had taught me the value of diplomacy.
“Shit, yes.” My innocent question caused Dan more distress. He raced around the room, lifting bags and rummaging through them frantically. “I’m supposed to give you directions and an entry pass. We have an interview scheduled with you for…I think for about two p.m. or so.”
Meanwhile, a third alarm went off somewhere and I burst out laughing. The whole event assumed comical dimensions.
“Who set all these alarms?”
“Beats me,” Dan panted, still in search of my instructions and pass. “I only set the first one. I guess Jack must have planted the rest. I hope there aren’t any more. Ah, got this one at least.” He pulled a little black travel alarm clock out of the desk drawer. “Oh look, and here are the instructions for you.” He straightened up and grinned. “Guess Jack must have figured I’d never find the stuf
f unless he hid it with something I’d be bound to locate, if only to destroy it.” He handed me the papers and shook the alarm clock viciously. “Evil things!” Said evil thing landed with a loud clonk in the rubbish bin.
It was ten-thirty now and Dan was almost good to go.
“You haven’t shaved,” I thought I ought to point out. Dan ran a hand across his chin.
“Bugger me, you’re right. Do I look very bad?”
I looked at him critically. “A bit rough. But not too bad.” I stepped out of bed and snuggled briefly against him—me still naked, he fully dressed. I rubbed my face against his chin. “Hmm…I like a bit of rough,” I purred. He gave me a quick hug, and then disengaged.
“Sorry, Sophie, but I’ve really got to go. Jack’s going to give me a right old bollocking if I waste expensive studio time. I’ll see you at two, yeah?” He looked at me pleadingly and I nodded, laughing.
“Just go,” I shooed, “Go on, don’t be late!”
He raced out of the room and the door fell shut behind him with a terribly final clunk. Great. What now? I felt oddly deflated. Abandoned, even. But then I rallied. Get a grip, Sophie.
After all, Dan was clearly frustrated at having to spend the day in the studio rather than…well, rather than being with me, I hoped. It hadn’t been his choice. Then again, I would have loved to be a fly-on-the-wall in that studio, and not just for an official one-hour interview. I wanted to see the action. But that was apparently out of the question, and I felt a little resentful at being shunned. Was that the normal fate of rock stars’ partners, I wondered? Or was it that Dan didn’t want me there?
Golly, listen to yourself, Sophie, I told myself sternly. Barely engaged to him—maybe—and already you’re getting paranoid. Get a grip!
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I slouched a little longer in bed, watching parts of a movie on the hotel’s in-room entertainment system and contemplating how I would spend the day. Dan had left in such a haste that we had not had a further opportunity to discuss our engagement, and in a way, I was glad about that. I needed some serious thinking time. But the ring was wonderful. Its beauty was breathtaking. I was in awe as I examined it idly in the early morning sunlight. Dan had picked something exquisite. Like he had with that Donna Karan dress; he almost seemed to know me better than I knew myself. My heart beat faster at the prospect of sharing my life with him, of being treated like a princess, of having first-hand access to Tuscq and their musical genius. What girl in her right mind would not swoon over such a future?
But was I in my right mind? After all that had happened in the previous two months or so, could I consider myself fit to make life-changing decisions? Decisions that would hurt good, faithful people—Tim—to the bone? I shook my head to rid myself of these thoughts. This wasn’t a good time for me to try to break through the emotional deadlock. I needed space and distraction. I needed some retail therapy.
I sat up, electrified. Retail therapy sounded like just the ticket. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. I was in Paris, had time to spend on my own, with all the Christmas goodies in the stores and a newly rejuvenated Visa card. Yes, Rick had given me an advance on the bonus that he had promised, and I was in the black again. I could afford to go shopping.
An hour later, I traipsed up the Champs-Elysées. I asked a native for the best place to do some Christmas shopping and was told to check out the Galeries. My little map told me it wasn’t too far to walk there so I strolled down the Champs-Elysées a little further, turned into Place De La Concorde, then Rue Royal and Boulevard de la Madeleine, getting in plenty of sightseeing and window shopping along the way. A few hundred meters on the Boulevard des Capucines, then a couple more turns and I turned down Boulevard Haussmann. Already I could see the imposing building of the Galeries looming up ahead. Wow.
Once inside, I was awestruck at the giant central cupola—three stories high, perfectly round, glass-topped and be-decked with Christmas lights and red and golden decorations. The effect was dreamy and tasteful.
I wandered in and out of the fancy shops, amusing myself hugely by window-shopping. Strangely enough, with money at my hands I seemed more cautious about spending it than when I had been entirely broke. But I ended up buying a few Christmas presents: a silk scarf for Rachel, some perfume for my Mum, a sturdy, knitted scarf for Dad and—I surprised myself—cufflinks for Tim.
For Tim?
Yes, for Tim. What was going on?
Having procured the cufflinks without a second thought, I sat down heavily on a bench for a few minutes. For the first time since I had known Tim, I had picked out a present that I knew with absolute certainty he would like. The cufflinks were perfect—square, white-gold, shiny, understated. Very Tim. But would I spend Christmas with him? I hadn’t really planned on spending much time at all with him in the future. Yet instinctively, and with great pleasure, I had found and selected a present for him. Was that out of habit? Routine? Bad conscience? Or did I harbor some deeper feelings for him that I hadn’t yet discovered? I was baffled.
“Actions speak louder than words,” I mumbled to myself. “And certainly a lot louder than thoughts,” I added, much to the discomfort of the old lady who had sat down next to me. She gave me a strange look, then laboriously got to her feet and scuttled away like I was mad.
So actions did speak louder than words, but what was I to make of that? I was thoroughly mystified. How could I have let things escalate like this? Why couldn’t I keep things nice and simple? A quick look at my watch put an end to my musings. Holy microphone, it was one-thirty, and if I didn’t get my skates on, I would be late for my exclusive studio interview.
Half an hour and a frantic taxi ride later—plus a considerable amount of Euros poorer—I trundled into the studio just on time. I sat in the sound booth with Jack and Richard as the guys concluded polishing a final section of Not Blue. This was the first time I had had a chance to get inside an actual recording studio, and I used my photo-journalistic legitimacy as a disguise for taking lots of pictures and asking a host of silly questions about buttons and knobs and whirring wheels. The studio was state-of-the-art and almost everything was digital, so there were numbers and little greens lights flashing everywhere.
The interview itself was bizarre because there was so little I had to ask the guys, having spent so much time with them during the tour. I pretty much knew the score but tried to cover the basics and took lots of pictures. I had guessed—correctly—that Jack’s biggest aim for this article was to drum up publicity around the upcoming live album. Pictures would be more important here than words or facts, but I tried to collect a couple of juicy quotes from everyone to give the article a live feel. We were done quickly—too quickly, I felt—but Jack and the guys were glad to be getting back to it.
I tried subtly to hang around, dying for a chance to stay on, but eventually Jack asked me, quite bluntly, to leave. “It’s not a personal thing, you must understand,” he tried to soothe me. “It’s just that the guys don’t work well with female distraction. From the word go, we’ve always made a point of sequestering the band in the studio. No wives or girlfriends or any observers allowed.” I nodded my head. I did understand. But I still felt shunned. And as nobody could tell me how long the session would take, I had the remainder of the day to kill with no real idea as to what to do. I felt all dressed up with nowhere to go.
Fresh out of ideas for things to do on my own, I returned to the hotel to earn my crust (I had a column to write, after all) and then relax.
Dan rang at six, just after I had submitted my piece to Rick, to tell me that the band would be spending a little while longer in the studio. He sounded properly annoyed with the situation and I instantly banished all feelings of abandonment. Nonetheless, I was going to have to spend the evening alone. Usually I would have relished such an opportunity, but today, I was afraid of the ghosts that I might conjure up given too much time for introspection.
In an effort to hold those threatenin
g, scary thoughts at bay, I initiated my girl’s-night-in-routine. First, I soaked in the bath for an hour by the light of some candles that I had nicked from Dan’s suite. Dan always had a ready supply of candles for bath time—a fact that I much appreciated—and I vaguely considered using his suite. But then decided that I would make this my evening and that I would stay in my suite instead. I took a small bottle of champagne from the minibar and felt like a queen reclining in my bath, building foam castles and sipping bubbly. Oh, the lifestyle that Dan was getting me accustomed to…oops, best not to think of Dan. Men-thoughts banished for the night.
After my bath, I had the concierge order me a giant pepperoni pizza from somewhere and asked for a bottle of house white to be brought to my room at the same time. I wrapped myself into yet another fluffy, white hotel wardrobe and had myself a little pajama party all on my lonesome. My favorite weepy film was on that night and I watched eagerly. I had seen it at least ten times already and knew most of the dialogue by heart, although it was slightly different seeing it in French, of course. Somehow, a weepy movie seemed like a good choice. The pizza ran out all too soon, but still I had more cravings for comfort food. I spoke to the lovely concierge again and he organized me a large box of chocolate truffles. Predictably, the film got me crying when the two main characters met in their life-drawing class. She was naked and he was trying to capture her very essence, blushing deeply as he did so. That was one of my favorite scenes. It always brought on the tears, ever since I had seen the movie for the second time and could no longer hope against hope that somehow they would both survive the plane crash. There was something about the mood and the music that was powerful, erotic, and so innocent all at the same time that I couldn’t prevent myself from blubbing. The tears felt good, cleansing somehow, and as I was on my own, I didn’t bother wiping them away.
When the film finished, I felt completely drained and flopped back onto my bed. I barely managed to switch the lights off before I fell asleep.
