by Nicky Wells
“That’s the big one, isn’t it?” Rachel mused by way of response. “How do you know? But hey listen, I don’t think this is about Dan or Tim any more. I think this is about you and true love.”
“True love?” I repeated.
“Yup. True love. You know…truly, madly, deeply. Unquestioning. All encompassing. Unwavering. Accepting.”
“Truly, madly, deeply,” I responded. I wasn’t sure I could quite follow. I wasn’t sure that I had experienced what she described.
“Sophie,” Rachel began. “Have you ever…ever looked at somebody, looked at a guy before even speaking to him, and just known that he’s the one?”
I scoffed. “What, that thunderbolt-and-lightning stuff? That only happens in the movies, Rach. We’re talking real life here.”
“I assure you, it does happen,” Rachel responded with a quiet, sad confidence that I had never heard in her before. “It certainly does. And you’ll know it when it’s hit you. There won’t be any doubt. And there won’t be any going back. And if you don’t get the guy, everyone else will always be second best. Trust me on that one.”
Her voice was so sad, so cutting, that it felt like a ghost was running icy fingers down my spine.
“Rach? What are you talking about?” I enquired gently. I had never encountered this side of my all-time best friend before, and I was pretty certain I knew her better than anyone else did.
“Now’s not the time,” she responded calmly. “It’s a long story. I haven’t ever told anyone, not a soul. But I will,” she added wistfully, “just not now. I’ll tell you when you get home. But Sophie, just for once, just this one time, take on board what I’m saying and don’t push me away. The thunderbolt-and-lightning stuff does happen. You can just look at someone and know. And that’s how you know. You won’t need any rational reasons. Or any reasons at all. That’s what I want you to think about.”
I had goose bumps all over. This felt like one of those life-changing moments when you could see, with rare clarity, what destiny and fate and love were all about. Rachel’s words reverberated round my head. I nearly had my answers; they were almost within reach. I just needed to think a little bit more. Something struggled inside me to make itself heard.
“Rach, would you mind if I hung up now? I think you got me onto something. I need to think before I lose it all again…,” I trailed off.
“Go for it Soph. You’ll figure it out. Let me know what happens, will you?”
“I will. And thanks. And sorry about the broken night.”
“No worries. It means a lot that you called me. I hope I helped.”
We hung up.
Thunderbolt-and-lightning. Just knowing just by looking. Had I ever felt like that?
The answer was no. Not for Tim, certainly. We had slipped into our relationship gently and slowly. There was nothing wrong with gently and slowly, except that for us it had entailed a process of rationalization. Will this person do? Yes, I believe he will. We had become used to each other’s quirks slowly and had found ways of dealing with them one by one. Emphasis on dealing with them, not accepting them. I was brutal, harsh, and honest; this applied both ways, to both Tim and myself.
But I hadn’t had the thunderbolt-and-lightning moment with Dan either. Never had had a chance to have that moment, because my love for him was preconceived before we even met. And when we did meet, there was a great deal of excitement and being flattered at being noticed and wanted by this man, who I adored. Dan was fun; he made me feel good about myself. He was a fantastic lover. I loved being with him. All these things were feelings that I lacked from my relationship with Tim, but did that mean that I truly loved Dan? Suddenly, I was doubtful. And Dan—did he really love me? He had said he did, several times. But did he mean it? Or was he, too, after a dream? The dream being a girl who didn’t fancy him for his money or the fame, but for the person he was and the music he wrote? Would that be enough to build a future with him?
I pulled myself up short, thinking back to the lovely future I had spun for Dan and me. It was pure fiction. The wedding would be likely to happen like I had imagined it, but the rest…We might perhaps even have the house and the kids, but our lives were liable to be completely different. Think of Irene, I told myself. You would be another Irene; there is no getting around it.
And I knew instantly that that was right. I wouldn’t have romantic, long, creative evenings watching the guys compose and record. Girlfriends and wives were shunned from the studio. I had experienced that first-hand today—well, okay, yesterday—and it had hurt like hell. If Dan’s success was ongoing, which it would be, I wouldn’t see much of him, and the kids—if we had any—would see even less of him. He would be touring and I would get bored of going along.
Would I? I demanded of myself in astonishment. Yes, I would, I responded without hesitation. I wouldn’t bore of the music or the gigs, but the travel would wear me down. Hotel rooms would merge into one another, cities would look alike based on their airports and motorway junctions, days would flow into each other. And I would only ever be an onlooker. I would never get the thrill that the band got of being on stage—and that thrill was what was needed to come to terms with the grueling demands of touring.
I would probably stop touring with Dan after what, three, four attempts? And then I would be a working widow. Once I stopped going on tour, I would know, just know, that there would be other women. Dan had told me as much. This was what had happened with Irene, and he had really tried with her. Why should I be any different? Dan was a ladies’ man. I had always known that. Heck, there had been a girl in his room just yesterday morning, on a gig day no less. On the morning of the day that he knew I was coming back. On the morning of the day that he had planned to propose.
Was I cross?
No.
Well, maybe a little.
Okay, a lot.
But really, I couldn’t be. Like Irene, I knew that other women were part of the deal. Only as his wife that was a deal I wouldn’t be able to accept any longer. Up to now, while we were having some kind of fling, while I behaved wildly out of character, the thought of other women in his life was natural and irrelevant to what we had, if slightly hurtful. As a fling, I hadn’t minded being one of many—all right, I hadn’t minded terribly much. But as his wife…no way. I wasn’t into sharing. But I also didn’t want to end up lonely, bitter, and frustrated.
So what did I want?
Something in the middle. Something with all the best bits of Dan and all the best bits of Tim. Someone who would combine stability with excitement, routine with fun, romance and lovemaking. A solid relationship with enough space to breathe and that wouldn’t go stale. A guy who would cherish me and treat me like a princess, even five years on. A faithful guy. He would be creative in some form. He would like music, books, and maybe he would be a singer or a musician of some kind, even if that wasn’t his career. He would indulge my mad occasional lapses of reason—for example, when I wanted to go off and see a rock concert with Rachel. He would love me for being me, rather than trying to change me into a suburban trophy wife. And I would love him like he was, rather than trying to change him into a rock star. He would not even need to be good looking in the way that Dan was, or Tim. I would need to find him attractive, but that didn’t necessarily imply classic, photo-model handsomeness. There needed to be mad, passionate lovemaking and raucous sex. And there would have to be friendship and laughter.
Wow, Sophie, I said to myself. That’s quite some list. I was confused, scared, and tired. I couldn’t quite get myself to confront the logical answer, the only logical outcome of my contemplations. I was mentally and physically completely exhausted. I knew what I had to decide, but I couldn’t make the decision now. I needed to sleep on it. I needed to sleep, full stop.
I left my perched position on the armchair by the window, dragging my duvet behind me like Linus drags his security blanket around. It was four a.m. I turned off my mobile, the alarm clock, and unplugged the room
phone. Should I wake up in time, I would return to London with the band. Should I oversleep, I would find another flight back. I couldn’t see any obligation to be there with the band in the morning.
I fell into bed just as I heard the first grains of hail lashing against the window in a sudden winter gale. The sound of the storm and the still-fresh scent of the hotel-laundered bed linen swept me off to sleep in a tidal wave of fatigue.
Chapter Forty-Two
Unbelievably, I woke up of my own accord only four hours later. I felt gloriously refreshed and oddly happy, as though a very heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I felt carefree and feather-light as the indecision was over and the emotional roller coaster had come to an end. Despite two bottles of wine and very little sleep, recollection of my nocturnal ruminations was immediate and clear, and I knew I had figured out the answers for myself.
I lazed in bed for just a few more minutes, absorbing the pale winter sunshine that was streaming in through the curtains, which I had left open when I had fallen into bed. I liked waking up like this. There was no trace left of the bad weather that had afflicted Paris for a few hours during the night. I doubted many people had even noticed nature’s little temper tantrum. But I had, and it had suited my mood and my needs perfectly. Like the sky that had clouded over without warning and then re-emerged young and innocent, I felt like I had gone through hell and back, and was ready for a new beginning.
That wasn’t to say that I didn’t feel scared about what I had to do. In fact, the prospect of all the things I had to undertake today made my heart sink just a little—I hated confrontation, always had—but I gingerly tested my resolution and it held firm.
Full of hope and energy, I leapt out of bed and hopped into the shower. It was imperative to my plan that I be up first, sparkly-eyed, fresh, gorgeous-looking and fully in control. I had a hot shower and washed my hair twice for extra lift, then spent a few calming minutes blow-drying it into shape with the utmost care. I applied a tinge of make-up and put on my feel-good clothes—faded jeans and a white cotton jumper. No need to look sexy or fancy today; instead, it was time for Sophie Penhalligan to re-emerge. Fresh-faced, glowy-cheeked, and country-bumpkin would do quite nicely.
Thus attired, I whizzed around the room, throwing clothes and other belongings higgledy-piggledy into my bag. Usually I would have taken much greater care about packing, but we were on our way home now and everything needed laundering anyway. If I wanted to act on my grand plan, I wouldn’t have much time, and the finer art of luggage packing would have to be suspended just for today.
Fully packed and ready, I clustered my bags by the door, grabbed my keys and set off down the corridor. At ten o’clock precisely, I pounded on Jack’s door, hoping that he, too, would be up already. He was.
“Hey,” he greeted me surprised. “You’re up early. What’s up?”
I could sense his curiosity and concern and put on my breeziest voice. “Nothing’s up, but I’ve had a glorious idea for rounding out the touring part of the column.”
“Oh yeah?” I had got his interest. “You’d better come in.”
I stepped into his suite and chattered away brightly. Before I got to my plan, however, I had to know just what had happened last night so I took a little detour.
“Late night last night?” I asked innocently. Jack looked at me warily.
“Sort of,” he responded cautiously.
“When did you all stop recording?” I continued airily. “I guess you all must have worked pretty hard?”
“Oh yes,” he confirmed with conviction, and then added hesitantly, “We stopped around…oh, ten?”
“That’s good,” I muttered as though I hadn’t just had a dagger through my heart. Ten o’clock. I had only barely been finishing my movie at that time, and I was certain that Dan hadn’t returned to the hotel then.
“Have a nice dinner?” I wanted to know next.
“What?” Jack responded, caught off guard.
“Did you all have a nice dinner? I assume you went out somewhere?”
Jack was shifty now and avoided my eyes. So they hadn’t gone out for dinner together. But clearly Dan had done something other than returning to the hotel to see…well, to see his brand new fiancée. Thank goodness I had had that blinding series of insights last night. If I had still been starry-eyed about my future with Dan, I would have been very hurt and upset right now.
“Sophie,” Jack started uneasily. “Errm, we all did go to dinner, sort of…but just not together… I don’t really know—”
“It’s all right,” I cut in. “Don’t worry. Honestly. I was just curious.” I could tell he didn’t believe me, but I wasn’t going to go into much detail now.
“So,” I went on briskly, changing tack dramatically and finally turning the subject to my grand plan. “My glorious idea…”
“Oh, yes.” Jack was all ears, eager to get onto safer conversational ground.
“Well, we’ve done a lot of different things. We’ve covered gigs, surprises, and mishaps. We have also had profiles of all the guys. I’ve written a piece about the studio session and about traveling and all that kind of good stuff. But there is something missing still.”
I stopped, waiting to see if he would take the bait. He did. “And what’s that?”
“The band as a family,” I announced.
“The band as a family?” he repeated, clearly confused.
“Yup, exactly. You know, doing nice, normal things together. We need something showing the bond between these guys, the camaraderie, the understanding. The fact that they face each other in all sorts of conditions, not just polished for a gig or for the camera. You know, they live together while on tour…well, almost. But that aspect has been totally missing.”
Jack grasped what I had in mind. “You want the human side, the off-the-camera side, the true behind-the-scenes picture of what the boys may be like…in normal circumstances.”
“Exactly,” I confirmed. “Normal, homely circumstances. Obviously that’s all a bit artificial on tour and in hotels, but we could focus on ordinary things to do rather than ordinary settings.”
I had lost him again. “Breakfast,” I elaborated.
“Breakfast,” he repeated.
“Yup. Breakfast.” I made a little pause. “You know, I’ve been on this tour with the guys for almost three weeks, and in all this time, they’ve never done breakfast together? Except that one time in Edinburgh, right at the beginning. Lunches, yes. Dinners, yes. All for the good of the camera and the publicity. But never once breakfast. Never once have we all got together after a long rough night, bleary-eyed, half-asleep, groggy, and perhaps even a little grumpy, and shared breakfast together. Like a family would do. Everyone’s always had room service breakfasts, and when we eventually emerge, we’re already polished and ready to face the day. I think it would be great to show the public another side, a more vulnerable side. You know, like ‘these guys are ordinary mortals and they get up just as grumpy as you are.’ What do you think?”
Jack paced the length and breadth of the room as I waited anxiously. He had to agree. He had to. I couldn’t have breakfast with Dan on my own. That would be a disaster. I had to engineer it so that I wouldn’t have time alone with him at all, at least not today. Preferably not until after the Arena show.
“Breakfast?” he mumbled, deep in thought.
“Uh-huh,” I confirmed. “We could do it in the breakfast room or in a private dining room or in one of the suites. Depends on how formal or ‘rough’ you want it to be. I’m just interested in capturing the mood of the band being together first thing in the morning. What they look like. What they say to each other.”
“Could be a bit artificial,” he cautioned. “We don’t often do that anymore.”
“Ah,” I pounced, “but you used to, right? So you could say I’m just trying to take you all back to your roots. It would be such a darling piece,” I coaxed.
Suddenly he broke into a big grin. “I th
ink you’re right. But we need something cozy and homely, like you said. The breakfast room would be too formal. Let’s set up a table in here.” Bought into my idea, Jack galvanized into action. “Right,” he stated, now in organizing mode. “Let me have the hotel bring up a table and some informal settings and all the trimmings for breakfast. You go and rouse the guys—they’ll like that. Breakfast in twenty minutes. Oh, and tell them it’s my orders. Band meeting. You’ll never get them out of their beds otherwise.”
I felt like hugging Jack but just grinned broadly at him. It was like we were conspirators all of a sudden, even if with very different agendas. I could tell that Jack already envisaged the pictures and the piece that I would put together, translating the effect of exposing the vulnerable, honest side of his boys into increased record sales and pounds rolling in.
Bounding along the corridor, I started with Joe. “Wake up,” I shouted as I hammered gleefully on his door. I drummed a little tattoo with my fingers—very apt, I thought, given that I was trying to rouse the drummer—and twittered “wake up” once more. Joe actually opened very quickly, looking like he had been up for a little while. Judging by his damp hair, he had even had a shower already.
“Hey, Sophie, love,” he grinned at me good-naturedly. “Where’s the fire?”
“Morning, Joe,” I beamed. I felt a genuine, uncomplicated fondness for Joe. Perhaps that was because he had always tried to look after me in some way. Or perhaps that was because he was thoroughly unthreatening, being properly and faithfully married. “Jack wants to have a band meeting over breakfast in his room. Twenty minutes.”
“Band meeting?” Joe asked dumbfounded. “What about?
“Beats me,” I sang, “but I’ll be there taking lots of lovely pics of you all. Must dash, got three more sleepy stars to wake.”
Joe looked me up and down, and then grinned. “A dreadful task, I can tell,” he chuckled. “Good luck with the others. I doubt they’ll be up yet.”
