Sophie's Run

by Wells, Nicky

  “Who have you been upsetting tonight?” he joked, yet the gesture was undeniably tender. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Steve was watching us closely, and I squirmed uncomfortably. This wasn’t meant to happen.

  “No one,” I said, rather more abruptly than I had intended. “It’s nothing.”

  I didn’t know where to look, but Dan was full of beans and didn’t even notice my agitation.

  “Come on,” he said, pulling me out of my seat and onto my feet. “Come on,” he repeated for everybody’s benefit, motioning for the band and Rachel and Jordan to get up and get moving. “Let’s go have some dinner.”

  And when I remained rooted to the spot, trying to make some kind of visual farewell connection with Steve, Dan took a formal bow, doffed an imaginary cap and boomed, “Milady, your carriage awaits.” I giggled despite myself.

  If I was reluctant to leave, Dan utterly failed to notice. I was swept along in his slipstream, and a little part of me was excited that Dan had come to collect me. It felt quite nice to be made a fuss of. But the bigger part of me shrank and shivered in dismay as I finally caught one last look at Steve, watching Dan’s exuberant Sophie-extraction-performance and looking—disappointed? Sad? Amused? Impossible to tell. Still, I reasoned as I was being dragged out of the church, he was a member of the choir even if his attendance was patchy; there would be more rehearsals and more concerts after the summer break, I would find this man.

  Chapter Three

  It turned out that Dan hadn’t been joking about the carriage. That man certainly was full of surprises. I was half-expecting the customary stretch limo, but certainly not a horse and cart. Dan exploded with laughter.

  “I told you your carriage was awaiting!” he exclaimed gleefully.

  “Well, I know,” I muttered back. “I didn’t think you meant an actual… What is this?”

  “This,” Dan announced, gingerly patting the horse’s head, “is our transport for right now. You know…rock gig, big limo. Classic gig, classic transport. Fits the occasion, don’t you think?”

  I observed the horse cautiously, not sure what to make of this equine encounter. “Where on earth did you find a horse and cart in Central London?” I persisted.

  “Oh, you know, there are hire companies about,” Dan responded airily. “And anyway, this isn’t a cart, this is a proper carriage. Won’t you go and check it out?”

  Before I could say anything else, Rachel opened the carriage door with a great squeal of excitement and climbed in. “What are you waiting for?” she shouted back at me. “Come on in.”

  “You’ve got to be joking, right?” I challenged. “This… this is too over the top. I mean, who does this kind of stuff?”

  “I do,” Dan responded, looking slightly crestfallen. “I thought it would be a laugh.”

  Seeing the sadness in his face, I finally caved. Anyway, I was only protesting for form’s sake, lest Candid Camera or something should pop up any minute.

  The inside of the carriage was simply sumptuous. It was done out in red velvet upholstery with two sets of seats facing each other. Small imitation candles in all four corners cast a soft, but barely sufficient, glow. Rachel and Jordan sat on one side with Joe (Tuscq’s drummer) and I sat on Dan’s lap on the other side, squeezing in beside Mick (the bassist) and Darren (lead guitar). There was the teensiest fridge stuck under one of the benches, and Joe swiftly produced a couple of mini bottles of champagne.

  “It’s like way back when on that coach…” he commented, giving me a wink as he popped the first cork. “Let’s try not to spill it all this time.”

  I grinned back. I had always liked Joe and he had a knack of defusing situations with his easy-going, happy demeanor. We all clinked glasses, holding on for dear life as the carriage rocked and wobbled through the London streets. I let my misgivings and confusion drain away and allowed myself to relax.

  Dan had reserved a table for us at Zeus!, the flagship restaurant of one very flamboyant and multi-Michelin-starred TV celebrity chef. If the maître d’ was astonished by our mode of transport, he didn’t bat an eyelid. Instead, he greeted us like royalty and showed us swiftly to a secluded table. A couple of years ago, occasions like this one had featured quite heavily in my life, and I recalled the initial heady excitement and disbelief at my good fortune in having linked up with my favorite band, and taking part in their lifestyle. I smiled to myself, feeling a little nostalgic for the innocence and naivety of those early dates. Now, of course, I was much more sophisticated and worldly-wise. Well, possibly, a little bit. I could be serene, and poised, and elegantly glamorous with the best of them, I applauded myself inwardly, skillfully shooting an olive across the restaurant while trying to spear it with a toothpick.

  Rachel gave me a strange look. “Are you all right?” she mouthed into my ear.

  “What?” I whispered back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Rachel shook her head. “You’re being weird.”

  Weird? Who, me?

  Trust Rachel to read me like a book.

  “I’m not being weird,” I hissed. “I’ve got something to—” The “tell you” stuck in my throat as I knocked over my glass of wine in the effort of communicating with my friend without being heard by the others. Rachel jumped up and flapped about with a napkin, wiping at her trousers and shooting me murderous looks.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I gabbled, joining my own napkin to her dabbing efforts, and seizing the opportunity to whisk her off to the ladies’ room. Five pairs of male eyes regarded us with amusement as we ambled off, holding a napkin over the incriminating wet patch.

  The doors had barely shut behind us when Rachel turned on me.

  “Right,” she announced. “There’d better be a jolly good reason why you just spilled an expensive glass of wine over my favorite designers, so I’m listening.”

  I looked at her, trying to gather my thoughts, trying to work out how to communicate the enormity of the situation.

  “Rach…” I started, then caught sight of her wet patch and erupted in involuntary giggles. “Let’s tidy you up first.” I grabbed a few luxury paper towels from the dispenser, but Rachel wasn’t having any of it. “That’ll dry. It’s only white wine. Go on.”

  I gulped. Okay. If I must.

  “Rach, I saw him. My thunderbolt-and-lightning. My man.”

  She looked at me uncomprehendingly, so I elaborated. “The one I’m going to marry.”

  Chapter Four

  “You what? Where? When? Who?”

  Rachel’s eyes lit up with a sense of intrigue. “You dark horse! When did all of this happen?”

  “Keep your voice down,” I hissed back, “I don’t need the whole world to know just yet. I haven’t even really met him yet. I just know—”

  “You just know?” she repeated, somewhat incredulous.

  “Yeah, I just know. You told me all about thunderbolt-and-lightning. You said, one day I would just know. Well, I didn’t believe you, but you were right, and now I know.”

  “I said that?” Rachel wondered out loud. “When?”

  I gave a big sigh. “Don’t you remember? When I called you from Paris all that time ago, and I didn’t know what to do? You said that obviously Dan and Tim weren’t right for me, and that I’d know when I met the right man.”

  “Oh.” There was a small silence. “Yes, I did say that.” Rachel acknowledged.

  “Well, don’t tell me you didn’t mean it?”

  “Of course I meant it. I just thought you’d forgotten. You never mentioned it again until just now.”

  “How could I forget something momentous like that?” I asked back. “I’ve been thinking about it for almost two years, doubting that you were right. But tonight—” I paused.

  “Tonight…what?” Rachel breathed. “What happened? What did Dan say to you?”

  “No,” I wailed, “this is nothing to do with Dan. Dan is all over, it’s all history. This is…” I paused again, visualizing the chocolate eyes,
recalling that moment.

  “This is—what?” Rachel prompted once more.

  “This is… real. This is really it.”

  “Yeah?” And, when I still said nothing, “Go on, don’t make this like pulling teeth.” She adopted a Sheriff-of-Nottingham voice. “I will extract the truth from you even if I have to dig out your heart with a teaspoon.”

  I laughed. “I think you’ve got your films mixed up. Okay, okay…right, so at choir tonight… Oh Rachel, it was unbelievable. I locked eyes with this man. I think his name is Steve, and we looked at each other, and I just know I’m going to marry him.”

  Rachel looked at me expectantly.

  “That’s it?” she eventually queried, when nothing more was forthcoming from me.

  “Yes,” I said, “that’s it.”

  “You looked at a man.”

  “No, I locked eyes with a man,” I corrected, lest she should get this vital detail wrong.

  “You locked eyes with a man,” Rachel repeated, making speech marks in the air with her fingers, “and you know you’re going to marry him.”

  “Well, yes. But it was more than that,” I tried to explain.

  “Oh good,” Rachel interjected, “I’m glad there was something more, let’s hear it.”

  “Well, it wasn’t more more,” I started again. “Rach, it was like you said. Thunderbolt-and-lighting. I felt like I’d been electrified. I could practically see the sparks fly between him and me. It was real. It was incredible. He felt it, too. He looked at me the whole time and we couldn’t move.”

  Rachel regarded me gravely. Her eyes seemed to penetrate right to the back of my head. Suddenly she started whooping with joy, jumping up and down, pumping my hands and twirling me round and round.

  “Oh my God,” she finally uttered. “It’s happened, it’s really happened!”

  “It’s happened?” I echoed.

  “It’s happened,” she confirmed gleefully. “You’ve had your real, bona fide thunderbolt-and-lightning moment.”

  “So you believe me?” I needed to hear it again.

  “Totally. You lucky cow.” And she punched me playfully on the shoulder. We stood in silence, regarding each other’s reflections in the softly lit mirrors. Idly, I picked up a bottle of exclusive, expensive hand lotion and squirted some on my hands. Rachel was overcome by another wave of hilarity.

  “It’s brilliant, it’s brilliant, it’s absolutely bloody brilliant,” she sang, dancing around me again. She spoke in her best newsreader voice. “Sophie Penhalligan today clapped eyes on the man of her life. She hasn’t met him yet but intends to fix that situation as soon as humanly possible. Sophie”—she pushed a soap dispenser in my face as a pseudo microphone—“how does it feel to have your own personal thunderbolt-and-lightning after all this time?”

  “Err…electrifying,” I offered, and we collapsed in giggles again.

  Still laughing, we returned to the table, and I put in my best effort at being charming and funny. I caught Dan looking at me quizzically a few times. Like Rachel, he was very much tuned into my emotions and he probably sensed something was up. I wasn’t ready to ‘fess up, so I simply flashed him my biggest smile and raised my glass in a silent toast. He gave me his devastating rock-star smile and shrugged, toasting me back.

  Chapter Five

  A few days later, it was my birthday. I hit the big 3-0.

  In the grand scheme of things, that wasn’t really that momentous. Statistically speaking, I wasn’t even a half-lifer yet. But still—I was thirty.

  Dan, being ever magnanimous, offered to host a big birthday bash for me in a club or a hotel. He painted a wonderful picture of Tuscq playing, lots of champagne, canapés, the lot. “Anything you want,” he tempted me. And tempted I was.

  But I thought better of it. Yeah, it would have been great to have a big bash, but it wouldn’t have been my bash. It wouldn’t have been me.

  After much consideration, I decided that I wanted to welcome my thirties by celebrating Sophie-style, in my flat, with my friends, with random bottles of wine brought by my friends, with my badly cooked food, my ancient stereo, my music. It would be crowded and noisy, and the neighbors would complain, and wine would be spilt and I would regret it all the next morning when I had to tidy up on my own. But it would be my party.

  And so there I was, on the evening of my thirtieth birthday, rolling up rugs, moving the sofa beneath the window, tidying away any breakables, and drinking cava along the way. I was having a great time already.

  Suddenly, I collapsed in a heap of giggles as I realized that something dreadful had happened to me. I had grown up after all. Only a few short years ago, it would never have occurred to me to clear the decks and protect my belongings. And yet here I was, in best ex-fiancé Tim-mode, party-proofing the flat. I raised a glass to Tim, wherever he was. “Here’s to learning from the best.”

  “Learning what from the best?” asked Rachel. She had let herself in and was carrying a big bag of groceries.

  “Party-proofing,” I giggled. “Don’t I remind you of someone?” I adopted my most serious expression and commanded myself in a stern voice, “Don’t forget that vase, now, Sophie. It’s a priceless heirloom.”

  “Oh… Yes, I get it,” Rachel wheezed, then looked thoughtful for a second. “I suppose it happens to the best of us, imitating our exes. Only kidding!” She thumped me lightly on the shoulder. “Anyway, better get on with this lot, the food won’t cook itself.”

  For the next hour, we took a rather nostalgic trip down memory lane, back to our student days, when, like today, we had also prepared toasted pitas and hummus and taramasalata, sausages and pizza.

  And when we were done with memory lane, I turned the conversation to Rachel’s Big Wedding to Jordan. How could I not? I was going to be chief bridesmaid, after all, and it was my duty to ensure that the bride-to-be remained happy, relaxed and organized. Especially organized.

  In fact, the wedding had been meant to happen in the spring. Not so. The happy couple had been so delirious with excitement over their long-overdue engagement that they had not managed to get their wedding off the ground. I had warned and ranted and raved and admonished…and in the end, I concluded that it really didn’t matter. If they weren’t ready for a spring date, it would have to be an autumn wedding. Or a winter one.

  Obviously, as March had turned into April and there was no actual date set, no plans made, Rachel had become a little agitated that plans weren’t progressing. Then I had sprung into action, and together, Rachel and Jordan and I had finally selected the August bank holiday weekend for the big day. Gradually, I had assumed a role of wedding coach. I had done the research and presented options, gently and subtly coaxing them in the right direction. And after they had finally settled on a venue and a caterer, I gracefully backed out to let them work out the details for themselves.

  Every now and then, I surreptitiously checked in to make sure they were still making progress. Like now.

  “How’s that dress coming along?” I asked while arranging a pile of napkins on the kitchen counter.

  “What dress?” Rachel shot back, unaware of my change of subject.

  “Your wedding dress,” I clarified.

  “Oh…that…” Rachel blushed. I put the napkins down.

  “What did you do?” I demanded.

  “Err…well…nothing, really. I just…”

  She fidgeted with the hem of her cocktail dress. “Um, well, I changed my mind.”

  “You what?” I screeched, incredulous. It had taken weeks of trawling through all the wedding boutiques of Greater London to find The Dress for Rachel, and another couple of weeks to convince her to buy it. It was a sleek, elegant sheath dress in creamy satin. Rachel looked like a princess, especially after the dressmaker suggested embroidering the bodice with tiny little pearls and glittery fake diamonds. I had never seen a prettier dress.

  I leaned against the wall. “What have you done?” I whispered. “Please don’t tell me you c
anceled the dress.”

  Rachel looked sheepish. “I didn’t think it was really me,” she responded softly. “Sorry.”

  I gulped. Of course, her dress was her choice, but her taste had proved somewhat dubious.

  “Have you got a picture of the new dress?” I demanded weakly, prepared for the worst. Rachel’s eyes sparkled.

  “Have I got a picture of the new dress?” she mimicked, teasingly. “You bet I do. You know I do. Here.” She searched in her handbag for something, finally retrieving her phone. “Let me show you.”

  She scrolled through the menu, clicking her tongue impatiently while trying to locate the right file. Eventually, she found it and handed me the phone triumphantly.

  “Oh. My. God.” I squealed delightedly. “Oh my God, Rachel, you tease, why did you give me such a fright? I thought you’d changed it all.”

  Rachel grinned wickedly. “Do you like what we’ve done?”

  “It’s beautiful.” She had only gone and made the perfect dress divine. “How did this come about?”

  Rachel blushed. “The dressmaker suggested it, knowing how much I wanted a meringue. She said it would be stunning, and that she’d always wanted to do this for someone. So we’re all happy.”

  I regarded the photo again, feeling my face split into a broad grin.

  Rachel had kept the sleek sheath dress, and the dressmaker had embroidered the bodice. But she had also added a single layer of the most beautifully delicate organza to the sheath. It was absolutely magical.

  “This is the most incredible dress ever,” I breathed, choked with emotion.

  “Isn’t it fantastic?” Rachel agreed happily, taking her phone from me and regarding herself critically. “I do love that organza layer. It makes the whole thing so…floaty.”

  “It’s adorable,” I agreed, feeling hugely relieved. At least the major pieces of her wedding were now successfully in place. It wouldn’t matter whether Jordan wore a morning suit or an ordinary suit, or whether there was a grand color scheme in operation or not. They had a beautiful venue, a delightful caterer and a magical bride. It would be perfect.