Sophie's Run

by Wells, Nicky

  It occurred to me that Rachel probably felt a little out of the loop on this matter.

  “I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you,” I offered quickly. “This happened just before…” I faltered. “Um…well, it happened a few weeks ago,” I continued evasively, not pinning down the dates. “We were alone in the house—no, not like you think, I can see you smirking right through the phone line.”

  “Sorry,” Rachel admitted, not sounding contrite at all. “Go on.”

  I huffed. “Okay, right. Well, Dan had cooked me dinner and I got this invitation for Tim and Dina’s wedding—”

  Loud screeching interrupted my explanation. “What? You’re invited to Tim and Dina’s wedding?” Rachel sounded beside herself with shock. “When did this happen? Why haven’t you told me? I can’t believe this is the first I’m hearing of this.”

  “Err, I got it in the post, on a Friday. I tried to ring you but I couldn’t get hold of you.”

  “Why not? Where was I?” Rachel demanded to know.

  “I don’t know,” I tried to evade. “Anyway, I couldn’t reach you and—”

  “When was this?” Rachel asked impatiently, sounding cross, angry, and riled at being left out of a vital gossip loop.

  “Um. About, well, about three or four weeks ago, I guess.”

  There was a pause while Rachel digested this information. “Was it more like…four weeks, or more like…three?” she eventually asked in a small voice.

  I swallowed. Demons had to be braved.

  “More like three,” I replied gently. “This happened the night before Jordan hurt you so bad.”

  Another little pause.

  “So I guess we never got a chance to talk about all that.” Rachel finally reflected. “The wedding invite, and the song.”

  I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see me.

  “No, we never got a chance to talk about all that,” I repeated her words. “It didn’t seem important. To be honest, it didn’t even occur to me.”

  “Okay, I can see that. Well, fill me in now,” Rachel encouraged briskly.

  Next it was her turn to catch me up on her life. As it turned out, she had mended quite quickly. Probably not completely—that would take a long, long time—but certainly superficially, she was functioning and projecting her old, buoyant, funny self with the trademark abrasive humor.

  “I swim a lot, for obvious reasons… And I cook, for ditto, because I’ve got to learn sometime… Oh, and!” Her voice lifted with excitement. “Rick’s asked me to write some features about life out Cardiff way for the Read London blog and I’m loving it.”

  She was positively brimming with enthusiasm about writing, but abruptly she returned to more urgent business.

  “So, this wedding,” she prompted in classic Rachel let’s-resume-our-chat-from-ten-minutes-ago fashion. “When is it?”

  “On Saturday,” I whispered. She heard me anyway. “On Saturday? This Saturday?”

  As she drove home to me how close the wedding really was, I experienced a sudden and quite unexpected pang of—what, exactly, I wasn’t quite sure. Nostalgia? Dread? Disquiet?

  But with Rachel prattling on, the moment passed before I could get a hold on the fleeting emotion.

  “Please tell me you’re wearing the perfect little dress?” she implored.

  “Of course,” I reassured her. “Dan wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “You go, girl!” Rachel approved.

  “I’m still not so sure,” I confessed. “I’m a little uneasy about going. I wouldn’t want to spoil the day or be in the way…”

  My heart sank to my feet in a sudden fit of panic. “What if all goes horribly wrong?”

  Memories of my nightmare came flooding back.

  “It’ll be fine,” Rachel soothed. “We’re British, remember? We keep the party going against all odds. And anyway,” she delivered her imperious parting shot. “I command you to go. To close that chapter of your life, and his. And to give me a detailed gossip afterwards. I want to know everything. Everything.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Saturday morning of Dina and Tim’s wedding dawned bright and clear. I had lain awake most of the night with a dull ache in my tummy that I put down to nerves. Heaving myself out of bed required a super-human effort.

  I had some breakfast and threw on some jeans and an old T-shirt. Dan would be picking me up at ten a.m. to drive up to Portreath. We would stop somewhere nearer the place to change into our party gear—there was no point creasing our couture by sitting in a car for three hours. I placed my perfect little Sophie dress into a clear garment carrier and put all the other necessary accoutrements into a handbag.

  Dan turned up right on time with the big limo and a driver. I was a bit embarrassed, but Dan insisted on traveling in style. Complete with food and bar and everything.

  “Okay, okay,” I surrendered to the inevitable, stroking the leather banquette fondly. “I might just grab some more sleep on the way.”

  Dan eyed me carefully. “Are you all right?” he inquired gently, dropping the jokes and the buck-up demeanor. “You look a bit pale.”

  “I didn’t sleep too well,” I explained. “Probably a bit worried.”

  “If it’s that big a deal, let’s not go. We can be the rude no-shows,” Dan suddenly relented.

  “No,” I waved his suggestion away. “Let’s not. We’ve got the car, and the dress, and the morning suit. Let’s do this. I bet Rach is right. It’s a good idea to close this chapter of my life properly, once and for all.”

  Dan grinned. “Atta girl.”

  I snuggled down on the seat and let myself look at the clouds through the big skylight. Soon, the gentle purring and rocking of the limo sent me fast asleep, and I woke up a couple of hours later feeling much refreshed.

  “Hello, sleepyhead,” Dan greeted me from across the limo. “You look better now. Had a nice rest?”

  I nodded my assent, sat up and yawned.

  “We’re nearly there, it’s time to get changed.” Dan signaled to the driver and we pulled into a little service area for a pit-stop. It was twenty to one when we got back in the car, and we arrived at the wedding venue comfortably on time.

  The castle was imposing. As we walked toward it on the gravelly pathway from the car park, the grounds opened up before us, offering a stunning view of the gardens, the headland, the beach far below, and, of course, the sea.

  It was breathtaking. It was beautiful.

  On the central lawn reaching up onto the headland, the happy couple had a big marquee. The tables were laid with pretty white and burgundy flowers with gypsophila tucked in between. Tall chandeliers with long white candles stood ready to provide illumination by night, and I suspected that they would later be backed up by scores of fairy lights that would be discreetly hidden for now.

  It was amazing, and tasteful.

  While I was busy admiring the setting, Dan had observed the comings and goings of the other wedding guests. “Come on, let’s go in the Chapel,” he encouraged, taking my arm and guiding me to join the stream of people entering the church.

  Dignity and grace, I told myself, taking a deep, steadying breath. You can do this.

  There he was, Tim. Waiting for his bride right by the altar while the guests filed in. My steps faltered, but only for a second. Dan guided me swiftly toward a pew at the back, and I sat down gratefully. For one moment, I was distracted from the glorious surroundings by a sharp, painful stabbing sensation low down in my abdomen. My head swam as nausea rose in the back of my throat. I swallowed hard, clutching Dan’s hand hard for reassurance.

  He mistook my iron grip for anxiousness and made soothing noises. “It’ll be fine,” he said for the hundredth time.

  I didn’t have time to explain the nature of my discomfort because the bride made her entrance and the music swelled, drowning the chatter of the wedding guests. We stood.

  Dina looked resplendent in an elegant white gown made of satin and cove
red with delicate lace. Tim looked suitably relieved at the arrival of his bride, yet he seemed very nervous, and very keen. I had never seen him thus affected while we were together, and I was deeply moved by his apparent joy.

  At last, the vicar geared up for the long-winded marriage wows, uttering the first line, “Do you, Timothy Renfrew, take this woman, Dina Erin Belling, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

  He paused to honor the measured rhythm of this ancient phrase, preparing to go on with the customary “to have and to hold,” but—

  “I do,” Tim burst out.

  Oops.

  There was a moment of stunned silence as everybody held their breath. The vicar looked flustered, then gave a little smile.

  “That’s admirable, young man, but we’re not quite ready for that yet,” he announced in his most fatherly voice. The tension broken, a good-natured tinkle of laughter rippled through the church and Tim blushed deeply.

  Dina reached out and briefly held his hand. The vicar calmed the couple down with much muted whispering, and the three of them tried again. This time, vows were said and exchanged without a hitch, and the deed was done. Everybody clapped wildly at the first kiss, and I found myself smiling like the Cheshire cat.

  “Ah, weddings,” Dan mumbled in my ear. “You can’t beat them.”

  Unsure how to react to this unexpected confession, I merely smiled and squeezed his hand.

  The service over, we stepped back out into the brilliant sunshine and I blinked.

  “You okay?” Dan asked quietly.

  “Of course I’m okay,” I responded briskly.

  People were spilling out of the church and milling about, and Dan took my arm yet again. “Let’s perambulate and look busy,” he suggested.

  So we ambled about, reveling in the views and the summer sunshine. After the third circuit of the grounds, however, my feet were starting to ache and I needed a sit-down. And I really, really fancied a drink.

  “Do you think the bar might be open?” I asked hopefully.

  “Let’s go take a look,” Dan concurred eagerly.

  We located the bar inside the castle itself, in one of the downstairs reception rooms. A long oak counter stretched the length of one wall, and the tables scattered across the room were equipped with candles and glasses. Dan swiftly installed himself behind the deserted counter and tried to work out how to get a drink without breaking anything.

  “Get out from behind there,” I hissed, feeling the giggles rise. “I’m not that desperate, and we’ll get caught.”

  “The lady fancies a drink,” Dan intoned solemnly, “and so a drink the lady shall have.”

  “Too bloody right,” someone concurred forcefully behind me. Dan and I turned as one to see who had found us out. A little old lady in a pink tweedy dress with an impossible hat had banged her handbag on one of the tables and sat down heavily on a nearby chair.

  “Ah, good. A server,” she continued brusquely in a clipped, very posh accent. She had to be one of Tim’s great-aunts. “Get on with it, young man. Don’t stand there like a nincompoop. Open the bloody bar and come across with some fizz,” she instructed regally, if somewhat rudely.

  Dan sprang to with glee, never once batting an eyelid. He gave a mock salute and declared, a tad jokingly, “Yes, ma’am. Of course, ma’am.”

  “Champagne, if you please. And not the cheap stuff. I know what they have. I paid for it.”

  Definitely one of the great-aunts, then.

  I scrabbled in my handbag for a tissue to stifle the laughter that was building in my chest. I barely concealed it as a cough before I got told off.

  “You, young lady, stop that slouching. It does nothing for your posture, or your appearance. And whatever could be the matter with you? Take that hanky out of your face and let me see you properly. Do I know you?”

  Mutely, I shook my head. I didn’t trust myself to speak. Dan interrupted our little malentendu by waving a champagne bottle about. “Will this do, ma’am?”

  Unidentified Great Aunt duly turned her attention away from me.

  “Yes, that’ll do. But for heaven’s sake, stop waving it about. You’ll spoil the bubbles.”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  Dan took a step back and grabbed a white napkin, which he wrapped carefully and expertly around the bottle. He turned the bottle with a flourish, turned, and turned it some more, and the cork came out with a satisfying plop. Nothing spilled, not a drop. I felt like applauding but caught myself in time.

  For a second, Dan stood there, bottle in his right hand, cork in the left, surveying the situation. Then he set the cork down and took the bottle in the proper grip, four fingers cradling the base of the bottle and the thumb inserted in the little indent in the bottom.

  It was a magnum bottle, and it was full, and no doubt it was insanely heavy.

  It was also chilled, and now sweating with condensation. It was a recipe for disaster.

  Dan threw me a look. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready,” I responded automatically.

  “Okay…” Dan said, his tongue flicking over his top teeth in concentration. “Here goes…”

  He stepped up to the counter and took position in front of a large triangular arrangement of champagne flutes which was at least ten rows deep. Dan stood by the base, and the very tip of the triangle was furthest away from him.

  He lifted the bottle.

  He leaned forward, holding his jacket tight to his body with his left hand so as not to disturb the glasses as he leaned.

  He reached out his right hand, the one holding the bottle.

  He reached out to pour into the top glass.

  He reached—

  And he leaned—

  And—

  CRASH!

  The bottle slipped out of his hand, fell, and smashed at least two dozen champagne flutes in one go. The bottle itself smashed into several pieces. Champagne sprayed everywhere. Dan jumped back. Unidentified Great Aunt fell sideways off her chair with shock and surprise. Smithereens of glass shot across the room almost as far as the window.

  And thus it was all over. The silence was deafening.

  I was mortified. Dan seemed unperturbed. Unidentified Great Aunt recovered first.

  “Now that wasn’t terribly clever,” she commented from her prone position on the floor. “I daresay that was several hundred pounds of damage you’ve just inflicted, young man. Perhaps you ought to consider a change of career.”

  She tried to get up, but couldn’t manage to get her limbs in order. “Would you terribly mind giving me a hand up before you go about tidying up this disaster?” she asked pointedly.

  Dan jumped out from behind the bar and helped her to her feet. He sat her back down at the table and asked, quite conversationally, “Would you like a drink while I tidy this fiasco?”

  “Why, yes, certainly,” she responded.

  “Me too, please,” I chimed in, inadvertently sitting myself down at the table with Great Aunt.

  She gave me a hearty pat on the arm.

  “That’s been quite a shock, dear, hasn’t it?” she said bracingly. “You might have been hit by shrapnel. Still, nothing that can’t be mended. Except of the spilled champagne, of course. Terrible waste, that. Never mind.”

  I nodded dumbly, unable to figure her out. Shrapnel?

  Dan appeared at our table with a fresh bottle, which he opened with as much aplomb as the previous one but poured in a more pedestrian manner, using both hands in fact so as not to lose control of the slippery surface again. He poured two glasses, one for Great Aunt and one for me, and, after a moment’s thought, he poured himself one and sat down with us.

  “Cheers,” he offered with a sunny smile. Great Aunt was absolutely scandalized, but I clinked glasses happily.

  “I don’t know,” Great Aunt muttered to herself. “The help sitting down with the guests, what are we coming to?”

  Dan and I exchanged a look, and he decided to let himself off the hook. “I’m
not the help, actually,” he declared mildly. “I’m a guest. I couldn’t find any help, so I thought I’d help myself, so to speak. Which is, of course, terribly rude and uncouth.”

  Somehow, he had struck the right tone of endearing contriteness. Great Aunt did a dramatic opinion U-turn.

  “Not the help… I see, I see. Just taking the initiative. Right. Of course. Yah. I do apologize. You see, I thought…” She actually petered out, which was probably a first in her entire life.

  “No need to apologize,” Dan said. “And I will, of course, reimburse your family for this terrible mess.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, I won’t hear of it. The caterers can claim it on their insurance. No, don’t you worry yourself, young man, I will set it right.” And, clutching her champagne glass in one hand and her handbag in the other, she tottered off.

  Dan and I sat in silence for a minute, then burst out laughing.

  “You didn’t do that deliberately, did you?” I inquired of him between gasps.

  “Of course not,” Dan snorted. “I would never waste champagne like that.”

  “I could see it happening,” I confessed. “I just couldn’t stop you.”

  “Me, too,” Dan admitted, wiping a tear from his eye. “Although I didn’t anticipate it being quite so spectacular.”

  He took a big sip of his drink. “It is mighty nice stuff,” he commented. “Probably quite expensive, I should think.”

  “Oh, at least a few hundred pounds worth of damage,” I intoned solemnly.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Dan waved me off. “That includes the glasses, though.”

  We giggled again, and I defiantly ignored another attack of sharp, stabbing pain in my tummy. It was probably just a stitch.

  “Come on, let’s tidy up,” Dan eventually rallied. “We can’t leave this mess.”

  He located a dustpan and brush, bucket, broom and mop in a little cupboard just outside the bar.

  “How did you know about this?” I stared in wonderment.

  “It was a guess. As I told you before…humble beginnings. Once upon a time, I worked behind the bar as well as singing in front of it, as it were.” He grinned and handed me the dustpan and brush.