Sophie's Run

by Wells, Nicky

  I stabbed him sharply in the ribs.

  “Oi, you,” I whispered. “Wake up, this isn’t working.”

  True love or not, this relationship wasn’t going to go anywhere if I couldn’t sleep. Steve grunted unhappily but opened his eyes obligingly.

  “Do you want me to go back in the lounge?” he said.

  “No, of course not.” I protested, just before inspiration struck. “But you could go and get the blankets, I suppose.”

  “Awright,” he grumbled and went to retrieve the blankets. He snuggled under his covers, and I wrapped myself up in my duvet. Perfect.

  Just as I was dropping off, I heard, from under his pile of blankets, a mumbled declaration.

  “I do love you, Sophie Penhalligan.”

  Hail trumpets and angels! He had said it. He had said it.

  Steve turned toward me to gauge my reaction, which was probably quite difficult in the dark. I put an end to his uncertainty.

  “I love you, too, Steve Jones,” I responded. “It’s a pity I can’t see you.”

  “Never mind that,” he said calmly, giving me another delicious kiss. “We can do this again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that...”

  After imparting this life-changing information, he fell straight asleep.

  The next day, when he came back from work, Steve carried a bulky bag. “I’ve brought my own duvet,” he announced. “Having two duvets is obviously going to be the secret to our successful relationship.”

  I giggled, but had to agree. That next night, we went to bed in the same bed straightaway, without further ado. He, under his duvet. And me, under mine.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It was the second week of August by the time I went back to work. Steve and my relationship was almost exactly a month old. Steve saw me off in the morning, walking me to the Tube station and right down to the platform. He kept reiterating that I could easily take another week, that I shouldn’t rush back, but I brushed his concerns aside.

  As it happened, I got through the day, but only barely just. By four o’clock, I was practically on my knees. Leaving work early, I fell asleep on the Tube and nearly missed my stop. When I got home, the flat was empty and lonely, Steve having to work different shifts now that I wasn’t a round-the-clock invalid anymore.

  As I sat on the sofa, exhaustion and loneliness swept over me like a big wave. Why hadn’t I listened to Steve and stayed at home for a little longer until I was fully recovered? Feeling stupid and sorry for myself, I dragged myself into the bathroom to run a bath. I found a bottle of Orient bath foam on the side, with a label round its neck.

  I bet you’re knackered, the label said in Steve’s scrawly handwriting. Relax, and I’ll be home with dinner by seven. Love, Steve xxx.

  I sat down on the toilet—lid down, obviously—and wept. How thoughtful of my man to leave me this gorgeous bath foam. And, “home.” He would be home. My flat, our home. He had come to look at it as home.

  And! He would be bringing dinner. Oh please let it be Chinese takeaway, I prayed. That would be perfect.

  It was Chinese takeaway, and it was perfect. Steve breezed in like a walking ad for good mood and high spirits, and he swept my tiredness away with a kiss. He laid the table and dished up without drawing breath, and he had even brought some wine.

  “I think you’re allowed again, now,” he declared with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “Is that so?” I retorted meaningfully, and we both knew we weren’t talking about the wine. Steve said nothing more, but it felt like we had come to a tacit agreement about something.

  Yet our best unspoken intentions came to nothing that night. The exhaustion of the day combined with a long hot bath, lovely food and a single glass of wine proved too much for me, and I found myself snoring on the sofa before nine o’clock.

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered apologetically, but Steve laughed.

  “We’ve got all the time in the world,” he reassured me and put me to bed.

  As the week went on, I realized that I didn’t want all the time in the world. I wanted love; I wanted to make love and get sexual attention. And urgently, too. All this waiting and getting to know each other and convalescing couldn’t go on forever. I would have to persuade Steve, somehow. Properly seduce him, maybe. Take the initiative.

  My opportunity came at the weekend. Steve had gone out to get croissants early on Saturday morning and when he came back, he was nervous, somehow, antsy. He kept dropping things and made the most almighty mess with his croissant crumbs, which went everywhere. Eventually, when we had tidied up and I was dressed and ready, he suggested that we go for a spot of shopping and maybe on to his flat.

  Aha. My ears pricked up immediately. This was more like it. A visit to Steve’s flat. His bachelor pad. Virgin territory. A tiny shiver of excitement worked its way down my spine.

  As it was a beautiful, sunny day, we opted to take a bus back toward Putney and raid the delis back there. We ambled down the road together holding hands, and actually this was one of the first times we had taken our relationship for a walk. The first time, in fact, if one discounted walking to the Tube in the morning.

  We sat on the top deck of the bus together, holding hands. We got off again, holding hands, and we were still holding hands when we perused the shops.

  “You look like that cat who got the cream,” Steve commented. I smiled back and said nothing but gave his hand a big squeeze.

  Steve’s flat was on the first floor of a Victorian terrace in a leafy Putney side-street. If I had felt nervous welcoming him to my home a few weeks ago, he seemed just as nervous about showing me his place that day. After all, a flat said a lot about its owner.

  We heaved our shopping upstairs and Steve unlocked the door. “You first,” he invited, and I stepped in.

  It was spacious and bright, very similar to mine. Steve had obviously had a big tidy-round—unless he really was that neat—and there were roses in a vase on the dining table. While he busied himself in the kitchen, I had a good nosey round his bedroom. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just absorbing clues about this man whom I had fallen for so completely. His bed was tidily made, with a cuddly teddy bear nestling on one side. I picked up teddy and smelled him—yes, there it was again, that lovely Steve scent.

  One small pine wardrobe was full of his nurse’s uniforms, all neatly washed and ironed, ready for a day’s wear. The other small pine wardrobe was full of “civvy” clothes, jeans and shirts, socks and underwear. That was all. While the bedroom was quite large, Steve managed to fit all his clothes into two small wardrobes.

  Steve found me sitting on his bed. He handed me a small glass of wine and sat down next to me. “Everything to your satisfaction?” he inquired teasingly, and clinked glasses. I spluttered guiltily, having been caught snooping.

  “Sure, yes, absolutely. Sorry, I wasn’t… I was curious…just having a little look…” I stammered.

  “It’s okay,” Steve laughed easily. “After all, I’ve been all over your place, looked in every drawer, examined every photo, checked the picture rails for dust…”

  “You haven’t,” I protested, perturbed.

  “No, of course not. Well, at least not that last bit. Anyway, are you done? Shall we prepare dinner?”

  I nodded, and we moved to the kitchen. Steve had spread out our deli goodies onto various serving plates, and there was an unexpected fat lobster sitting on the draining board.

  “Lobster,” I shouted gleefully before I could stop myself. “Is that for us, for tonight? Please say yes, I adore lobster.”

  “It certainly is,” Steve confirmed happily, picking up the crustacean and examining it critically. “Only problem is… I’ve just realized I haven’t got any proper implements for getting into it.” He grinned ruefully. “I may be an ambitious romantic as well as a man with expensive tastes, but also with a distinctive lack of finesse and requisite tools.”

  I giggled into my wine. “What are you go
ing to do?”

  Steve had half disappeared into one of his cupboards. “I’m going to have to use brute force,” came the muffled response. Then he straightened up and turned around to face me, brandishing a hammer and chisel and wearing a Hannibal Lecter grin. I shrieked in mock horror and took a step back.

  “That’s not right,” I protested jokingly. “That’s cruel. You’re gonna hurt it, not to mention spoil our dinner.”

  Steve grinned even wider. “Trust me, I’m almost a doctor,” he announced and addressed himself to the lobster.

  “Never fear, we’ll get you right out of your uncomfortable shell in no time.” Steve positioned the chisel mid-shell and counted to three.

  “One….” Excessive swing of hammer but without follow-through.

  “Two…” Same again.

  “Three.” A gentle tap to the chisel with the hammer. The shell split open obediently, one neat opening right down the middle.

  “You’ve done this before,” I observed.

  “Does it show?” Steve inquired. “And no, I haven’t actually. I’ve never attempted a lobster at home before.” I could have sworn he was blushing but that might have just been the exertion. Or the concentration.

  “Right, now for the claws,” Steve continued. “What are we going to do about the claws?”

  “You haven’t got any kind of skewers or something?” I chipped in from the sideline. Steve fixed me with an appreciative look.

  “Not just a pretty face,” he drawled and went to retrieve a skewer from a kitchen drawer.

  Feeling emboldened, I topped up our glasses and it was time to eat. We sat at the dining table overlooking the garden in the back. Steve had laid on his best crockery and cutlery and lit a few candles, and it almost felt like being in a bijou little restaurant. The food was fabulous and even though my appetite was still not what it used to be, I enjoyed every mouthful. We ate in companionable silence and a definite aura of expectation enveloped us. It was heady and exciting, like a date. Which, all things considered, this actually was.

  An angry buzzing sound shook me out of my reverie and, being accosted by a big wasp, I jumped up from my chair and retreated to the far end of the room. Deprived of its target, the wasp made for the window and started bashing against it like a demented blue bottle.

  “You okay?” Steve asked, surprised.

  “Hm-nuh,” I responded noncommittally, admitting in small voice that I was terminally afraid of wasps. “They’d be in my Room 101. My own personal hell.”

  “Best get rid of it,” he announced calmly and fetched a clean glass from the kitchen, grabbing a convenient leaflet from his pile of junk mail as he went.

  The offending insect was in no mood to cooperate and Steve spent almost ten minutes trying to contain it with the glass, not helped by me shrieking helplessly in the background. A few times, the wasp escaped just before he had it and buzzed around his head angrily. Even Steve was starting to get rattled.

  Eventually, though, he managed. Pressing the glass firmly against the window pane, he slid the leaflet underneath to trap the wasp ready for eviction. However, with both hands thus engaged, he couldn’t open the window. Trusting him to not release the now extremely angry monster once more, I hastened to his side to slide the sash window up enough for him to throw Mrs. Wasp out.

  Coward that I was, fled to the far side of the room again.

  “Okay, here we go,” he announced. “One… two… three…” He took a swing and flung his hands holding the glass out the window. Whether by accident or intention he wouldn’t later say, but he let go of the whole lot at the same time. One second, he was brandishing the glass, and the next minute he turned around to me with empty hands.

  “Whoops,” he said deadpan, and I burst into helpless laughter.

  He stuck his head out the window to ensure he hadn’t accidentally knocked somebody out, but came back satisfied.

  “The glass isn’t even broken,” he informed me. “It’s landed in a flower bed. Best place for it, I suppose.”

  “You are officially my hero,” I announced, and I swear Steve glowed with pride. There was an awkward moment when we didn’t know what to do next.

  “Shall we go for a walk?” I pondered out loud, just as Steve said, “Shall we watch a movie?”

  “Movie sounds great,” I agreed readily, while Steve countered, “what a good idea, let’s go for a walk.” It was a classic sitcom moment and it carried us over the awkwardness.

  “Let’s have a movie,” I reiterated, fancying a nice little cuddle and some more wine and a little relax.

  “Okay,” Steve consented, “But you pick. I’ll make some sangria.”

  Sangria, as well. And more nibbles. Was he trying to seduce me, I wondered, or was he trying to put all that weight that I had lost back onto my now skinny frame?

  Who cared? I perused his movie collection and made a short list of three. A romantic comedy, first choice; a high brow period drama, for show; and a crime thriller, out of interest. Steve discarded the period drama as too boring and told me the thriller was a bit on the gory side. So the rom-com it was.

  “How come you’ve got these in the house, anyway?” I teased as he loaded the DVD player.

  “It’s my soft, metro side,” he told me flippantly. “Can’t you tell?” He ran his fingers through his hair in an exaggerated brushing gesture, then rubbed his non-existent sidies into shape. He sat down delicately on the sofa next to me, crossing his legs daintily at the ankles.

  “I think you got that wrong,” I snorted. “A little too over the top to be metro. You’d better be careful, before I get the wrong idea.”

  “And what would that be?” he challenged me back.

  “Well—”

  At this point, two glasses of wine and another of rather potent sangria took over. My rational side said good night and it was all naughty from there on.

  “I’d have to check, you see,” I sniggered. “Whether all that equipment is there and in functioning order.”

  Steve was momentarily lost. “What equipment?”

  “You know…” I gave a meaningful toss of my head in the general direction of his midsection. “That equipment.”

  Steve looked down at his body doubtfully.

  “Oh, that equipment,” he echoed. “Well, I dunno. It’s not been used for a while. It might be defective.”

  Judging by the way he was prominent through his trousers quite nicely now, it wasn’t defective in the slightest.

  “How would you test?” he provoked me teasingly.

  “Like so,” I countered. Before I could stop myself, I had retrieved an ice cube from my sangria and, in one swift movement, hooked my finger round his waistband and dropped the ice cube down inside his trousers and underpants.

  The effect was cataclysmic. Steve jumped up from the sofa, howling in exaggerated pain. He did a terrific little dance around the lounge, taking his trousers off to gain access to the over-cooled area. Miraculously, the bulge remained.

  Concerned for his modesty, I got up somewhat unsteadily and pulled the curtains. Steve crept up behind me and dropped an ice cube down the back of my shirt. My God, that was cold. I let out an almighty shriek and pummeled his chest with my hands.

  “Get it out, get it out,” I demanded as he got hold of my wrists and, laughingly, stopped me attacking him.

  “Now why would I do that,” he asked, “when it’s having such a wonderful effect?”

  “Because it’s co-o-old,” I wailed and then his mouth was on mine, his warm lips meeting mine, his tongue exploring gently, probingly. He let go of my wrists and put his arms around me, pulling me close and holding me tight. One of his hands wandered up my bottom and up my spine, sending electric tingles all the way along. I wrapped my arms around his body, pressing against him as hard as I could, going with my needs, feeling, experiencing.

  We were so hungry for each other, we never even made it to the sofa, let alone the bedroom. Steve laid me down gently on the thick, squa
shy rug in the middle of the lounge and lay down beside me, caressing, exploring all the while. We were truly lost in each other, in the sensation of being with each other, and when we finally came together, we created an almighty explosion.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “So…did you have sex with him?” Rachel asked conversationally while she was blowing on her cappuccino to cool it.

  We were at our local coffee shop in Tooting to resurrect our old tradition of debriefing each other on our love lives on a Saturday morning. Having overheard her very direct question, the couple at the next table gave me an amused glance. I could feel myself blushing. Instead of a response, I tried a meaningful eye-rolling, mouth-twisting kind of gesture that was meant to say, “well, yes.”

  Rachel wasn’t having it. She wanted to hear it.

  “Did you? Come on, you must have done,” she teased.

  I held my hands up in surrender. “Okay, yes, I did.” Muffled snorts from the next table indicated that the couple was still listening to our conversation.

  “It was great,” I elaborated. Inspiration struck, and I continued wickedly. “Especially when the others arrived.” Complete silence next door now. Good.

  Rach was confused. “What others?”

  I pretended coyness once more. “You know,” I said pointedly. “The others.”

  Rachel leaned back in her chair and sipped at her cappuccino. The couple at the next table sat frozen, she with her teaspoon mid-stir, he with his toast halfway up his mouth. Rachel’s eyes twinkled. She had cottoned on.

  “Oh,” she said. “The others. I see.” She took another sip of her cappuccino while she was working out how to take this charade further.

  “I thought you guys had stopped all that kinky stuff.”

  I grinned wistfully. “We had. But, you know…well, it’s quite addictive.” She next door had now put her spoon down, her eyes as big as saucers. She was trying hard not to stare, but not quite succeeding. I pretended not to notice.