Sophie's Run

by Wells, Nicky

  “Was Big Dick there?” Rachel demanded randomly.

  “Absolutely,” I deadpanned. “And Bender. And Pussy.”

  Bender? Rachel mouthed in amusement, but kept going. “Gosh, I’m sorry I missed it. Where did you do it this time?”

  “In the cellar,” I was quick to respond. I had this worked out in my head now.

  “Which one?” Rach asked, as though there was a whole array of S&M places we were both used to frequenting. “The one with the chains and the spikes, or the dark room?”

  “The wet one. With the water boards,” I shot back, totally nonchalant. Rachel drew in a fake breath of horror. “Not the wet room?” she stage-whispered.

  A vicious clattering next door suggested that she had knocked over her teacup. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that he put down his toast and got up. Throwing me an extremely dirty look, he pulled his girlfriend to her feet and they left, a picture of moral outrage and disgust.

  Rachel and I burst out laughing before the door had closed behind them.

  When all was relatively quiet again, Rachel returned her attention to the subject at hand.

  “So, did you sleep with him?” she asked once more.

  “I did,” I admitted, and felt my face splitting into a huge grin. “Of course I did. It was wonderful.”

  “Tell me everything,” Rachel invited, as she would have done of old. I opened my mouth to relate the whole lovely evening but changed my mind. Suddenly, I found that I didn’t want to share every last detail, as I once would have done. Stalling for time by taking a big bite out of my breakfast deluxe roll, I pondered this change.

  One reason was clearly that I didn’t want to make Rachel uncomfortable. But the other reason was quite simply that I didn’t feel the need. How to proceed?

  “It was wonderful,” I reiterated cautiously. “It was warm. And loving. And exciting.” I smiled at the recollection.

  “You are all loved-up,” Rachel observed, also smiling widely. “It’s okay, you don’t have to share the gory detail. I can see you don’t want to.”

  I swallowed a big gulp of latte.

  “I’m sorry,” I ventured apologetically. “It’s not that I don’t want to share, it’s not like that. It’s just—”

  “—not necessary?” Rachel offered. I stared at her. How could she know how I felt?

  “It’s okay,” Rachel said again. “I can tell by the look on your face that you are happy, and safe, and secure. This relationship with Steve, it’s doing you good. You’re glowing from the inside. I don’t really need to know anything more. Besides which, it’s none of my business anyway. I’m only after gossip, that’s all.”

  I tried to take all of this in. It wasn’t just me who had moved on from the girlie tattler that I once was. Rachel had changed, too, for reasons of her own. A tiny part of me felt a pang of nostalgia for all the giggles we had shared over dissecting each other’s love lives. The rest of me realized that we had been bound to grow out of that sooner or later. And we were definitely on the late side as it was.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes. Eventually, Rach reached out to touch my hand.

  “I’m so happy for you,” she said sincerely. “And it gives me faith that you two found each other; it means there’s hope for the rest of us.”

  I smiled and didn’t know what to say.

  “And do you know what’s the biggest tell of all?” Rach mused idly, for her own benefit as well as mine. I shook my head. “The biggest tell is that we haven’t speculated about how Steve and you are going to, you know, develop. Whether and when you’ll get married, or something. That’s a given, and you know it, and he knows it, and I know it, too. And that tells me everything I need to know.”

  “You make it sound like I’m lost, or going away, or something,” I blurted out, suddenly feeling all wrong. “I’m still me, I can still go and have a good time and all that.”

  “Indubitably,” Rach concurred. “But we’re moving on, both of us, and that’s good. That’s life.”

  This new, philosophical side of Rach was a bit of a surprise. She had always been such a live wire. Only a little while ago, she had given me the third degree about going to Berlin with Dan, sounding quite like her old self. Today she came across so very serene and calm, and quite unlike herself.

  “Are you okay?” I found myself asking gently, carefully.

  “I’m fine,” she smiled. “No, really. I’m good.”

  And that was when it dawned on me.

  “No!” I exclaimed, examining her closely. “You have met someone, haven’t you?”

  Rachel blushed.

  “You have, too,” I continued triumphantly. “Go on, your turn to tell.” But she clammed up instead.

  “I’ve only met him once or twice,” she said evasively. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “You’re bullshitting me,” I accused her, correctly as it would turn out later, much later. “‘Once or twice,’ that’s a big difference, and you know it. So…what is it, once, or twice?”

  Rachel sighed theatrically. I put her discomfort down to the fact that her dramatic break-up with Jordan wasn’t even two months old, and that perhaps she felt I was going to judge her to be on the rebound.

  “Twice,” she acknowledged shyly.

  “And? What’s he like? What’s his name?” So I wasn’t quite over the gossipy stage after all.

  “He’s tall, with brown hair—quite handsome,” she elaborated, seeming a touch cagey.

  “And? His name?” I prompted again. Surely I was allowed to know his name? I would refrain from asking about their sex life, but—

  There was an infinitesimal hesitation before Rachel offered his name. “Charles.”

  I stared in disbelief. Realizing all the while that I was being terribly judgmental, I nonetheless couldn’t help thinking that a “Charles” didn’t sound like a Rachel kind of guy at all.

  “I call him Charlie,” she added as an afterthought.

  Ah, now, Charlie; that I could see.

  “How did you meet? And when?” I was utterly intrigued.

  There was that hesitation again. Followed by an evasive hand-flapping gesture. What was going on? Then I had an idea. “Do I know him?”

  “No!” This, too fast and too forceful. Rachel was looking decidedly shifty, and I knew she wasn’t telling me the whole story. Whatever it was, for some reason she was uncomfortable filling me in.

  “Okay, okay,” I backed down quickly. “Just tell me that I haven’t upset you in some way. ‘Cause you would tell me, normally. Please say that it’s not that you don’t trust me anymore?”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you anymore,” Rachel repeated obligingly. “It’s complicated.”

  Oh gosh, not that old chestnut. Now I was having visions of wives, pre-existing children, messy divorces, guys twenty years her senior.

  “I will tell you, soon. I need to work out a few things first,” Rachel cut into my thoughts. “The real question is, do you trust me?”

  “Of course I do,” I assured her without hesitation.

  We left it there, even though it was a bit of an effort not to worry away at this revelation. Once upon a time, I would have been merciless, nagging until she cracked. Likewise, she would have done the same to me. Whether it was out of respect for our newfound grown-up-ness, or whether something told me to back off for another reason, I wasn’t sure, but I let it be.

  We paid up and split up. Not immediately, of course—that would have meant we had had a disagreement of some sorts. No, we ambled down the High Street, engaging in a little window shopping, and chatting away quite amiably. But when we came to the crossroads where it would normally have been a question of “your flat or mine?” we went our separate ways.

  I should have persisted. Something had come between us and I should have given this whole interlude more thought. But I didn’t, and I didn’t allow myself to worry. Whatever it was, I was bound to find out eventually.

  PART
THREE:

  BETRAYAL

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The weekend before the August bank holiday, Steve suggested that we should go sightseeing.

  “Let’s be tourists,” he had proposed. “Let’s do London, in a day.”

  I chortled. “But we live here. Why would we ‘do London?’”

  “Because,” he challenged, “do you ever bother to see the sights? The London Eye?”

  I shook my head.

  “The Tower? Tower Bridge?”

  More shakes of the head; I was getting the point.

  “Come on,” he coaxed. “Let’s do this. It’ll be fun.”

  I laughed. As far as dates went, this was almost the anti-date. There wasn’t a promise here anywhere of a posh restaurant, sophistication and elegance. And yet it sounded like my kind of thing.

  So there we were, on a Saturday morning, wandering down Baker Street in double step. We took the ubiquitous hop-on-hop-off bus tour and let ourselves be driven around London for an hour. Steve had stocked up on gummy bears and diet cola, and we felt like naughty teenagers once again, snacking away under the disapproving stare of the commentator. We got off at the South Bank where we ate cheesy pizza bought from a street vendor, sitting on a bench overlooking the Thames and watching the world go by. Afterwards, Steve bought me a huge stick of candy floss from a nearby stall, and I thought, to hell with my waistline.

  The queue for the London Eye was long as ever, but Steve had pre-booked tickets. This “on the hop” tourist expedition wasn’t as spontaneous as he had made it out to be. I was thrilled, and flattered, and simply deliriously happy. Once aboard our pod with a handful of other people, I stepped up to the railing expectantly. Steve hugged me close, and we stood together as London dipped lower and lower beneath us.

  We must have been about halfway up when Steve suddenly turned mildly green, swallowed deeply and announced he had to sit down. My exhilaration turned into dismay as I imagined greasy pizza being returned, right here, without fresh air or any buckets. Still, I sat down with Steve, holding his hand and patting his back.

  “Are you all right?” I managed in between deep sympathy breaths. Keep it cool and steady, I advised myself. You can do this.

  “Yes, fine,” Steve uttered, looking slightly better.

  I must have stared a question mark at him, because he suddenly offered an explanation.

  “I get terrible acrophobia,” he stated. “I can’t stand so close to the window, now that we’re so high up.”

  I was incredulous. “You have fear of heights?” I repeated. He nodded, embarrassed now. I suppressed a giggle. “And you booked a trip on the London Eye because—?”

  Steve shrugged. “I thought you’d enjoy it.”

  Love him.

  “I am enjoying it,” I confirmed quickly. “But, you didn’t need to do this. If you’re that afraid of heights.”

  “I know,” Steve patiently reiterated. “I know I didn’t have to do this. But I wanted to. For you. To see your face, when you’re all happy, and excited, and relaxed. That’s what I came to see.”

  “I’ve got to give you a kiss,” I announced, and followed through directly. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” Steve grinned, relieved and buoyed by the fact that we were nearly down again. An image flashed through my mind of me and Dan visiting the TV tower in Berlin.

  “I guess you wouldn’t go up a TV tower with me,” I ventured, somewhat thoughtlessly.

  “Probably not,” Steve concurred. “Nor the Eiffel tower. But there are plenty of other things we can do. And it was worthwhile coming, trust me.”

  He put his arm around me as we stepped out of the pod, and I hugged him as tightly as I could.

  “What now?” Steve demanded eagerly. “I’m all in your hands.”

  To be perfectly honest, doing the tourist trail had completely exhausted me. Just the sheer amount of people we had braved today, pushing, shoving, talking every language under the sun, taking photos—I had had enough. Steve’s exuberant and inadvertently suggestive phrase gave me an idea.

  “Let’s go home,” I boomed. Lowering my voice a little, I whispered, “let’s make mad, passionate lurve.”

  Steve chuckled. “What, before dinner? How very naughty.”

  And naughty we were.

  Okay, so there wasn’t a cellar involved, not a dark one or a wet one, and no chains or spikes. But Steve led me to the lounge as soon as we got in. He closed the curtains and stood me in the middle of the room.

  “Hm. What have we here?” he muttered, and I went hot and gooey in the loin region. He was undressing me with his eyes, but I wanted him to undress me properly, please!

  Steve took his time, stalking around me while I didn’t move. “Take your trousers off, now,” he said, nicely but firmly.

  So I did.

  “And your shirt.”

  All too soon, I stood naked in the lounge, with him still fully dressed. The imbalance of power proved unexpectedly exciting.

  Steve stepped up to me and tweaked my nipples. The effect was electrifying, and I gave an almighty groan. I tugged at the button of his shirt, and he slapped me gently on the wrist, grinning widely and mischievously.

  “Now, now, young lady, not so hasty,” he joked, and I groaned some more.

  He stood behind me and ran his hands up and down my back, and soon I was covered in goosebumps of pleasure. He cradled me in his arms as if taking me from behind, and I could feel his arousal pressing into the small of my back.

  “I believe we have wood,” I giggled, citing a teenage movie from way back when.

  “We certainly have,” Steve confirmed.

  I tried to turn around, eager for a kiss, but Steve held me in a tight arm lock.

  “I’m enjoying your behind,” he murmured into my ear, nibbling gently at the lobe, then giving it a playful bite.

  “And I—”

  “Don’t speak,” Steve admonished me. “It’s not your turn to speak. Be quiet.” He pressed harder into my back to emphasize his point.

  I obeyed, part willing, part unable to do anything else.

  “Good. That’s good. Now bend over.”

  “Bend over what?” I wasn’t sure what he expected me to do.

  “Just bend over and stop talking.” Steve spoke in a harsh voice but I could tell that he was brimming with hilarity. Goodness knew what had got into him, but now he seemed to be struggling to stay in his role. He relinquished his hold on my upper body and I bent over and touched my toes. Head firmly tucked upside down between my knees, I could see Steve’s still be-jeaned legs planted firmly behind me. The absurdity of the situation made me giggle.

  Steve lightly smacked my bare bottom. “This is really no laughing matter!”

  Of course I dutifully collapsed in a heap.

  “Oi, you, wench,” Steve objected, towering above me and clearly also brimming with mirth. “That’s not supposed to happen. You’re supposed to…

  I jumped to my feet and turned on him, raising myself up to my full height and trying to meet his gaze levelly.

  “Yes?” I inquired in a matronly voice. “What is it that I am supposed to do, young lad?”

  Steve snorted through his nose. “I don’t think this kinky role play is working for me,” he admitted abruptly before he lost his grip and guffawed loudly.

  “Me neither,” I agreed. “I do like it but it’s not doing it for me today. I’m just too impatient, I guess.”

  I ripped the shirt off his back while I spoke and he took the cue. We fell onto the sofa, conjoined at the hip, while he was still struggling out of his jeans.

  Our love making was swift and intense and overwhelming, and so addictive that we had another turn after dinner. This brand of passion was new and intoxicating to me, and I simply couldn’t get enough of it.

  Steve and I, we had become lovers, soul mates, best friends. We had been together for six weeks. Not a word had been said about our future or about our plans. The M word ha
dn’t been mentioned. And yet it was there, between us, as plain as a fourteen-foot billboard. The truth, the obvious. We would get married. We would have children. It was apparent from our every interaction. I couldn’t really explain it, but we had mated for life, and we both knew it.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The following Friday night, Steve arrived at my place with a glossy brochure and a rucksack full of clothes. He was excited like a little boy on Christmas Eve.

  “Look,” he said. “I got us a surprise getaway.”

  He opened up the glossy leaflet and showed me pictures of a grand old castle with big stately rooms plushly furnished. One featured an enormous four-poster bed with a roaring log fire in the background. There was an indoor swimming pool, a sauna and a spa room, as well as a fancy restaurant.

  “There’s a beautiful nature reserve round the loch, and we can go for long walks by the water, have pub lunches, come back, rest, sleep, have dinner. It will be wonderful.”

  His eyes shone, and it was impossible to resist his enthusiasm. I took the brochure out of his hands and looked through it. Steve watched me avidly but said nothing more.

  It did look inviting, the perfect place for a getaway.

  “It says you can go horse-riding,” I latched onto a random detail.

  “Yes, it does; you can,” Steve concurred eagerly. “Would you like to?”

  “I would love to,” I said cautiously, “only I haven’t actually ridden for years. The last time, I was about thirteen, and I only learned for three weeks or so.”

  “Never mind,” he gushed. “I can’t ride either. We can learn together.” He took my hand and squeezed it encouragingly.

  I let the riding hang for a moment and focused on a more pressing question.

  “Where is this place?” I quizzed him. “And how much is this going to cost?”

  Steve put his index finger over my mouth in a shush gesture. “This luxury getaway castle is up in Scotland, and don’t you worry how much it costs. You’re getting it on the health service.”

  “I am?” I exclaimed, utterly perplexed. “Why? How?”