Sophie's Run

by Wells, Nicky

  Duh.

  “Of course it bloody is,” I snapped, knowing that I was being unreasonable but unable to help myself. “Will you at least help me up?”

  “Why is it my bloody fault?” Steve yelled, seriously enraged. “I didn’t trip you over. You managed that all by yourself.”

  “Yeah, because you startled me when you shouted at me,” I retorted angrily.

  “Bloody woman,” Steve muttered under his breath, calmer now. For an instant, I thought he was going to pull me up, but hold on, no! There was no help forthcoming.

  He turned away and walked up the lane, dragging his case behind him and leaving me in the mud, my suitcase standing in a puddle.

  How dare he!

  Ten types of anger were roiling in my chest as I struggled to my feet ungracefully, the mud making disgusting sucking sounds as it reluctantly relinquished my body from its slimy hold. My coat, my trousers, my hair—all ruined.

  I lost all rational thought and charged after Steve, ramming into his back at full pelt. He nearly, but not quite, fell. He still wouldn’t stop walking, so I grabbed his hand and spun him around to face me.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” I spat. “What do you think you’re doing, leaving me there in the mud?”

  “What does it look like?” he responded testily. “I’m going to look for somewhere dry, somewhere where we can eat.”

  I dimly noted his use of the plural pronoun, but I didn’t take the bait.

  “You can’t abandon me here,” I shouted, pummeling his chest with my fists.

  “I’m not abandoning you,” Steve defended himself patiently. “With that look on your face, you were never going to accept my help. If anything, you were going to pull me down.”

  I opted for denial and indignation. “Of course not,” I protested vehemently. “Why would you even think that?”

  For a millisecond, Steve looked dumbfounded but quickly recovered. He laughed softly. “I know you too well, my love.”

  “Don’t ‘my love’ me, you…you…” I started, searching for a suitable insult, but Steve clamped his hand over my mouth.

  “Now, now,” he tried to soothe, “don’t say anything you’re going to regret.” He tried to smile and his face almost relaxed, but I didn’t reciprocate.

  Hell and damnation, I seethed inwardly. If I wanted a blazing row, I deserved a blazing row.

  We were locked in this unhappy half-embrace for quite some time before Steve let go. Feeling a red rage at his treatment of me and fueled by frustration and disappointment at the miserable outcome of this “romantic” getaway, I grabbed my case and, head held as high as possible, mud trickling down my back, I splattered down the lane away from Steve without looking back.

  Within minutes, I came to a junction where the abysmal mud-path joined a proper tarmacked road. There was even a signpost nailed to a tree directing hapless drivers and joyless walkers back to Pitlochry. It was only ten miles. I swallowed down my despair and sneaked a look behind me. There was no sign of Steve.

  I went over to the sign post and stood by it, taking shelter under the tree and deliberately facing away from the muddy lane. If Steve did come after me, I wanted him to have a moment’s worth of panic, finding me gone. Truth be told, I was awfully mixed up and confused. Somewhere at the back of my mind I was dimly aware that none of this was exactly Steve’s fault. Perhaps, I thought, I had better go back.

  I straightened up, ready to retrace my muddy steps. Still partially hidden by the tree, I suddenly spotted a Range Rover turning out of the mud road. For a fraction of a second, I got a full frontal view of both driver and passenger. The driver meant nothing to me, but the passenger was Steve. I was stunned with disbelief. What were the odds of a car coming down that lane, of all lanes, today, of all days, picking up Steve along the way, but not me?

  With a great lump in my throat, I tried to draw attention to myself. I attempted a wave, but my coat snagged on a branch and the movement was cut short. By the time I had disentangled the sleeve, the car had turned fully and progressed down the tarmacked road toward Pitlochry, its red tail lights bobbing up and down as it traversed the ubiquitous potholes. They seemed to be mocking me as they whisked Steve ever further away from me and closer to civilization.

  Now bloody what?

  After watching Steve zoom down the road in a dry, comfortable and speedy car, I got angry all over again. How dare he leave me in the wilderness?

  Eventually, I started walking along the road toward Pitlochry. The going was slow but I figured that I would get there in about three hours if no lift came my way. My tummy was rumbling most impressively, reminding me that I hadn’t had breakfast, and I would have gladly given my life savings for a hot cup of tea.

  Fifteen minutes later, a car did come along the road heading toward Pitlochry. The driver offered me a lift but insisted on covering her passenger seat with a plastic sheet that she appeared to keep handy in the boot for just these occurrences. Having taken a cursory look at myself in the mirror, I hadn’t been able to blame her.

  She dropped me at Pitlochry station where I had half expected Steve to wait for me. That, I had concluded during the short drive, would be the redeeming moment. Perhaps he simply hadn’t seen me under that tree. Actually, there was no way he could have seen me. So, I reasoned with myself, he had probably kept an eye out for me the entire way to the train station. And not having found me there, I had somewhat illogically assumed that he would have waited for me. Surely he would have sensed that I was behind him, not ahead?

  Evidently, he had not. In fact, he had probably consulted the timetable, seen that he had only barely missed a train to Edinburgh, and drawn the only logical conclusion from his perspective—that I had left without waiting for him. He had to have caught the next train, dieseling ahead of me and leaving me behind in this little place.

  Shaking with cold and wet, and beyond feeling anything much else, I took myself off to the restrooms and performed an emergency change of clothing. Somewhat more presentable, I went to the dismal café to have a spot of breakfast and then caught the next train out of there.

  A selection of fast and slow trains later, I eventually made it home, taking only about ten hours. I was numb with confusion and shock.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Unsurprisingly, I woke feeling shattered and miserable on the bank holiday Monday morning. The petty argument between Steve and me weighed heavily on soul. There was a leaden taste in my mouth and my tummy churned hot and heavy.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I berated myself for letting a misunderstanding escalate beyond belief. Knowing that this was in large part due to me overreacting didn’t help matters at all. I added guilt to the mix of unhappy emotions as I stomped restlessly around the flat.

  “Why couldn’t you have picked me up and given me a hug,” I demanded angrily of an absent Steve. “That was all it took. I was tired and disappointed, and I knew you were too, but still, you’re the man, c’mon, you were supposed to be in charge, right?”

  My reasoning was shaky and I cringed at the self-righteousness of it all. How vulnerable human interaction could be; how easily a situation could spin out of control without either party meaning to.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I ranted at myself once more as I stomped restlessly around the flat. What was I supposed to do?

  “And why is he not ringing me?” Remorse at my own pitiful behavior was beginning to morph into anger at his lack of empathy when the phone stubbornly remained silent.

  At lunchtime, I crumbled and tried to ring Steve. He ought to have been at home. He wasn’t scheduled to work, I was certain of it. Yet there was no answer on his landline, and his mobile went straight to voicemail.

  “Rrrrgh!” I raged, then told myself to calm down. He was entitled to sulk. He probably thought I had actually run away. If only I hadn’t sheltered out of sight under the bloody tree!

  Becoming ever more agitated, I called Rachel. When I couldn’t get hold of h
er either, frustration drove me out of the flat and toward her house, which was only a short five minute walk away. Once in front her black front door, I rang the bell incessantly for five minutes. Rachel wasn’t in.

  “Bloody hell!” Tears of misery and self-pity sprang to my eyes. “Where is everybody when you need them?”

  I desperately needed to unburden myself to someone. I needed advice. Still standing in front of Rachel’s house, I tried ringing her again and this time she answered.

  “What’s up?” was her familiar greeting, although her voice sounded slightly breathless.

  “Can I talk to you? Can we meet? I need to talk to someone.” My misery burst out of me in great waves. Nonetheless, there was a small silence on the other end.

  “Sure,” Rachel eventually responded, somewhat hesitantly. “How about…how about dinner? I’m not home right now but I could be back by…”

  Clicking and swooshing noises suggested that she had covered up the handset as though she were talking with someone else. I felt even more alone and bereft. And mystified—what was with the secrecy?

  “I could be back by six. How’s about a nice takeaway at my place, like the old days?” Rachel sounded cheerful and jolly, but her tone struck me as just a tad over the top. False. Put on. I swallowed. I was probably imagining things.

  “Okay. Six is good. See you then,” I agreed and rang off. Damn and triple damn. How was I to kill the hours until six o’clock?

  I started walking back toward my flat but found myself turning right toward the Tube station rather than left into The Crescent. I desperately, desperately wanted to see a friendly face. Perhaps I would drop in on Dan.

  Ha, fat chance, a little voice in my head told me as I sat on the Tube hurtling toward Clapham. He won’t be in. More fool you, you ought to try ringing him at least, give him some warning. In case he has a visiting lady friend, or something.

  I smiled ruefully to myself. Good point. I would phone him as soon as I got off the train. And if he was busy, I would simply amuse myself taking a walk on Clapham Common until it was time to meet Rachel.

  Alas, my mobile had run out of battery when I retrieved it outside the Tube station. It was one hundred percent completely dead. I weighed my options. It was probably a bad idea to visit Dan unannounced. Yet my need for human contact, for conversation, for a friendly face, was so overpowering that I couldn’t get myself to abandon the idea. My feet started walking as though with a will of their own and took me down the familiar streets.

  There it was, Dan’s house. Looking very much the same as it always had. All the windows were closed, and the house had a shut-up kind of feel to it, but that didn’t mean anything. After all, Dan could be in his studio. I stepped up to the front door and rang the bell.

  After waiting uncertainly for five minutes, I rang the doorbell another time, even longer. The sound was clearly audible through the front door.

  I chewed my bottom lip; I should probably go. If he wasn’t in, he wasn’t in. Yet a flat, sinking feeling spread through my stomach at the thought of remaining on my own for the afternoon. Perhaps I would stick a note to his door and he might call me later? I latched onto the idea like a drowning woman.

  Rummaging through my handbag for a pen and a piece of paper, my fingers closed around a set of keys. Familiar keys, but not mine.

  Oh my gosh, I still had Dan’s keys.

  My gut reaction was to let myself in. After all, Dan had never minded before. Yet technically, I ought to have returned the keys a long time ago. Would he mind if I used them? What if he was out and returned to find me lounging on his sofa? Would that still be okay, like it had always been?

  Get a grip, I admonished myself. This is Dan we’re talking about. He’ll be fine. The last thing he would want for you to do is lurk around outside his front door.

  That settled it. I inserted the first key into its lock and was rewarded with an encouraging thunk when the key couldn’t turn the mortise mechanism. Somebody was home. I used the Yale key to disengage the snap lock and stepped in. By force of habit, I put the keys in the bowl on the side table right there in the hall where they always lived, and I took a moment to listen for any signs of life.

  The house was quiet. It smelled of furniture polish, fresh laundry, and Dan’s aftershave. Feeling like an unlawful intruder, I ambled through the downstairs first but Dan was not there. Next, I tried the studio, but the door was wide open and there was no sign of recent activity.

  Very odd.

  Suddenly, I was gripped by an irrational fear. What if he had slipped in the bath and was lying right at this moment unconscious on the bathroom floor? He might have cracked his head. I could almost envisage the blood seeping from a gaping wound.

  Anxiety constricted my throat, and I couldn’t call out, much as I wanted to. It was like one of those nightmares when you’re desperate to shout, scream, warn somebody, get help—and yet you can’t.

  So instead of calling out, I went upstairs to investigate.

  Halfway up the stairs, I realized that the house wasn’t empty. I heard a voice, a weird moaning. Dan had fallen and was in pain.

  I took the remaining steps two at a time. At the top of the stairs, I halted, trying to get my bearings, listening to where his moaning was coming from.

  The bedroom, it seemed. He had obviously managed to drag himself in there. Of course, he was trying to get to the phone. My heart was beating furiously with fear at what I would find.

  I took a few more steps forward, then stopped again. The bedroom door was only half shut, and Dan’s voice was clearly audible now. He was moaning, but he wasn’t in pain. He seemed to be talking. There was another voice, as well.

  A very familiar voice.

  A female voice.

  In slow motion, I found myself dragging my feet across the polished wooden floorboards, keen now not to make a sound myself. Without the shadow of a doubt, I knew what I would find but I couldn’t help myself. Hesitating at the door, I eventually nudged it open far enough to see.

  I had an immediate view of Dan’s super-king-size bed.

  Dan was in it. Or should I have said, on it.

  In a very compromising position. He hadn’t seen me, but I could see enough to notice that he was wearing his special necklace. Whose companion-piece I was still wearing myself, never mind I had Steve now. It was part of me, and I had never taken it off, really. Weird, how my mind fixed on that tiny detail with utter clarity.

  Dan was lying on his back, his legs moving rhythmically, his arms thrust high behind his head. Between the white half-moons of his buttocks, a pale, hairy expanse of scrotum showed, winking at me. Hello Sophie, fancy seeing you here. Care to join us?

  The absurdity of it all didn’t escape me. Human beings mating—they looked kind of primal, in a grotesque kind of way.

  And.

  On top of Dan—

  I could only see her back, but I recognized the voice, and the tangle of tussled, sex-goddess hair.

  Rachel.

  Oh my God, Rachel.

  She was riding him hard. Her pert little buttocks molded perfectly into the curve of Dan’s groin.

  Time slowed down to a crawl in a way I had never experienced before. I could hear my breathing in my own ears, absurdly echoing the panting coming from the copulating couple. Their bodies were moving as one as they were approaching a climax. Just how I knew that I wasn’t sure. I had never even watched a porn movie in my life—it wasn’t my thing.

  What I was witnessing now; it was sick. It was more than sick. It made me want to vomit.

  My best friends—both of them. Dan and Rachel. Together. Really together. As up close and personal as it was possible to be.

  It was revolting. My heart beat in my throat and my head was spinning. Hot tears pricked at the back of my eyes but wouldn’t come.

  Rooted to the spot for what seemed to be an eternity, I suddenly came to and fled. Down the stairs, through the front door, pull it shut softly, don’t let them know you
were here, you saw; don’t give them the satisfaction.

  Up the road now, quick, quick, don’t cry, don’t cry, you can cry at home. Get to the Tube, don’t be seen, just get home. Just get home.

  The tears I had been holding back could be restrained no more. By the time I sat down on a train, my T-shirt was soaked with teardrops, but I didn’t care.

  How could they? How could they? My best friends. Dan and Rachel. Rachel, in particular. Was Dan her mystery man? I wondered. Was he the one she had been so coy about?

  I was sobbing now, nearly howling, making quite the spectacle of myself. Thank goodness I was nearly home.

  Get a grip, I told myself sternly. And anyway, so bloody what? You’re not seeing Dan, and Rachel’s not seeing anyone, and you are definitely in love with Steve, aren’t you?

  Damn the rational side of my brain, always playing devil’s advocate, always speaking up at inopportune moments.

  I don’t care, I mentally shot back at myself. I don’t care. I love Steve, and I don’t care if Dan shags anything that moves. That’s not why I’m upset. But Dan and Rachel? Rachel? Of all people, Rachel? It’s sick.

  SICK.

  Sick sick sick sick sick.

  I took a deep breath. On autopilot, I had alighted from the train and exited the Tube. I was racing up my road and I had inadvertently started talking to myself, talking out loud, hissing that last utterance with all the venom I could muster. A terrified a passerby took one look at me and changed to the other side of the road. I needed to calm down.

  And anyway, why should it be sick? Why shouldn’t they make out?

  Because—

  Well, because—

  I didn’t know why. I couldn’t explain it, not rationally. Other than that it was like finding your mum bedding your teacher, or something. Two people you implicitly trusted, but who should never conjoin in lust or any other manner, suddenly doing just that and pulling the rug out from under you with one swift sleight of hand.

  Nicely done, really.

  Congratulations, you two.