Sophie's Run

by Wells, Nicky

  I howled with pain and frustration and outrage. Moreover, I felt deeply embarrassed on their behalf. Angry, humiliated, disgusted.

  Betrayed.

  My mind finally clung firmly onto that notion. I felt let down and betrayed. Betrayed, by two people whom I would have trusted with my life. By two people who had been the pillars of my adult universe. Dan and Rachel weren’t meant to be an item. They weren’t meant to have sex. Admittedly, I didn’t want Dan anymore, not in that way. But I certainly didn’t want Rachel to have him instead. I hadn’t minded the parade of women going through Dan’s house even while I was living there. They didn’t mean anything to him, or to me. But Rachel, I mused, as I was stomping furiously down the road toward my house, Rachel meant something. To him, and to me.

  I reached my flat and raced up the stairs, slamming the front door behind me. Anger was now muscling in on my emotions determinedly, doing a good job of eclipsing betrayal for the moment.

  How dare Dan sleep with Rachel? How dare he abuse her vulnerable position, allow himself to be carried away with someone who had only just got back on her feet? And Rachel, the stupid woman! How could she let herself go, knowing, as she did, that she was on the rebound? Knowing that she would end up hurt again. Because no, she wasn’t going to reform Dan. He wasn’t going to change for her, either. She would be broken-hearted once again in the space of days, weeks. How could she go there? Where were her self-respect, her common sense, her instinct for self-preservation?

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, I raged for the third time that day, thumping sofa cushions for emphasis and release.

  I had never been so beside myself with boiling emotion before. I was literally seeing red. I had always thought people were exaggerating when they talked about the red mist descending, but I was in that space now.

  And I hurt. Oh my gosh, how I hurt.

  In my despair, I tried the only recourse I had. I attempted ringing Steve again. I would apologize for my silly behavior, I would grovel, beg forgiveness and ask him to come over. I needed him to hold me and to love me and to tell me everything would be all right. Thus I rang, and I rang, and I rang, but he wouldn’t answer or wasn’t there.

  When the phone eventually shrilled in my hands while I was poised to dial Steve’s number yet again, I nearly jumped out of my skin with frayed nerves. Instinctively, my thumb lifted to press the answer button, but caller display showed that it was Rachel calling and I froze. Nah. No chance!

  I let the phone click through to answerphone and listened while Rachel prattled on cheerfully.

  Hey, sweetie! Her voice was merry and light. How I wished I couldn’t hear the undercurrent of sexual gratification oozing out from her every word. Where are you? It’s six o’clock, I thought we were having dinner? Hurry up, I’m starving!

  “Argh!”

  Faced with such blatant duplicity and deceit, I lost my rag completely. I hurled the handset, innocent though it was, against the wall with all my might. It cracked apart with a satisfying crunching noise indicating terminal damage. However, when I picked it up, the screen was still intact, so I stomped on it for good measure.

  I was shaking with fury when I collected up the various bits of broken phone from my lounge. The force of impact had also made a dent in my beautifully replastered lounge wall, and that would no doubt serve as a reminder of this day for years to come. I would have to cover it up with a picture.

  Of course, now I was phone-less. Talk about cutting off your nose. I howled again, this time with frustration at my own inability to control my anger, and resignedly stuffed the broken pieces into the bin. I would have to replace the phone, of course. And soon, too. I couldn’t really be without. It would cost. But.

  I seized on this notion gratefully. I would get a new number as well as a new phone. That way, I wouldn’t get any more calls from the two cheats. It would be a clean break. End of story. Taking a deep breath, I went to the bathroom to inspect myself. Would I look any different? Emotionally scarred, perhaps? Traumatized?

  Not really. I did look, however, as though I had stuck two fingers in a socket and got myself electrified. My hair was standing on end in an untidy mess, and my face was red and blotchy from crying. I recoiled in horror.

  The horror was amplified when I realized I was still wearing Dan’s necklace. My immediate reaction was to rip it off, tearing the delicate chain with one easy act of vengeance. But I caught myself. I recognized that I had inflicted enough damage on innocent inanimate objects already. Besides, the necklace stood for a long and happy period of my life whose memory I couldn’t, wouldn’t deny. Even in the darkest depths of my current despair, I knew I was going to regret it bitterly if I broke this precious keepsake. A phone, I could replace. This was priceless.

  With trembling hands, I managed to undo the clasp and took the necklace off carefully. I gathered it up in my right hand, looking at it through teary eyes. How had we all ended up in this big nightmare together?

  I found some wrapping tissue in my wardrobe. Very gently and feeling quite sad, I wrapped the necklace in the tissue, then put it in its original box and wrapped that, too. Finally, I pulled out my under-bed storage drawers, the ones containing humdrum debris of my life, such as lone shoes, discarded bras, candles and clothes pegs. I placed the wrapped box with its memory cargo right at the very bottom in the far corner at the foot-end, the one that was most prone to dusting up. Let the dust settle on it, that would be cathartic and symbolic. I also buried it under several layers of old clothes, and pushed the drawer back into position.

  What a truly shitty weekend. Short of death or natural disaster, I couldn’t think of many ways in which a person could have such a spectacularly crap time in two short days.

  Granted, the rawness and hurt about my fight with Steve were probably my own fault. Guilt and self-loathing didn’t exactly improve my mental state. And why wasn’t he answering my calls? How was I supposed to make up if he didn’t give me a chance?

  But the betrayal by my best friends, that nearly pushed me over the edge. Epic fail didn’t quite capture how I felt about my life. Bereft, lonely, hurt, abandoned and very stupid, that was getting nearer the truth.

  In the space of a single weekend, I had somehow lost everyone in London who meant anything to me. Owing to a ludicrous row, my new boyfriend was no longer answering my calls; goodness knew what that meant, but if he wouldn’t give me a chance to make up, it didn’t look good for us. And Dan and Rachel…well, if I never saw them again, that would be soon enough. My closest relationships, wiped out. There was nothing left for me. What was the bloody point?

  Rarely—no, never had I been so fed up. I had had enough. I wanted to plug my thumb in my mouth for comfort like a toddler and sulk like a teenager. Actually, what I really wanted was to leave all the shit behind and start over somewhere else, some place happy.

  Far too emotionally and physically exhausted to do anything coherent, I poured myself a gigantic neat whiskey, downed it, and crawled under the duvet to seek oblivion.

  PART FOUR:

  GONE

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ~Steve~

  Steve banged his glass of wine on the kitchen counter. Hell and damnation, but he was cross. This couldn’t go on. He felt like he was stuck in some kind of nightmare. And he had had enough.

  Never mind that Sophie hadn’t called him or even simply sent a text, or done anything at all. They had a good thing going on. He had waited a long time to find this emotion, true love, warts and all. He didn’t know exactly what had gone wrong, or what he was meant to do next, but he knew one thing—he wasn’t going to let this relationship go under without a fight.

  Five days of stewing on the strange argument they had had up there in Scotland. Five days of swinging from anger over self-righteous indignation to despair and worry, and all the way back again. Five long days of mulling and sulking, desperate to call her yet unable to get himself to act, his stubbornness increasing with every passing hour. Willing her to make t
he first call—what was taking her so long? After all, she had run away from him, abandoning him on that awful muddy lane. How was it possible that the weekend during which he had planned to propose to her had ended in a weeklong separation?

  Steve drained the dregs of his wine and set down the glass hard, as if to emphasize a point to himself. He took a second to gather his thoughts, grabbed his keys and left his flat. It was five o’clock. Friday rush hour was still in full swing but nonetheless, if he got lucky for once, he could be at Sophie’s flat inside half an hour, and the torment would be over. They would kiss and make up and forget the whole silly interlude. He spotted the right bus coming round the corner and made a run for it.

  Steve’s heart lifted as he walked up to Sophie’s flat. One of the sash windows was open in the living room, and he could hear the radio playing softly. She was in.

  He paused for a few seconds, collecting himself. Taking a deep breath, he rang the doorbell. Footsteps clattered down the stairs. Steve tried to smile, forcing himself to relax his facial muscles. A key was being turned in the lock, and Steve took a tiny step backwards.

  I should have brought flowers, he suddenly realized, kicking himself for being such an ass. Well, too late now. Here, the door was opening.

  “Can I help you?” the young man asked politely as Steve stared, his mouth agape. Steve only managed a stupid “um” by way of response, but he delivered it well, and several times over. “Um…. Um…. Um…”

  His mind was racing. Who was that man? What was he doing in Sophie’s flat? Did she have a brother he didn’t know about?

  “Are you all right?” the young man asked, looking concerned.

  “What is it, George?” another voice piped up and a young woman emerged beside the man, putting her arms mischievously round his back as though they had been in the middle of something else altogether. Which they probably had, Steve realized in a flash, as they were obviously a couple. His face broke into an inadvertent and genuine smile, which he cut short immediately, fearful that this young couple might consider him a bit of a moron. And anyway, the question remained of what they were doing in Sophie’s flat.

  “Who are you?” he burst out, his first coherent uttering. “Where is Sophie? May I see her?”

  The couple looked at each other.

  “Who’s Sophie?” George asked.

  “Sophie. You know, Sophie,” Steve explained, somewhat superfluously, he thought. “She lives here.”

  “Err…” George continued uncertainly. “No, she doesn’t. We live here.”

  “You live here?” Steve laughed. Surely he had misheard.

  “We do,” the young woman confirmed gently, as though she had understood that someone’s happiness was at stake here.

  “We moved in today. We haven’t even finished unpacking yet.” She giggled.

  “You moved in today?” Steve repeated dumbly. “As in, you’ve moved in here today?”

  The couple nodded, no longer certain what to make of this deranged stranger questioning them on their doorstep.

  “But…how? Why?”

  “Well, we’d been looking in the area for a while, and the agency rang this morning and…”

  Steve pounced on one critical word. “Agency? What agency?”

  “The lettings agency, of course,” the young woman elaborated. “You know, YourHome, they’re up the road…”

  “You’re renting this flat from YourHome?” Steve shouted in surprise. George immediately made to close the door, but Steve held up a conciliatory hand.

  “No, please… I’m sorry, I’m just so surprised. Perhaps I ought to explain…” He caught his breath, gathering his thoughts. “My name is Steve. The last time I was here, which was last Friday, my girlfriend Sophie lived here. She owns this place.” The couple was listening. Encouraged, Steve ploughed on.

  “We had a big row at the weekend. Actually, it was stupid and petty. But I’ve not seen her since, and she hasn’t called me or texted me. Please,” he pleaded. “Please. I want to make up with her. If you have any idea where she’s gone…?”

  Mute shakes of heads signified that they didn’t know. Undeterred, Steve ploughed on. “Well, if you hear from her, tell her Steve was here, and that I love her. Do you hear? I love her?”

  To his great surprise, he had tears in his eyes. All the anger and crossness at the unfairness of the situation, of Sophie’s behavior, had dissipated. What was left was worry and despair.

  Gone. She had well and truly moved out. She hadn’t even bothered to tell him.

  Utterly confused, Steve turned away from Sophie’s front door and retraced his steps to the bus stop. He had set off with such high hopes and now he was facing the worst nightmare ever. Where had she gone? What was he to do? What did it mean for them?

  “The end, you idiot,” Steve informed himself dryly and somewhat cynically. Nobody heard him, so there was nobody there to contradict him or soothe him. And yet, even as he said it, he couldn’t get himself to believe it. If only he could find her, talk to her, hold her.

  Chapter Forty

  ~Rachel~

  With an impatient sigh, Rachel put down the freebie newspaper she hadn’t been reading on the seat next to her. She worked on a quality newspaper, after all, what was she doing leafing through another editor’s random selection of headlines? Feeling restless and dissatisfied, and needing to do something with her hands as the home-bound train hurtled through the dark tunnels, she rummaged through her handbag until she located her mobile phone. Even though it had no reception underground, she opened her messages folder and checked her inbox. All week, she had been waiting for a message from Sophie, some sign of life explaining why she hadn’t turned up for dinner on Monday night, but there was nothing. Complete radio silence.

  Sophie hadn’t answered her phone that night and when Rachel had dropped round her flat at about eight p.m., it had been in darkness. No response at the door. No one there.

  On Tuesday morning, Sophie had turned up at the office bright and early, if somewhat pale-looking, and had closeted herself with Rick for two hours. After the inexplicable and quite unprecedented private meeting, she had left and she hadn’t been back in the office since. And she had completely ignored Rachel during her lightning visit to their shared workplace. Not a smile, not a nod. Nothing.

  Rachel was perturbed, and deeply worried. She had mentally revisited their chats over the previous month or so and had noted with a shock how infrequently they saw each other. In fact, the last time had been when she, Rachel, had dropped heavy hints about her new man. Not that he really was her new man, anyway.

  Rachel couldn’t really explain to herself what game she and Dan had been playing, and they had both felt quite weird about it in the end, so they had had a few good times and then called it a day. It was over.

  Suddenly paranoid, Rachel wondered whether Sophie had guessed. It was a long shot, but…

  Nah. She was simply getting herself all worked up over her friend’s bizarre behavior, that was all. There was no way Sophie could know. There were no clues, no traces, no overlap. Except for that one time on Monday when Sophie had called her when Rachel had been with Dan. But Dan had frozen in horror and been quiet as a mouse. Sophie simply couldn’t know. And yet—

  “Argh!” Rachel growled to herself, voicing her frustration and worry, never mind that she wasn’t alone in the carriage. It helped, and it felt good, so she had another go.

  “Mhrrrrwgh.”

  Better still.

  The Tube was finally pulling into Tooting Broadway. Rachel alighted, and caught a quick glance of the station clock. It was ten-thirty p.m. She had worked the late Friday shift and she felt exhausted, yet she suddenly knew with absolute clarity that she wanted to, nay, needed to see Sophie. Now. There and then. Rachel intended to come clean and clear the air, plead temporary madness and beg forgiveness.

  Instead of walking home to her own flat, she directed her steps toward Sophie’s street.

  Thank goodness, t
here were lights, Sophie was home. Rachel’s heart lifted as she neared Sophie’s front door. She was steeling herself for an instant rejection, a door slammed in her face, but she had her first line ready. She would scream it through the letter box, or stand outside the flat and shout to make herself heard, until Sophie let her in. Over a glass of wine or a cup of tea, she would explain.

  Full of nerves and ugly, wriggly maggots playing havoc in her tummy, Rachel rang the doorbell. She raised a conciliatory hand in anticipation of Sophie’s reaction, and fixed her best smile on her face. There were footsteps coming down the stairs; there, the door was being unlocked.

  “I’m sorry I slept with Dan,” Rachel blurted out before the door was even fully open. “I swear, I’m so sorry. If you just let me—”

  The “in” froze on her lips as she realized that she was staring at a young woman who wasn’t Sophie. Rachel took a step back and ran her hands through her hair in a gesture of embarrassment. Who was this woman?

  “Sorry,” she smiled apologetically. “You must think I’m a lunatic. I’m looking for Sophie.” She waited for a reaction but the young woman only stood and stared. Blithely, Rachel continued.

  “I’m Rachel. Sophie’s best friend.” She gave an uncertain laugh. “Well, I hope so. If I could just explain… Is she in? May I see her?”

  Heavy footfall thundered down Sophie’s stairs and a young man materialized next to the young woman, taking her hand protectively.

  “Why’d’y’open the door, Maisie?” he whispered impatiently, half turning to face Rachel.

  “May I ask what’s going on here?” he uttered.

  “Um, no,” Rachel retorted testily. “But may I ask what’s going on here? What are you doing in my friend’s flat? And where is she, anyway?”

  George gave a big sigh. “What is it with this flat?” he asked of Maisie, clearly not expecting an answer, because he addressed Rachel immediately.