by Nicky Wells
Sophie's Turn
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Epilogue
Praise
“Outstanding debut novel!”
~Kim the Book Worm
“Couldn't put it down—once-in-a-lifetime romance!”
~Jessie D.
“…very well written and within a few pages the characters had come to life. … I look forward to this author's next book. Could Sophie Penhalligan be the next Bridget Jones?!?”
~Researchmummy
“Fab read with an ending that I didn't see coming!”
~Sharon Goodwin
“I loved this book—a great way to switch off from your own life and lose yourself in Sophie's. Well-written characters and a plot with many a twist, plus an ending you'll love—what's not to like?”
~pithy99
Sophie’s
Turn
Nicky Wells
Copyright © 2012 Nicky Wells
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the publisher.
Sapphire Star Publishing
www.sapphirestarpublishing.com
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Names, characters, places, and plots are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN-13: 978-1-938404-22-1
Cover Design: Chad Lichtenhan
Original Cover Concept: Jessie Dalrymple
Cover Image: “A carousel and the Eiffel Tower lit up at night” by: www.unrestrictedstock.com, licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License
www.sapphirestarpublishing.com/nickywells/
Dedication
To my husband, Jon, and my boys, Daniel and Olli,
for keeping things real.
Acknowledgements
Many people were instrumental in the creation of this book, my debut novel. Not least my husband, who encouraged me, read the entire manuscript ‘real time’ and offered amazing comments. Thank you!
A big thank you goes to the amazing team at Sapphire Star Publishing for their fantastic support and encouragement in publishing my masterpiece. Katie and Amy, you rock! Thank you also to my editor, Liz, for her stellar suggestions and gentle guidance.
Since its original launch in July 2011, I have met many people who have been guiding and advising me on promoting my work, so I want to say thank you to Sharon Goodwin, Sue Fortin, Linn B. Halton, Lou Graham, Kim Nash, Rea Sinfield, and Coral Russell. Moreover, thanks to all the wonderful authors and associate readers at the innovative and interactive author/reader project, loveahappyending.com.
An extra-special thanks is for the wonderful Shirley Mukisa, who got me started on building my platform when I had no idea where to begin.
And finally…The infamous last but not least goes to former colleague and long-time friend, Jessie Dalrymple. Jessie cheered me on tirelessly and, when the time was right, created the concept for a new cover that is still the basis of the beautiful cover for Sophie’s Turn today. You are a star!
About the Author
Nicky Wells writes Romance That Rocks Your World!
Born and raised in Germany, Nicky moved to the United Kingdom in 1993. Having received two degrees, Nicky spent six years working as a researcher and project manager for an international Human Resources research firm based in London and Washington, D.C.
Nicky left work in November 2004 to write her debut novel, Sophie’s Turn, before the birth of her first baby. Nicky currently lives in Lincoln with her husband and their two boys, and is working on the final part of the Rock Star Romance Trilogy. When she is not writing, she loves listening to rock music, reading books, and eating lobsters or pizza.
Visit Nicky at http://nickywellsklippert.wordpress.com/ where you can find articles, interviews, radio interviews and, of course, an ongoing update on her work in progress. You can also follow Nicky on Twitter and find her on Facebook. Nicky is a featured author at loveahappyending.com and a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association.
Rock On!
Prologue
“Would you marry me?”
The wind was tearing at Dan’s words, and Sophie thought at first that she had misheard.
“Sophie Penhalligan, would you marry me?”
Make no mistake, there it was again. Sophie twisted round so that she could see Dan a little better. The old-fashioned merry-go-round seemed to go unreasonably fast, and her horse and Dan’s horse were rising at wildly different intervals. But still, when he shouted his proposal at her for the third time, she could match his lip movements to the words. Yes, he was saying what she thought he was saying.
Sophie let out a huge whoop of joy as she leant backwards on her horse, almost toppling off with delight. “Of course I would,” she responded. “In an instant!”
And so she would. If.
If it weren’t for the fact that Dan was a mega rock star. And for the small matter of Tim, her actual, real-life fiancé.
The carousel ride over, Sophie and Dan hung on to each other, giddy with excitement and emotion. Dan produced a little box. “This is for you. If you meant it.”
“If I meant what?” Sophie asked, taking the box and opening it. She let out a small gasp.
Holy microphone. A ring. A real, proper, big, glitzy ring. With diamonds—yes, lots of them. The ring of all rings. A ring to put Tim’s little affair to shame—immediate pang of shame for this thought, but it wouldn’t be silenced.
Dan wanted her to be his wife. Her, Sophie Penhalligan. She had dreamed about this moment since she had pinned his first photo on her bedroom wall as a star-struck teenager over ten years ago, and yet she was at a loss for words.
She was already engaged. And all right, so she had rather wantonly and quite conveniently forgotten about Tim while she had been on tour with Tuscq; had told herself that staying in Dan’s room wasn’t a big deal; had let Dan convince her that sleeping together while on tour didn’t count. But still, she was engaged. This wasn’t like her, or was it? Why, oh w
hy, couldn’t things be different? This was what she wanted, had wanted all her life.
“Yes,” she said, loud and clear. “Oh Dan, yes, I will marry you.”
Oh, dear God.
Now what?
How had she got here? What should she do?
Well, I’ll tell you.
Because I am Sophie, and this is my story. And before you judge me, let me go back all the way to the beginning…
Chapter One
“Oh no, I’m going to be so late!” I shouted in dismay, having caught a look at the office clock and realizing that I should already have left. Half an hour ago.
“Late for what? Your oh-so-romantic dinner with the lovely Tim?” Rachel enquired from her vantage point at the desk next to mine. Even today her voice dripped with dislike for Tim.
“Late for my lovely romantic dinner with Tim,” I confirmed wearily. I was tired of my best friend’s persistent loathing of my boyfriend, but that couldn’t be helped right now. I brushed the worry firmly from my mind. After all, it was our second anniversary today, and I had booked a table at Fischer’s. I shut down my computer and scrambled together the contents of my handbag while trying to figure out if I had forgotten anything mission-critical before I left for the weekend. No, all clear.
“Gotta dash, see you tomorrow!” I called over my shoulder, already half out of the office and on my way to the ladies’ room for a swift change and last-minute repairs.
How could I have forgotten the time on this, the most important day of the year, our second anniversary? Relationship anniversary, that is—not wedding anniversary or even engagement anniversary. Still, we had been going out for two years, and there was not a cloud in sight on the bright, sunshiny sky of our relationship. Apart from Rachel, of course.
The Tube was packed and absolutely boiling. Traveling sardine-style would do nothing for my looks or composure, but I didn’t have a choice. The fact that it was the end of July and London was in the grip of a killer heat wave didn’t improve matters at all. It was so hot in my carriage that I felt close to fainting and my nose was firmly stuck in someone’s sweaty armpit. Nonetheless, butterflies of excitement wobbled in my tummy—our two-year anniversary. What would the night bring?
As we kept pulling in and out of Tube stations, strangely, inexplicably, and quite unexpectedly, my mind wandered back to another fateful train journey…one that I had taken almost ten years ago.
The train pulled into Edinburgh Waverley station and I panicked. What on earth was I doing? I lowered the window, awkwardly fumbling outside to reach the door handle, and let myself off the train. I was traveling light. My tiny rucksack carried only my purse and the barest of overnight essentials. I wasn’t planning to stay the night, really. But what was I planning? What had I been thinking when I got on that train, going after four blokes ten years older than my humble nineteen years? Well, in truth, I was only interested in one of them, but even that was a completely one-sided matter at this time.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and I had about two hours or so to get to wherever I needed to go. But, of course, I still needed to find out where they were playing tonight…
I snapped out of my memories abruptly as the Tube screeched to a halt at Tottenham Court Road. I decided that I couldn’t brave a change of Tube lines and headed for the escalators to walk to Charlotte Street. It would be hot, but at least I would have a small chance of catching a breeze. Outside the station, I tried Tim’s mobile to let him know that I was late. He abhorred tardiness and no doubt would be in a foul mood when I got there. But there was no reply, which was weird. Maybe his battery was dead? No, that wasn’t like him. More likely, he had gone into a sulk. “The infamous Tim sulk,” Rachel had dubbed his peculiar periodic outbursts.
I flung open the doors to the restaurant like a demented woman, eager to salvage any second I could to reduce my delay and equally eager to get the benefits of Fischer’s fully-functioning air conditioning. I scanned the room and spotted the table for two by the window, just as I had requested. Except there was no sign of Tim.
The maître d’ came toward me. “Can I help you, madam?”
“Er, yes, I’ve booked a table in the name of Sophie? And Tim? For two,” I added, somewhat superfluously. “For six-thirty tonight?” The maître d’ consulted his watch, raising one accusatory eyebrow.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry I’m so late, but my partner should be here already,” I offered.
“You are the first of your party to arrive,” he informed me sternly. “However, we did keep your table as you had emphasized the personal importance of this event several times.”
“Yes, that’s right, it’s our second anniversary,” I confirmed, relieved that the table was still ours and confused that Tim wasn’t there already.
“And madam would still like us to bring a bottle of champagne at the end of your meal as a little surprise?”
“Oh, absolutely, yes. That would be fabulous, thank you.” I hoped Tim wouldn’t go ballistic at this extravagance, but it was a special day and, if need be, I would pay for it all by myself.
While the maître d’ showed me to our table, I briefly wished I could just go home. Friday nights were not good nights for me. As I worked in the international news section for Read London, my job was hectic, to say the least, and the Friday night deadline was always the big one to put the Saturday paper to bed. On some Fridays, I would lose the ability for coherent conversation at around lunchtime. And so Friday nights were mine, just mine and mine alone. Not nights for Tim. Not nights for Rachel. Not nights for traveling home to see my parents. Just nights for me—a hot bath, a video, a glass of white wine, and some Thai chili prawns with garlic bread.
Yet strangely, I suddenly recalled, Tim and I had met on a Friday night, at a charity function that we had both attended at the Houses of Parliament. Tim had been there for his accountancy company, which had footed the bill for the fundraiser; I had been there for Read London. We had both been sufficiently bored to gravitate toward each other and finally made contact over the buffet, where I had been stuffing myself with green olives. Surreptitiously so, I had hoped, but it turned out that Tim had spotted me.
His opening line was, “Go on, give over, you’re not the only one who’s starving here.” Okay, not the best chat-up line in the world but said with a merry twinkle in his eyes, and I dutifully surrendered the last two olives to him, pointing out that I might therefore faint with hunger at any minute. He promptly invited me for dinner, and we slunk from the function like two naughty teenagers.
Things progressed from there. Not quickly, but nice, slow, and gentle. Dinner did not lead to the obligatory get-to-know-you-bonk. Instead, Tim turned out to be the perfect gentleman, taking me home in a cab, seeing me out with a chaste peck on the cheek and a promise to call. And after a proper interval of two-and-a-half days, he left me a message at home asking whether I might be available for dinner again sometime, perhaps followed by a movie? Thus had begun the nicest courtship I had ever experienced. There were dinners, flowers sent to the office, little presents now and then, lots of talk about ourselves and our hopes for the future. Eventually, I stayed the night at his and then he stayed the night at mine. We slipped into our relationship like we had always been together.
Obviously, I mused, two years on, things were a little more mundane. Tim didn’t necessarily send me flowers to the office every week any more. Actually, I couldn’t really remember the last time he had sent me flowers at all, but that was not the point. The point was that we had a unique thing together and I was sure that we would get married. I expected him to propose any time soon; he was just waiting for the perfect time. Tonight, for example, was a prime candidate.
Except…where the heck was he? I woke from my reflections by the shrill ring of my mobile. Tim.
“Hi,” I began in my most patient, sweet voice, but his angry shouting cut me off.
“Where are you?” He shouted so loudly that even the people at the next ta
ble heard it, and I instinctively shushed the phone.
“What do you mean, where am I? Where are you?” I hissed back.
“I’m at the restaurant. At the restaurant which, I hasten to add, has no reservation for us.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I looked around furtively, expecting Tim to pop up behind one of the potted palms sporting a huge balloon and shouting “surprise!”
“I’m not kidding. They don’t have any tables left here at all.”
I was nonplussed. “Tim, where are you? Really?”
“I’m at Fischer’s, of course,” Tim assured me.
“No, you’re not!”
“I am!”
“You can’t be. I’m at Fischer’s right now.” And, before he could try to refute this absolutely certain fact, I added, for good measure, “I’m sitting at our reserved table in the window. Right now. As we speak.”
There was a silence at the other end.
“At Fischer’s,” he repeated.
“Yup,” I confirmed. And then it dawned on me. “You’re not in Haymarket, are you?”
“Of course I am! That’s where you told me to go!”
Men. There you had it. They couldn’t get round to organizing an anniversary dinner for their partner, and then when you took the initiative, they didn’t even listen to where they were supposed to take you. Luckily, I had gone out with my fair share of idiots over the years, and I had long since stopped getting upset about small details like this.
“Honey, I told you to come to Charlotte Street.”
“You didn’t! We were going to Haymarket because it’s easier to get to the house from here.”
Ah, the house. That would explain it—maybe he had rigged up some surprise there for after dinner? Tim’s house was in South Kensington, in Garden Mews—a darling little place just by Imperial College.
“I booked Charlotte Street because it’s easier for me to get to from work and…” I insisted, before he could get a word in edgewise, “…and it’s easy to get back to either of our places from here.” Take that!
Another silence at the other end.
“Oh. Right. I see,” Tim managed eventually. “What shall we do now?”