Sophie's Turn

by Nicky Wells

  “I don’t really know,” he acknowledged. “I just felt…lonely. At a loose end. I had to see you and convince myself that…well, that it really is too late. You know?”

  I was simultaneously touched and petrified. “I thought we’d agreed…,” I started, but Dan interrupted immediately.

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I was just out with some friends down the road from here and somehow…it seemed like a grand plan to drop by and see how you’re doing.”

  “How did you find the place?” I asked, suddenly intrigued.

  “Oh, not difficult. You told me the street this morning—perhaps a bit of a hint, don’t you think? Or perhaps not,” he hastily withdrew that comment after a look at my thunderous face. “Anyway…so I knew where to look, and there was enough noise to attract punters from all over the place, so it really wasn’t that difficult.” He squeezed my hand.

  “And now what?” I wanted to know.

  “Now…well, now I guess I’ll go. But I’m really pleased that you wore the dress. That means a lot. And…you found some pearls, just like you promised.”

  He grinned at me and then tugged at his unusually done-up shirt. There, underneath the ubiquitous blue silk that he favored, nestled a pearl necklace.

  “Dan,” I gasped, “You can’t be serious! If anyone saw that…”

  “If anyone saw that, they’d put it down to rock-star eccentricity,” he informed me mildly. “I’ve got away with worse.” He buttoned the shirt up again. “I really don’t think Tiffany’s will want this back now, so I’ll just have to keep it.”

  He kissed the index finger of his right hand and touched it against my nose.

  “Goodbye again, Sophie Penhalligan. Take care.”

  And then he left.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I fled to Tim’s en suite bathroom upstairs and locked myself in. Hot tears were plopping out of my eyes and I bent over the sink to let them fall clear of my make-up. Dan appearing here tonight had confused and shaken me. Mostly, I had been dominated by terror that Tim would find out. But there was also a lot of frustration because I still wanted him. And there was anger. I had just gotten a handle on my emotions this morning. Now he had selfishly turned up and undone all my good work.

  Anger is great, I told myself. Focus on the anger.

  How dare he? How dare he spoil what we had had by behaving in this manner? What kind of selfish, egocentric, arrogant little prick was he to turn up here tonight?

  Maybe he really loves you, a little voice whispered in my head.

  “Rubbish,” I spat furiously. “He told me he doesn’t love anyone and that he’s bad news.” Ah, but he also told you that he felt different about you than about any other woman he had ever met, the little voice in my head continued.

  “Bollocks to that, too,” I spat again, this time regarding my reflection in the mirror fiercely. “It appears that Dan is extremely bad news, and you’d best wipe him from your thoughts completely.”

  A few more minutes of stern talking to myself and I had recovered my composure. My aberration this morning remained just that. An enjoyable experience but unforgivable lapse of judgment. Tim—darling, lovely Tim—would never behave like Dan, and that was why I would marry Tim. Maybe in a few months’ time I could reclaim the warmth and excitement that I had felt about my adventure this morning. For now, I decided to be bitter and twisted, and to shun any thoughts of Dan forthwith.

  Later that night, or rather early the next morning, after the last guests had departed and Tim and I had conducted some rudimentary tidying operations, we lay in his bed together and performed a post-mortem on the party. It had been an unqualified success. I could feel Tim glowing and beaming beside me. It was almost five a.m., and our guests really had been most reluctant to leave. Everyone had complimented us on the food and the atmosphere and, of course, our engagement. No one group had fallen out with another. Nothing had been broken or irretrievably spoilt. From my perspective, even the Dan interlude hadn’t caused a noticeable hitch other than, rather perversely, putting Tim in an extraordinarily relaxed mood.

  “You know,” he said to me just before we fell asleep. “You really should have introduced me earlier to this Dan person and perhaps even that whole band of yours. I was worried sick that you might…you know…fancy him. Still.”

  I lay tense with terror. Tim. My precious Tim—whom I had not really credited with a whole lot of sensitivity to romantic matters and who never really acknowledged that he had listened to my stories about Tuscq—had picked up on all the signals I hadn’t known I was emitting. He had actually been worried.

  “But…,” he continued. “That Dan guy is a really nice bloke, and he’s so…well, so different. You know, very gifted, obviously, but so…unsteady and always on the road. And a little…rough, don’t you think?”

  I had to work hard not to cry out that these faults were Dan’s prime attractions.

  “Anyway, there’s no way you could fancy a bloke like that, is there? Just not quite in our league, is he? Perfectly nice, of course, but…well, different.”

  I was deeply, deeply offended on Dan’s behalf, but still I said nothing.

  Then the final blow came. “Plus,” Tim prattled on, “he is, of course, going on tour soon, and I think he said something about how his girlfriend wouldn’t like that very much at all.”

  Tour? What tour? And girlfriend? What girlfriend? My mind whirled. He had done such a good impression of making me feel special. I really hadn’t thought he was two-timing me for that briefest of flings we had. Now it turned out he had a girlfriend? I could feel my blood pressure rising dangerously.

  “Talking of which, your friend Rachel can be most malicious, can’t she?” he chuckled, but good-naturedly. “She was really trying to wind me up by introducing Dan as your boyfriend from that band.” He chuckled some more, while my blood was now running cold. “But of course she was blindingly drunk, and Dan looked most appalled at the notion. She’s a funny one, that best friend of yours,” he concluded and was suddenly fast asleep.

  “She is,” I whispered softly, not knowing what to think. I lay awake for quite some time trying to sort my thoughts before sleep finally claimed me.

  The following Monday morning brought the first torrential rainfalls of the autumn. Rachel and I were soaked through by the time we stumbled into the office. That particular Monday morning was dreary for another reason, which was simply the come-down after an eventful weekend. Tim, Rachel, and I had all slept very late on Sunday, and then Tim had surprised us girls by absolving us all from tidying-up duties. He had taken one look at the chaos downstairs and decided it was a serious candidate for overtime by his cleaning lady. So instead of curing our hangovers by slaving away over the clearing up, we had all gone out for a lovely walk in Hyde Park.

  Rachel and I hadn’t had an opportunity to discuss Dan’s appearance or Rachel’s rather…dramatic mishap when introducing Dan and Tim. I wasn’t entirely certain that Rachel actually remembered that part of the evening, and I wasn’t keen to refresh her memory. Her slip-up could have been potentially devastating, but as it happened, it served to allay Tim’s suspicions more beautifully than a catalogue of denials—particularly as it had prompted him to elicit from Dan a critical piece of information about Dan’s current girlfriend. I hadn’t shared this new insight with Rachel, and I wasn’t sure that I was going to. What would be the point? I had already decided to put a line under the Dan affair, and the fact that I was now hurt as well as sad was immaterial.

  With a big sigh, we each sat down at our desks and switched on our computers. Another long week ahead. We exchanged a comforting smile and settled down to work.

  It was halfway through clearing the usual Monday-morning flurry of emails when a message from Rick caught my attention. It came with a red exclamation mark, a flag and a subject heading typed entirely in capitals. Ominously, the subject line read: URGENT. COME TO MY OFFICE AT ONCE. Worse still, there was nothing further in the body of the mes
sage. I quaked in my little kitten-heeled boots: such a summons could not be a good thing.

  “Hey, Rach,” I called out. “Come and have a look at this.” I needed some kind of reassurance before I went to face the music.

  Rachel came over obediently and, like me, blanched when she spotted Rick’s message in my inbox.

  “What have you done?” she demanded immediately.

  “I don’t know,” I moaned. “Friday’s copy went in unchanged. I haven’t missed a deadline in weeks…I don’t know.”

  We sat for a second.

  “Do you think it’s maybe about that conference?” Rachel mused.

  “But that’s weeks ago now,” I protested. “If there’d been something wrong with my expenses, he should have let me know already.”

  “You did go to some lectures, didn’t you?” Rachel wanted confirmed.

  “Absolutely. Just not the first ones, really. But I did bring back all the handouts.”

  Rachel nibbled at her pen. “What are you working on at the moment? Anything risky in there?”

  I shook my head: no, not really. With mounting panic, I concluded that I would just have to heed the summons to find out what it was about. Legs a-shaking, I made my way to Rick’s office and gently knocked on the door.

  “Come,” Rick barked in reply.

  I opened the door and stepped in, meek as a naughty child.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Rick looked up. “Ah, Sophie,” he beamed. “Come, come, sit down.” He motioned for me to take a seat in front of his desk. Altogether, this was not the reception I had feared. Staff due for a telling-off were never greeted cordially and never, ever, were allowed to sit down.

  “Actually,” Rick exclaimed, “Let’s go for lunch, shall we? So much friendlier to talk outside of these four stuffy walls.” He had already got to his feet while my bottom was in mid-air during the process of sitting down, and I had to perform a clumsy corrective maneuver to get myself upright. If this was a ploy to wrong-foot me, he was succeeding beautifully.

  “Now then,” he said, rubbing his hands, “where shall we go?”

  “Err,” I blundered, “wherever you think is suitable.”

  “Marvelous, marvelous. Let’s go down to the Cock-and-Bull.”

  The Cock-and-Bull was the unofficial name Read London employees had ascribed to our local gastro pub, mostly because we were in the habit of exchanging all sorts of fantastic but untrue stories there in an effort to wind each other up. Although I had come to like the pub and had had many a liquid lunch there, Rick’s choice today seemed portentous of bad things to come. I started feeling clammy and shaky again.

  “Let me just grab my purse,” I tried to prevaricate but Rick waved my comment away. “You won’t need that,” he promised airily and I was even more confused. I caught Rachel’s eyes as he escorted me through the office, and she observed us with something close to panic. Was I being walked off the premises? I gave a little still-don’t-know-what’s-going-on shrug, and then we were outside.

  “So, Sophie, how are things going?” Rick enquired jovially once we were seated at a little table and he had a pint of beer in front of him.

  “Fine,” I offered, sounding somewhat feeble. So I started again, “Great, actually. I’ve had a number of good stories recently, even made a few front pages if you recall, haven’t missed a deadline in weeks. My network of contacts is growing…,” I trailed off, unsure how much more blowing of my own trumpet I needed to do before I got to the bottom of what was going on.

  Not much, as it turned out, because Rick pounced on this last remark. “Ah, your network of contacts. Admirable, indeed. I have been most pleased. Yes, I think it’s fair to say that Sophie is doing well.” Rick had the somewhat annoying habit of referring to you in the third person as though in fact you weren’t present at all.

  “Extremely well.” He nodded his head and took a long sip of beer.

  I sipped at my Diet Coke. I hadn’t been convinced that alcohol was indicated today as I still expected some kind of bollocking, and I thought I would rather get plastered after than during the traumatic event. But it appeared I wasn’t here to be told off.

  “Thank you,” I managed, still uncertain where this was leading.

  “Yes, yes,” Rick muttered, more to himself than to me. Then he snapped to again. “Anyway, it is one of your contacts in particular that stands out to me right now. Quite extraordinary. One day, you’ll have to tell me how you managed to pull this off. Quite a coup, I must say. Well done.”

  I was at a loss. Searching my mind for anyone or anything that could have brought on such an accolade, I came up blank.

  “Yes, Read London will do quite well out of this little lead. And you get to cover it from start to finish.”

  I blinked. Would he tell me or would I have to ask? He seemed to have finished, taking another happy sip of his beer and turning his attention to our food which had meanwhile arrived. I guessed that I would have to ask.

  “Rick,” I began. “I am sorry. I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “You don’t?” Rick looked at me in sincere astonishment. “I would have thought this was all your idea.”

  “What?” I insisted as patiently as I could.

  “How very peculiar,” Rick mumbled. “I thought when Dan called…”

  “Dan?” I interjected flatly. As always, my heart gave a little leap at the mention of that name, but there were millions of them around and to assume that Rick meant my Dan was ludicrous. I mentally went through my rolodex, trying to pull out any other Dan's.

  “Yes, Dan. Hunter. Of Tuscq.”

  Dan? My Dan?

  Why would Dan call Rick?

  Barely able to suppress the sudden tremor in my voice, I had to get to the bottom of this.

  “I’m sorry, Rick, you’ve lost me. I know Dan, vaguely,” I gulped at this understatement, “but I have absolutely no idea why he would be calling you or what relevance that call might have to me, or the news desk, or indeed Read London.”

  “You don’t know?” Now it was Rick’s turn to look bewildered.

  “Clearly not,” I stated.

  As it turned out, Dan had called Rick early this morning with the promise of an unprecedented scoop for Read London. Tuscq was about to launch a revival tour which was bound to attract a lot of attention. The band’s management and record company were eager to encourage such attention through exclusive coverage, printed and online. The obvious choice would have been a music magazine—or even a specialized, hard-rock music magazine—but curiously, the band had objected to that. They wanted to reach their old fans as well as making new ones, and they were worried that old fans might no longer be reading the dedicated magazines. So, a mainstream newspaper was called for and Dan had suggested Read London. The band manager had initially objected as Read London was a local London paper rather than a national paper. However, Dan had argued that the nationals might not want to commit to a whole series about Tuscq but, once the ball got rolling in a smaller paper, would be able and eager to syndicate columns off Read London. Besides, Dan had added—or so Rick told me—that he knew a very capable and sympathetic reporter at Read London and that it was she who the band wanted to write a column chronicling the tour.

  Needless to say that that reporter was me.

  When Rick had finished talking, I sat there with my mouth wide open and my food untouched. Dan! After all his promises, he had managed to find a means of wrangling his way back into my life again. And all of that in spite of having a perfectly good totty on tap, or so he had told Tim, in the shape of his current girlfriend. The bastard.

  Rick examined me inquisitively. “Well, what do you say?”

  “I’m flattered,” I responded automatically. “Naturally. But…there has to be someone else who can cover the event. I can’t accept this assignment.” This came out before I could think about it further. Rick was surprised, and then his face clouded over. He intensely disliked being crossed. />
  “What do you mean, you can’t accept? You have no choice in this matter. I’ve already assigned you.”

  “With all due respect,” I began, “I cannot. It’s a great opportunity but there are…personal reasons.”

  “Oh, come on now, Sophie,” Rick thundered. “You are being handed the opportunity of a lifetime. You are a reporter. Go for the scoop. If your engagement is going to prevent you from following leads, pursuing stories, going traveling, then your career as a reporter will be very short.”

  Traveling? Where did the traveling come in? What had I missed now?

  “Sophie, let me spell this out for you. An exclusive column is a lot of money from sales and through syndication to the nationals. We don’t get the scoop if you don’t cover the tour. So, if you don’t cover the tour, you don’t have a job. Simple as that.”

  Ouch. And there it was. Rick’s evil side. The tough, hard-nosed editor qualities that had enabled him to make Read London London’s leading daily paper over the past few years. The very same dark side that I had been afraid of this morning when I first saw his message.

  I knew very well that he couldn’t just fire me for not accepting an assignment, particularly one that wasn’t in my official realm of responsibility. However, I also knew that he could—and would—make my life uncomfortable to the point where I would hand in my resignation, probably within two weeks. I was between the proverbial rock and the hard place.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Do I get any time to consider this?” I tried to stall.

  “Why would you need time to consider this?” Rick shot back. “It’s pretty clear-cut. It’s a huge opportunity. I’m surprised you’re not peeing your pants with excitement.”

  “Well,” I started, unsure how—or indeed, whether—to explain my predicament. I tried a different tack first.

  “For starters, I’m not really used to covering entertainment. What about my position at the news desk?”

  “Oh, come now, girl, you are our strongest writer. I’m sure you can manage more…light-hearted material? That should be fun.” Despite my predicament, my ears burnt with pride at the compliment that he had let slip.