Sophie's Run

by Wells, Nicky

It turned out to be slightly surreal, sharing a house with a rock star. Our lives seemed to move on different planes, and in more ways than one. When we were alone together, we made a careful point of being just friends. Meanwhile, every morning at six thirty, I would trundle down to the kitchen to find the remains of Dan’s entertaining from the previous night cluttering up the kitchen surfaces. Mostly there would be glasses and bottles, frequently accompanied by takeaway cartons and used plates. Very occasionally, there was evidence of rudimentary cooking using a disproportionate amount of pots and accessories which would also languish in the sink.

  Dan would be fast asleep, blissfully unaware of my early morning work-drone existence and leaving the tidying up to Jenny, the housekeeper, who would arrive at about nine o’clock. Incidentally, I fell into the habit of adding my breakfast dishes to the general debris, thus granting myself an extra ten minutes to lounge around watching breakfast television before heading out to work at seven thirty. Sharing a house with Dan certainly had some perks.

  Jenny also took over my laundry and my ironing without asking and without comment. I didn’t have to lift a finger by way of cleaning or hoovering, and so I led a very relaxed existence for a few weeks. Apart, of course, from all the stress of trying to get the insurance to settle my claim, which had risen to quite an astronomical sum. Also, keeping on top of the builders restoring my flat proved quite a challenge, until Dan suggested appointing a project manager and adding the cost to the insurance claim. The latest estimate was that it would be three to four weeks before I could move back in.

  So in the interim I stayed at Dan’s, and I was getting dangerously used to my cushy lifestyle there. The only fly in the ointment was that, after the first few days, I barely saw him. I gathered Tuscq was working on a new album, but sometimes he was clearly just “out.” I made a point of not asking where he went or what he did on those occasions, and he made a point of not telling.

  When he wasn’t out, he would often bring home a random woman. His conquests were all attractive models with perfect figures, generous endowments in the chest region, and near-identical faces done up with artful makeup. Somehow, though, they never seemed to make Dan happy. That bothered me intensely.

  Without meaning to, I started mildly discomfiting Dan’s lady-friends at every opportunity. Once I posed as Dan’s long-suffering wife, and one time, when Rachel stayed over, we pretended that we were all part of one happy love-in. And so it went on until…until George changed everything.

  George had had the privilege of staying for three nights in a row. Having emptied the fridge of any vegetable matter in greens and oranges, having consumed all of my bread even though she was on a strict no-carbs diet, and also having liberally made use of my Orient shower cream without asking, George tried to make friends. Presumably, she figured that buttering up the incumbent resident would improve her chances of hanging on. Anyway, she couldn’t have got off to a worse start when she called me—

  “Sadie!”

  Of course I didn’t react.

  “Yoo—hoo, Sadie, hello!” she warbled, sounding vaguely like a songbird in distress.

  I looked up from my book.

  “Are you talking to me?” I inquired.

  “Sure am,” she issued with a total lack of concern. “You must be the lovely Sadie. Dan’s told me all about you.”

  I heaved a sigh. “Has he, now?”

  “Yeah, like how you’re just staying for a while and how you’re definitely moving out and how you’re totally like not into him and how—”

  I had to stop her in mid flow.

  “Yup, that would be me. Except my name’s not Sadie.”

  “Not Sadie?” she echoed.

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I snorted into my tea cup. “Quite sure, darling. And you must be…” Now it was my turn. She opened her mouth to answer, but I got in there first. Not in her mouth, of course. I spoke first, was what I meant.

  “No, let me guess. You must be…” I regarded her critically as if to get a clue from her appearance.

  “Candy,” I offered.

  She shook her head, looking offended. I ploughed on.

  “Crystal.” Another shake of head.

  “Teela…? LaLa…?” More shakes of head, with mouth opening and closing, ready to speak. I was faster.

  “Barbie? Nala? Babsie? Shelley? Brie? Davinia?” I was on a real roll here, with no idea where all these names were coming from.

  “Arabella-Georgiana,” she interrupted me suddenly at top volume. “My name is Arabella-Georgiana.”

  I stared, wide-eyed. The words left my mouth before I could stop them. “Do people really call you that?”

  To my great surprise, she burst into tears and sat down heavily at the kitchen table. I felt bad. After all, it wasn’t her fault that her parents had saddled her with an impossible combination of names. I sat down next to her. What to do? I couldn’t really hug her, I didn’t even know her.

  “I’m sorry,” I offered eventually, when she had calmed down enough to be able to hear me. “That was really rude. I’m sorry, really.”

  When I didn’t get a reaction, I decided to dig my hole deeper. “It’s a pretty name, really…” I continued. “It’s just…well, a little unexpected.”

  She snorted and signaled for me to pass her a tissue to blow her nose. Harrumph! My goodness, that girl could blow. I blushed at the inadvertent innuendo as my mind imagined her… No, no, no, I didn’t want to go there. Arabella-Georgiana wiped at her eyes, smearing mascara all over her face and suddenly looking really vulnerable.

  “My friends call me George,” she hiccupped eventually. “Anyway, it’s not you teasing me about my name that’s upset me.” She paused. “Has…has Dan really had all those women…?” she asked, then hastily turned down the tone of her question. “I mean, not had had…well, obviously that, too…but, what I meant is, is he really bringing back so many others?”

  I flinched at “others.” Not a good sign.

  I heaved another big sigh, but spoke much more gently.

  “I made all those names up, George, because I don’t really meet Dan’s conquests most of the time. But…” I stopped to see how she was taking this in so far. “Yes, he does bring home quite a lot of different ladies…”

  She looked crestfallen. I took pity on her. “Look, it’s just how he is. He can’t help himself. I think he’s looking for something but he doesn’t even know what it is.”

  She hiccupped again, looking waif-like and forlorn.

  “I’m fairly sure that he hasn’t made you any promises of any kind…has he?” I suddenly had this awful thought he might have forgotten himself. When I first met him, he had been absolutely, brutally honest with me. I’m bad news, he had said. I love to have sex, but I’m not in love with you. That was his default mode when he took someone to bed. Or at least, it used to be. Obviously, there was always the possibility that he might develop feelings for someone; he was only a man, after all. He had nearly believed that he loved me, back then. Nearly.

  “No,” George acknowledged, abruptly cutting into my ruminations, “no, he hasn’t. He told me he was bad news…but I thought…” She petered out.

  Bless her.

  Suddenly, she fixed me with a surprisingly inquisitive stare with those red-rimmed, black-ringed eyes of hers. “How do you cope with it all?”

  I gave a start. “What, who—me?”

  “Yes, you. I mean, after all, you live here. You must be…pretty serious about him?”

  I burst out laughing. “Oh my gosh, no. I was, at one time. A long time ago. But I knew that he would always seek out other women, and so I broke it off. We’ve stayed friends though, as cheesy as that sounds. I’m only staying here while my flat is being redecorated.”

  She looked a question mark at me.

  “It burned down. On my birthday. While I was having a party.”

  “No,” George breathed, “really? How awful for you.�
� She was momentarily distracted from her own misery. Abruptly, something clicked, and she looked at me with recognition.

  “I knew I almost had it right. It’s not Sadie, it’s Sophie, right?” I nodded my head, astounded at the sudden insight.

  “I knew I’d seen your picture before. You were engaged to Dan a couple of years back, right? And you dumped him?” I cringed at the stark summation of events, but yes, I acknowledged, that was me.

  “Wow.” George was awestruck. “Wow,” she repeated. “I don’t know if I could have let him go.”

  Oh dear. She was still stuck on him. I sidestepped her comment by focusing on her own predicament.

  “Honey,” I said as gently as I could. “You should let him go. Now. He’s not yours, not anyone’s. You’ll get hurt. He might ring you tomorrow, you might go out again, you might even come back here another night. But…the day after, it’ll be somebody new. Trust me.”

  So, I had turned from model-baiting to model-counseling. Perhaps I wasn’t such a mean person after all. George sat at the kitchen table like in a dream, and Dan—as always deploying impeccable timing—chose that precise moment to walk in.

  “Hello, my two favorite ladies in the whole wide world,” he joked, not even remotely perturbed by George’s destroyed appearance. “Lovely to see you having a cozy chat.”

  George looked at him with confusion.

  “Is it true you don’t love me?” she asked abruptly, in a voice that was only ever so slightly wobbly. Dan shot me a look. I shook my head.

  “No, George,” he said, as gently as he could. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t love you. I never told you I did, or would. I did say I was bad news.” He, too, sat down at the kitchen table. We made quite a tableau, the three of us.

  George suddenly got up and left the table. Five minutes later, she was back, dressed in demure jeans and sweatshirt, face clean of makeup, hair in a ponytail. She looked much younger now, eighteen or twenty at the most. Like a lost fresher. Dan and I both realized at the same instant that that was exactly what she was.

  “I’ll be going now,” she said in a small voice. “Thanks for…um, everything.” And before Dan could say anything, she turned and left.

  Chapter Nine

  “Oh my God, Dan” I admonished. “Have you any idea what you’re doing? Poor old George here…she was practically a babe-in-arms. She was only putting on an act to get to you. Don’t you ever see those things?”

  I was surprisingly angry. Dan looked sheepish.

  “She said she was twenty-five. I believed her. What should I do, ask for ID?”

  “Well, maybe you should!” I shot back. “One day, you might not be so lucky. Dan, for God’s sake, what’s the matter with you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, then muttered something about midlife crisis.

  “Oh, come off it,” I advised. “You’ve got almost everything you want. We’ve talked about this whole relationship thing, remember? I really don’t care who you shag, but make sure you don’t pick someone who’ll get really hurt. Poor old George…” I petered out.

  To be fair, Dan looked shocked to the core. He retreated to his studio and I didn’t see him for the best part of a week. He barely left the house, and he didn’t invite anyone back. Perhaps George had done him a favor and taught him a lesson.

  One Friday afternoon, when I finished work early and had nothing to do, what with Rachel and Jordan busy planning their wedding… Well, I got home to Dan’s house and he was there, and he was out of his studio. In fact, he was in the lounge reading a book, a rare pastime for this here rock star of mine, and he was also humming a tune. I had been hearing snippets of this tune on and off all week on the few occasions when I had seen Dan, and it was very catchy. I had found myself humming bits of it at work today.

  Anyway, there he was, not busy, not sulking, but just there. When I walked in, he jumped off the sofa and greeted me like a long-lost friend, big hugs and all. He pressed a gin and tonic into my hand and dragged me into the kitchen.

  “I told you I could cook,” he announced, and opened the oven door with a flourish. I could just make out a dish filled to the brim with what looked like hot cheesy sauce. It smelled delicious. I took a closer peek but he shooed me away, telling me to sit down at the table, which he had already laid for two.

  “What is this?” I managed, totally taken aback.

  “Just a little treat,” Dan announced cheerfully, pulling the rack out of the oven and revealing a perfectly cooked, mouth-watering lasagna. “To apologize for my very bad behavior and my long sulk.” He set the steaming dish on the table, narrowly avoiding knocking over an open bottle of red wine.

  “I got garlic bread, too…” he continued, deftly retrieving it from the oven. “Oh, and salad.” He scurried to the fridge.

  I sat in awe. “This is fantastic,” I managed eventually. I was eyeing up the garlic bread which looked homemade. “Did you make this?”

  “Of course,” Dan assured me. “I did tell you I could cook. I just need time, and inspiration.” He spread a napkin on my lap like an expert waiter and sat down to join me.

  “Wine, madam?” he asked in a serious sommelier voice, bottle already poised and pouring.

  “Oh yes, please,” I breathed, somewhat overcome. Then I spied a fancy-looking envelope lying on the kitchen counter. Ever curious, I got up to retrieve it. It was addressed to me.

  “Hold on…” I muttered, “what have we here?”

  Dan was looking a bit nervous. “Erm,” he started, and cleared his throat. “Uh, I have a pretty good idea what that is. I was going to feed you first though… You know…soften the blow a bit.”

  Blow? What blow? What was he talking about? This wasn’t a dreaded brown envelope, nor a bill. The envelope was thick lilac paper with little printed daisies scattered prettily in an arch along the left hand side. In fact, it looked like a wedding invitation. I smiled. Who did I know who was getting married? Oh, what fun.

  I turned the envelope over in my hands, ready to open it, when I caught sight of the sender.

  Dan caught me looking and got up quickly. He took my hand, the one with the envelope, and looked me in the eyes.

  “You don’t have to open this now,” he said gently. “Have some dinner first. Here, finish your drink at least…”

  He knew. He was such a kind man, trying to distract me from this disaster in the making, but I had to open it. I had to read it.

  I slid my index finger through the top of the envelope before he could stop me. Out fell several bits of paper, but I caught the lilac card in my hands.

  Ms. Dina Erin Belling

  and

  Mr. Timothy Renfrew

  request the pleasure of your company

  at their marriage

  at Portreath Castle, nr Plymouth

  on Saturday, 14 July,

  at 2p.m.

  I turned the card over and over in my hand, but there was nothing else. No name, no personal address or note of any kind. I felt like somebody had kicked me in the stomach.

  Dan had been reading over my shoulder. “Oh dear,” he announced, somewhat too cheerfully for my liking. “They might at least have put your name on it.”

  Well, yes. That, and a few other things, I thought. And what was the point of this? Overcome with strange emotion, I felt jittery and I had to sit down. Tears were pricking the back of my eyes, and I had to sniff to keep them at bay. Dan was making a good job of trying to ignore my discomfort.

  “Cheeky buggers,” he announced to no one in particular. “Leaving the invite so late.”

  I ignored him and picked up the envelope again. The handwriting was definitely Tim’s, and I shivered in dismay. “I’m not going,” I declared.

  Dan laughed at me.

  “Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.” I sulked, but he laughed harder still.

  “I’m not going, and you can’t make me,” I declared once more.

  Dan sat me down at the table again and spooned out some l
asagna for me.

  “Here,” he pronounced. “Eat. It’ll make you feel better. And drink, too,” he added as an afterthought.

  I dutifully took a large gulp of wine.

  “Steady on, now,” Dan warned. “I didn’t mean, get plastered out of your mind. Here, eat something.” He picked up the spoon for me, making as though to feed me like one would a child. I glared at him.

  “Just why exactly are you so upset?” Dan probed gently.

  I duly considered the question. Why was I so upset? I supposed the answer was that Tim and I hadn’t exactly split up on amicable terms. I couldn’t possibly show my face at his wedding.

  “I. Am. Not. Going.”

  Dan gave a theatrical sigh but took the bull by the horns.

  “Of course you’re going,” he told me in his most insouciant voice. “In fact, we’re both going.” And, seeing my shock and horror, he added, “It’d be rude not to, after they sent such a kind invite. Come on…” he coaxed. “It’ll be a laugh.”

  “But…” I stuttered, feeling flustered at the turn of events. “But,” I continued, “you’re not invited.”

  “How do you know?” Dan was being obtuse. “It doesn’t say anything on the card.”

  “Well, exactly. That would be how I know.”

  “Rubbish,” Dan stated. “Who goes to a wedding on their own? Who?” He looked a challenge at me. I refused the bait.

  “Not many people,” I started cautiously, but was mercilessly interrupted.

  “Bollocks. Nobody, that’s who. And you’re not nobody. So, we’re going, both of us.” He rubbed his hands with glee.

  I tucked into my lasagna while I mulled this over. Actually, the food was rather fantastic, and as it warmed my insides, I warmed to the idea of going to this wedding with Dan. I gave an involuntary smile.

  Dan had been watching me closely and saw the weather change on my face. “There now,” he grinned back, “that’s my girl. We’ll have a great time. We’ll be the evil guests… We…” he paused for thought. “I know! We’ll get blindingly drunk and disgrace ourselves by singing loudly. We’ll be the worst guests ever. We’ll…”