by Wells, Nicky
I did as instructed. Then I snatched Dan’s book out of his hands. “What is this?”
“A guide to Berlin,” he replied deadpan. “I thought it might come in handy.”
Berlin for Kids, it read. “This is a children’s guidebook,” I stated, stupefied.
“Why, of course,” Dan acknowledged cheerfully. “It’s so much more interesting that way. Look, it’s got treasure hunts and puzzles and picture clues, and there are little tips about where to eat…”
I must have looked utterly confused. I hadn’t known Dan was into kiddie-style sightseeing, or any kind of sightseeing. When I had accompanied Tuscq on tour, there had been next to no free time for doing touristy things, and nobody had brought any guidebooks.
“I find city guides for adults boring,” Dan explained. “There’s always so much information in there, and it’s all educational. And okay, it’s really interesting but there’s always so much of it. So I prefer children’s guidebooks.” He winked and tugged at my elbow in a c’mon kind of way.
“I think it’s—” I never got round to saying what I thought it was as a flash light went off. Dan gave a soft little curse.
“So much for not being recognized round here,” he muttered. “Come on, let’s go!” He pulled me to my feet, past the counters and behind the tills, and we boldly left the bakery through the kitchen. “Years of practice,” he whispered to me as we muttered excuses to the kitchen staff.
We emerged in a little alley and randomly turned right, and right again. Mercifully, we ended up on the Ku’damm once more and were just able to see a little conflagration of photographers outside the bakery.
“Damn,” Dan muttered. “And off we go.”
He turned around and we walked briskly the other way, then stepped swiftly onto some escalators descending to a U-Bahn station.
“Where to now?” I questioned him when we were traveling safely—and at least temporarily incognito—on one of the cute little underground trains.
Dan flicked through his book. “We should really take in the Wall and the Reichstag…” he offered, but added reluctantly, “but I don’t fancy that today. How’s about…” He held up his children’s guide book at a page saying, Alexanderplatz and TV Tower.
I nodded agreeably. It was his trip after all, and this looked quite exciting.
Once at Alexanderplatz, we discovered that we had about an hour’s wait ahead before we could go on the forty-nine second elevator ride up the TV Tower. So we took a stroll, admiring the glorious old station building that was Bahnhof Alexanderplatz, trying to work out how the amazing world time clock functioned, and finally buying a helping of sausage and chips from one of the nearby stalls.
We sat down on a bench on the north side of Alexanderplatz to eat our Currywurst mit Pommes.
“This is great,” Dan said once more with a huge grin.
Afterwards, we went up the TV tower, and once there, Dan got it into his head that he wanted to sit in the revolving restaurant. Somehow, he secured a table, and we installed ourselves in the bar for pre-dinner cocktails. The drinks were fizzy and deadly sweet, and mine went straight to my head. Dan was unperturbed, his eyes fixed on the vista of Berlin stretching below us and all around.
“Isn’t this amazing?” he kept enthusing.
We lingered in the bar for a couple of hours, enjoying each other’s company and ordering drinks and snacks as the mood took us. When we were well and truly stuffed, Dan suggested taking a tram ride round the former Eastern sector, just for the heck of it, and I happily obliged.
At ten p.m., I begged to go back to the hotel. My eyes felt gritty and my feet were hot and heavy, a sure sign that they had done too much traveling. They wanted a rest. I wanted a rest. And a bed. And preferably a bath before that.
Dan didn’t seem to mind. He told me that he was thinking of checking out the hotel bar, or of grabbing an early night, too. Yeah, right. I left him to it.
Safely ensconced in my suite, I drew a lovely hot bath and submerged myself in fragrant luxury bubbles.
Lovely.
My poor mistreated feet tingled in the warm water, their muscles finally relaxing. I nearly fell asleep, feeling content as the cat with her cream, and I let my mind wander at random. Images of the past weeks flashed before my inner eye like constellations in a kaleidoscope but suddenly, a picture stuck. The moment of locking eyes with Steve.
I analyzed every second and wallowed in the memory. “Steve…” I whispered through a handful of bubbles. “I hope you’re out there waiting for me.” I blew hard and the bubbles dispersed, describing pretty arches in the air before settling on the walls and water like freshly fallen snow.
Thinking of snow… “I hope I don’t have to wait until the Christmas concert to see you again.” The thought filled me with panic, and I squashed it hard. It wouldn’t be that long, surely.
But how and when would we next meet?
Probably at a choir rehearsal after the summer break. That would mean waiting another ten weeks. I would be there really early. I would probably wear…what would I wear? I didn’t want to be too obvious but I wanted to look great.
Maybe I would wear—oh, idea! I would wear my snuggy favorite jeans with some sort of funky top, depending on the weather.
He would wear… I didn’t really care what he would wear. He would look good in a potato sack as long as he kept that hair and those eyes. Those lovely, lovely eyes.
I paused for a minute, mentally zooming in on those eyes again.
Hm-mm. Hm.
We would probably not get to speak until after rehearsal, but then he would come over to me and say something like, here’s looking at you, kid. Oh, a movie quote! I shivered with excitement and glee. How subtle. I hoped he had the speaking voice to match.
And he would take my hand and without awaiting my consent—in fact, knowing that I would agree to pretty much anything—he would whisk me away for dinner somewhere.
Uh.
“Somewhere” wasn’t good enough. It needed to be somewhere special, yet close. Or perhaps not close, maybe that didn’t matter. But it definitely couldn’t be anywhere where I had been with Dan. Or with Tim.
Well, that would rule out most London restaurants, wouldn’t it.
Hm.
He couldn’t very well take me home, that would be too forward. Too fast.
I sighed. Darn it, he would just have to know a charming little restaurant that was virgin territory as far as I was concerned. He would come up with something. I was sure of it.
So, we would go for dinner and—
What, then, Sophie?
I let some more hot water into the bath, but then decided that I would rather get out. My fingers and toes had turned all pruney. Grabbing the fluffy white towel from the heated rack, I wrapped myself up tight and lay on the bed.
Staring at the ceiling, I realized I couldn’t take this any further. For one, I really couldn’t imagine what Steve’s body might look like. And for another, I was starting to feel all…lonely. And needy. And uncomfortable in my skin. I had daydreamed myself into a hot spot.
Chapter Nineteen
“And this is Sophie, my awful ex. Bitch!” Tim took a sip of his drink and adjusted his buttonhole ever such a tiny amount. Then he continued. “She dumped me for a rock star. The stupid cow! Yes, take a good look, that’s what an adulterous bitch looks like. I’ve invited her so that I could say it to her face, after all this time.”
Tim went on and on, and I stood there with my face burning. I couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t speak out to defend myself. For starters, I wanted to shout, I didn’t dump you for him! I dumped him before I ended it with you. Because we weren’t right for each other.
But I couldn’t get the words out. I was clutching my glass of champagne so hard that I was in danger of snapping the stem.
Now it was Dina’s turn to speak. Bizarrely, she had acquired an awful, squeaky voice that made my skin crawl like somebody scratching fingernails on chalkboard. �
��Lies, lies, lies, that’s what Sophie told my poor, lovely Tim. It took him months to get over her cruelty and mistreatment.”
Gathering up her absurdly long train in one hand and still holding a glass in the other, she left the dais and walked up to me in tiny, hoppy steps. She looked like a mouse in heels.
“I spit at you,” she declared, and followed through right away.
Her glob of spit was well aimed and hit me on the forehead. I could hear the other wedding guests gasp in horror but still I couldn’t move. Her spit, viscous as nasal snot, slowly ran down my forehead, down my nose and eventually dripped, ever so slowly, into my drink.
I wanted to die.
I—
Somebody was at the door, and I woke up with a start, heart racing, forehead wet with sweat. I rushed a hand up to my face—was it sweat? Or was it spit?
Sweat. Had to be. I was soaking all over. And I had no idea where I was.
Somebody was still knocking at my door and calling my name. Shakily, I got up from the unfamiliar bed and discovered to my great surprise that I was wearing nothing but a rumpled bath towel. Then I remembered—Berlin, Dan, the hotel.
Phew. I sat down heavily on the bed again, weak with relief.
A bad dream. Nothing but a dream. But one that could easily turn into a nightmare. The dreaded wedding was only a few days away.
The knocking and name calling got increasingly frantic and it occurred to me that perhaps I ought to let Dan in. I padded to the door, wrapping the towel back round me, and opened it.
Dan caught sight of the towel first and my bare legs next.
“Well, hello!” he enthused with a cat-whistle as he walked in. “Are we up for something after all…?”
The question died on his lips as he took in the rest of my appearance. I didn’t blame him, having caught a look at myself in the mirror. My hair was standing on end in big, straggly strands. My face was blotchy from the crying I had done in my sleep, and my eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot from ditto.
“What on earth happened to you?” Dan inquired softly. He retrieved a bathrobe from the closet and wrapped me in it, then sat down on the sofa and pulled me on his lap.
“What’s going on?” he prompted once more.
By way of response, I burst into tears.
He knew me better than to ask any questions. Instead, he stroked my hair and made gentle soothing noises. Eventually, when I calmed down enough to speak without hiccupping, I related the whole nightmare.
“It was so real,” I concluded, still shaking. “Like I was really there…”
“Now, now,” Dan encouraged. “It won’t be that bad.”
“It will,” I burst out furiously, and petulantly. “And I don’t want to go. It’ll be awful.”
Dan continued to be unyielding. He eyed me up carefully.
“No matter what you dreamt, little one, we are going,” he warned me. “Otherwise, this will haunt you forever. Trust me.”
“It’ll be awful,” I reiterated.
“So what? It’d be great if it were awful. More laughs!” He had a merry twinkle of anticipation in his eyes.
How could anyone be so self-assured?
“Anyway,” he continued, “as it is somebody’s birthday, I suggest you get into the shower and make yourself presentable. We have things to do!”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I burst out, blushing deeply with embarrassment. “Happy Birthday, Dan!” I gave him a big kiss on the cheek and a big, strong hug. “Happy, happy birthday,” I gabbled again. “Sorry I forgot, it was this stupid dream…”
Dan grinned benevolently. “Never mind, get yourself ready. I’ll order breakfast.”
“But-but-but,” I stammered with confusion. Breakfast? Room service? This was more like the Dan that I knew of old, but I wasn’t entirely sure whether I should tolerate him. “I got your present here… Let me get it.” I made for my suitcase, but Dan propelled me toward the bathroom, laughing.
“I can wait. I know what you’re like, get yourself sorted and you’ll feel much better.” He shut the bathroom door behind me, nearly forgetting to switch the light on for me.
“Thanks,” I yelled, reluctantly yielding to the wisdom of his suggestion.
“Welcome,” he yelled back.
Half an hour later, freshly showered and blow-dried and made-up, I felt more like a human being again. I had told myself sternly to chin up for Dan’s big day—I wanted to make it fantastic, and I had a very special present indeed to give to him. Finding a good present for Dan was almost impossible as he owned nigh on everything he had ever wanted. Yet a birthday required a present, however small, and a round birthday definitely merited a gift.
He was a sensitive chap and he loved words. He always wrote his own lyrics, and I knew he appreciated a nicely turned phrase. So I had decided it had to be a book. He did own books. Quite a few, actually. A lot of them were technical ones relating to music and composition, and he had a few biographies of famous musicians and fellow rockers. He even owned a few novels, including at least one Booker Prize winner.
But this one was different. This one was mine.
Well, technically, it was ours.
It was a very personal present, but I thought he would appreciate that most.
I had written it over a couple of years, in little bits here and there, and even done a bit of editing on it. Nobody else had seen it, and I didn’t think anyone else would ever see it. But for Dan, today, it was perfect.
It was the story of us, our story, or our not-story, as it were. It was a funny, and honest, and occasionally a little bit sad rendering of our romance two years previously. I had printed it out, at great pains, on paperback-size paper, double-sided and formatted like a book. I had added a dedication to him, and just for him. I had designed a cover. Finally, I had used all my contacts at work to persuade a printer I knew to run off a one-time-only copy of the cover, and bind it all together like a proper paperback with the pages that I had already printed. It looked and felt absolutely real.
There was an awful lot of me in that present, and I had my heart in my mouth when I retrieved it from my bag.
“Oh, a present!” Dan was wide-eyed with surprise. “How lovely. Sophie, you shouldn’t have.” He looked at me with big, excited eyes.
“Now, now,” I warned awkwardly, “Don’t get too excited. It’s only a little something.”
Dan shook his head in a “yadda yadda yadda” kind of gesture and picked at the wrapping paper. “May I?”
“Of course,” I said, “just don’t… Well, don’t expect too much. It’s—”
But Dan had already opened it. “It’s a book,” he exclaimed, sounding quite delighted. Then he did a double take on the title and the author.
Sophie’s Turn.
“It’s your book,” he squealed, sounding almost girlish. “Oh my God, oh my God, why didn’t you tell me?” He flipped through the pages eagerly.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I qualified. “It’s not like I signed a mega publishing deal. This is a one-off copy, for you.”
Dan paused in his perusing. “A one-off? For me?” he repeated, then clicked. “You made this? For me?”
I nodded, having temporarily lost the power of speech in the effort not to cry. I was feeling unaccountably emotional.
“I wrote it, too,” I added, somewhat superfluously.
Now Dan was speechless. Instead of a response, he sat down and had a proper read of the first few pages.
“This is about us,” he stated.
I waggled my head noncommittally, trying to gauge his reaction.
“Is it a diary?” he pondered out loud.
I latched onto the idea gratefully.
“It is, and it isn’t. What we had was so beautiful, and so unique… Well, I didn’t want to ever lose it. I didn’t want to ever forget those days. Not one tiny little bit of it. How I felt. What we did. What you did.”
He flinched.
“No, no, I mean the wonderful t
hings you did,” I amended hastily. “It’s all in there. It’s a happy story. And really, it ends happily for both of us, you’ll see. If you don’t like it—”
“I do. I do,” he said emphatically. “I’m just surprised. And touched. Nobody has ever given me something quite so special before. This is unbelievable. All that work, and that effort…”
He petered out and turned the book over in his hands. “It looks so real, like it’s been properly published. I can’t believe you went to all this trouble for one copy, for me.”
I could have sworn he was moved.
No, looking at him reverently turning the book over in his hands, I knew he was moved. And that, in turn, moved me.
Goodness, I was going to cry again. I couldn’t cry twice on his birthday.
Thankfully, our breakfast arrived and we were both distracted from our musings. Saved by the bacon! We both tucked in hungrily.
Chapter Twenty
Dan wouldn’t tell me his plans for the day. “You’ll simply have to play along,” he kept reiterating as he dragged me out of the hotel and onto the Ku’damm.
It was midmorning on a sunny Tuesday in July. The amazing boulevard was busy with tourists and office workers, but the atmosphere was relaxed. There was a definite hint of holiday in the air.
Dan walked me down the Ku’damm, past the Gedächtnis-kirche and right down another unpronounceable road, always consulting his children’s guidebook.
“Where are we going?” I asked again, but I only got a suppressed murmur of “nearly there, nearly there” by way of response.
Suddenly, I realized that we were approaching the famous KaDeWe department store. How exciting. Would Dan want to go for an explore, or would that be too boring for a man?
But yes, we stopped outside and Dan looked at me expectantly.
“We’re here,” he announced with a flourish of his hand. “Kah-Dey-Wey. Or”—he looked in his guide again—“Kaufhaus des Westens. Department Store of the West.”
I nodded eagerly, keen to get in.