Sophie's Run

by Wells, Nicky

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “So, what’s next?” I questioned the birthday boy when we had sated our respective appetites for food and shopping.

  “Surprise,” he twinkled and hailed a taxi. We left the built-up area of Berlin and drove through increasingly leafy streets and suburbs. About half an hour later, the taxi pulled into a car park and I could vaguely make out a children’s play area and some boats, with an expanse of water sparkling in the sunshine.

  Right on cue, Dan offered an explanation of sorts. “Good day for a boat trip, don’t you reckon?”

  I nodded eagerly. Boat trips were quite my thing. We could sit on the top deck and quaff some wine or even champagne. I would buy, of course, it being Dan’s birthday. It would be delightful.

  “Is this the Wannsee?” I contemplated aloud.

  “It certainly is,” Dan confirmed happily, and ushered me out of the taxi. He had already paid the driver and dragged me toward the boats eagerly. He pulled me past all the lovely pleasure cruisers and walked on, and on. Suddenly, I saw a little boathouse tucked away at the far end of the quayside. Dan walked right up to it and whooped with joy.

  “Awesome! Let’s go rowing on the lake.” He rocked backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet and pumped my hands excitedly. He was completely oblivious to the fact that I struggled to share his elation.

  I had never rowed in my life.

  Buck up, I told myself. He’s going to do the hard work and I’m going to sit there looking pretty. It could be worse.

  But Dan had other plans.

  He hired two boats—one for him, and one for me. As the boat hire man effortlessly slid the two vessels into the water, Dan gave a theatrical bow. “Milady…”

  My jaw dropped.

  “You can’t be serious,” I uttered. “I’ll fall in. I’ll drown.”

  “No, you won’t,” Dan reassured me gaily. “It’s easy. Come on, in you hop.”

  And he propelled me toward one of the boats. Before I knew it, I was sitting in it, an oar clutched in each hand, and the boat man gave me an almighty push into the wide expanse of lake Wannsee.

  I pulled myself up by my bootstraps.

  Oh, I didn’t have bootstraps. Try again.

  I pulled myself up by the straps of my strappy sling-backs.

  There, that was more like it.

  Regarding the oars critically, I experimentally dipped one in the water and lifted it out again. In, and out again. In, and out again. My rowing boat appeared to be moving.

  Best try the other oar as well. Hm. I was turning on the spot. The left oar didn’t seem to be working too well.

  I turned to see what Dan was up to. He was still ashore, chatting with the boat man and laughing uproariously. What is he laughing about? I wondered, but was distracted by my right oar making a bid for freedom. I grabbed it hastily, leaning heavily to the right and the whole boat leaned with me.

  Whoops!

  Sitting up straight and keeping myself still, I waited for the little vessel to stop rocking and my heart rate to slow down.

  Then I heard a thud on my other side and found that I had somehow rammed a wooden pole. Somewhat belatedly, I noticed that there was a whole row of wooden poles, some bearing signs instructing rowers to stay away.

  Easier said than done. I was still drifting, and the current was pulling me right into the shallows.

  Gradually, I became aware of some distant shouting. Turning again, I saw that Dan and the boat man were trying to attract my attention. They were both doing the Funky Chicken on the quayside.

  No, hang on. Not the Funky Chicken.

  They were trying to show me something. They were miming, arms going back and forth…

  Oh. Of course. The oars. I was supposed to be use them both at the same time. I burst out laughing and tried again, but all I managed was a wild wobble.

  I twisted round once more, casting desperate glances ashore. Behold, Dan was in a boat. He was coming after me.

  “I’m stuck,” I yelled, somewhat superfluously, and burst into more hysterical laughter. With fierce determination, I retrieved the left oar from an unscheduled diving mission in the water and grabbed both oars firmly, holding them level to the water. Ready, set, go!

  In went the oars, ever so slightly, and I pulled them back with all my might, leaning, leaning; and yes, I was off! The muddy shore receded. Bump, there went another wooden pole, but never fear, I was on my way out now. Another dip-and-heave of the oars, and I was in open water.

  “Easy now,” a voice advised me, then issued an abrupt, “Watch out!”

  A foreign oar appeared at the side of my boat, poking it aggressively. My boat obediently turned, and suddenly I was face-to-face with Dan.

  “We nearly capsized each other, young lady,” he informed me in a mock-serious voice. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  I shook my head, erupting into more peals of laughter, and I literally could not speak. Dan held the boats together as he waited for me to calm down.

  “That looked adventurous,” he finally commented in a voice quivering with laughter also.

  “Hm-hm,” I uttered noncommittally.

  “Silly moo.” Dan gave me an affectionate pat on the arm, moderated by a sweet smile. The boats rocked ominously, and he withdrew his hand quickly. “Right, let’s turn you around properly and I’ll give you a crash course in rowing,” he offered. “We’ll make a pro out of you yet.”

  Not likely, I thought, but I was glad of the instruction.

  Lo and behold, once I had found my stride, it was actually quite easy. Emphasis on quite, mind.

  Our hour was up much faster than I thought possible, and after I had somehow managed the nigh-impossible maneuver of getting myself back to the boathouse without ramming the pier or breaking the boat, Dan and I were on terra firma once more. Dan gave me a big bear hug. “That was fantastic,” he exclaimed. “Thanks so much. And now for the real boats.”

  So after all that, we did sit on the top deck of one of the pleasure boats, and while they didn’t sell champagne, they had a very nice and immensely drinkable white wine.

  All’s well that ends well, I silently toasted myself. Aloud, I inquired of Dan what he intended to do with the rest of his day.

  “We’ll go back to the hotel, and tonight,” my big birthday boy laughed, “tonight I want to go out dancing. To a club. Like I used to, with a lovely girl. Are we on?”

  “Of course we’re on,” I agreed. That sounded more like a Dan-style birthday to me, and I was only too happy to oblige.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Oh, oh, but the hangover! As the plane took off, I was certain I would leave my head behind. Or at least my brain. The pain was excruciating, and I ached all over—head, back, tummy, and all. I put it down to too much booze. And too much laughter. And too much raucous shouting and heckling. How was I to have known that Dan was taking me to a club that did karaoke specials? That just proved that you could take the singer out of London, but not out of the man.

  Anyway, I pondered, as I reclined limply in my business class seat, eyes firmly shut, hands clenching the arm rests. What a night.

  I sat back up again and fumbled blindly in my handbag for some ibuprofen. I dry-swallowed two and lay back again, waiting for the drugs to do their magic.

  After two days of living almost like a normal person, Dan had finally cracked the previous night. We had dinner in a Michelin-starred restaurant. Actually, we had pre-dinner cocktails in the hotel bar, after which, lightweight that I was turning out to be, things were a little bit hazy. So when Dan bundled me into another taxi, I didn’t pay the slightest attention where we were going. I was concentrating on not creasing my perfect little dress that I had donned in honor of the occasion.

  Dinner at the fancy two-Michelin starred restaurant was truly fantastic. We took our time over ordering and eating, and we even had a sedate little dance in a private corner. It was magical. And innocent, honestly. Just to keep myself rooted in
reality, I made every effort to cast my mind back to my mystery man, Steve, and it worked. I even talked about him over dinner. Dan seemed…amused about that. He had never seemed amused while I had been with Tim. Then, he had always been very straightforward and adventurous. Now, he was being straightforward and decorous. Hands-off. Weird, actually. But nice.

  After dinner, we had ourselves driven back to the hotel and changed into suitable dancing attire before going clubbing. How on earth Dan found this rock-club-cum-karaoke-place was beyond me; it was classy and glitzy, all mirrors and fairy lights and beautiful people. The rock music blasting from the speakers was a little incongruous with the décor, but it appealed to me. We secured a table, ordered drinks and relaxed.

  Until. Oh God.

  The sounds coming over the sound system were distinctly, almost intimately, familiar. His voice. My voice.

  Love Me Better.

  He—he had done it. He had released it.

  Without consulting me. Without even telling me.

  I felt hot and cold. My heart beat faster than the rhythm. I stared daggers at Dan, who held up his hands in an apologetic gesture.

  “I was going to tell you; in fact, I was going to ask you but I was worried you’d chicken out and…” he launched into a somewhat feeble explanation.

  “Too right I’d have chickened out. And what?” I prompted him to continue his thought.

  “…and, well…it was just so great. I couldn’t not use the vocals.” Cue semi-apologetic, dead-devastating grin. The smile that no one could resist, not even me.

  I whacked him with my handbag. I wasn’t normally given to violence, but this was for form’s sake, and I had to vent my feelings somehow. Only I hadn’t quite worked out what feelings they were. Embarrassment, probably. Yes, definitely present. But also excitement? Pride? Surely not.

  Meanwhile, our recorded voices reverberated around the club, loud and clear. It was surreal. Dan was watching me carefully. As he noticed me succumbing to the magic of our music, his face relaxed and he smiled again, lightly touching his nose to my nose, then nuzzling his face into my neck.

  “I know you, Sophie Penhalligan,” he whispered into my ear. “Secretly, you’re thrilled. Come on, admit it.”

  “I am not thrilled,” I objected, trying to sound dignified but failing miserably. “I am annoyed, actually. You promised me—”

  “I promised you nothing, only that we would see how it went,” Dan jumped in quickly.

  Too quickly. I whacked him a second time, but only very gently. Man, we sounded great.

  “You had this planned all along,” I concluded. “You knew, even then.”

  “Of course,” Dan admitted, unabashed. “You were bloody brilliant. This is the best song I’ve ever written. Of course I knew.”

  “So,” I faltered. I couldn’t help but listen to the music. Was that really me? Was it possible that I could sound so rock’n’roll? So cool? So authentic? Like I was, actually, a singer?

  “It really is you,” Dan confirmed, reading my mind as of old. “I told you, you were amazing.”

  “But how?”

  “Easy. I had all the vocals I needed, and the guys and I did the rest. Well, not exactly; the engineers mixed it and produced it, but you and I, we laid down some pretty damn good groundwork, that night.”

  “And now—” I couldn’t finish the sentence while trying to grapple with the implications of it all. Tuscq, a huge rock band. Me, providing the vocals for a single. What did that mean?

  “And now we’ve released it as my fortieth birthday celebration single. Still rocking, but with a gentle edge.”

  “Still rocking, but with a gentle edge?” I echoed. “Did you come up with that?”

  “Of course not. That was the PR guys.” Dan laughed out loud. “I’ve always had a gentle edge, the world just doesn’t know it.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at some sort of launch party?” it occurred to me. “If this is your birthday single?”

  “Ah no, I’ve explained that to you. Anyway, it’s worked out quite nicely. I’m gone to no one knows where, and this single is out with a mystery voice that nobody knows whose it is. Perfect. It’ll be number one by the end of the week, I guarantee it.”

  I nodded; yes, I could see that. But something disturbed me about this notion.

  “What do you mean, a mystery voice…?” I suddenly pounced.

  Dan looked a little bashful. “Um… Well…we didn’t put your name on there for now. Obviously, we say thanks to the wonderful unnamed singer and all that, and there is a picture of the band and you, except you’re blanked out. I didn’t know how to ask you and I thought you’d say no, and if you’re not on it and really don’t like it, you can always deny, deny, deny… And if you do like it, we can have a relaunch in a few weeks’ time and hit number one again. If you want.”

  I shook my head, trying to digest all this information. So I was going to be an incognito chart-topping singer with no name. Did I like that, or not?

  “D’you reckon they’d play it again? I…I can’t believe that’s really me. Us. I want to hear it again.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Dan agreed. “Shall I go and ask?”

  “Would you?” I blushed. “Yes, please.”

  So Dan went off, like an ordinary Joe Bloggs, and requested his own single to be played once more. When he returned to our table, he informed me that the song was also available as a karaoke version, and how did I feel about that? I shook my head. I wasn’t quite ready for that. So we simply sat back and enjoyed the music. Next thing I knew, Dan took off and requested all sorts of silly songs for karaoke, like the Funky Chicken, for crying out loud. He did some incredible things with his voice, weird high falsettos for a Pretenders number, and nobody realized who he was or what he was doing. I had rarely seen him so high on excitement and adrenaline. By the end, he went on merely for the thrill of not being recognized, and would he get away with it again. It was hilariously funny and, now that I thought it all over again, quite unbelievable.

  I was reasonably certain that was what had happened the previous night, along with a few too many strawberry margaritas, of course.

  What I wasn’t certain about still was The Song.

  I opened my eyes and stared out of the window. There was nothing to see except cloud cover, so I closed them again and imagined a wide-open sky with fluffy clouds above a calm ocean… What on earth would Mum and Dad think?

  And Rachel?

  And Steve? Would he realize? Would it give him the wrong idea about me?

  The ibuprofen finally kicked in, and I fell asleep before I could finish the thought.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I went home straight from the airport. Home home, that was, to my very own flat. I was still feeling a little raw and hung-over, and now anxiety crept into the mix as the cab pulled up in front of my house. What would it be like?

  The smell of fresh paint and new carpets greeted me as I unlocked the front door. Oh, lovely. It reeked of newness and a fresh start, and I knew that everything was all right.

  Up the stairs I trudged, dragging my pink carry-on case, and stopped at the top of the landing to survey all that was mine.

  Oh yes, I had come home.

  You wouldn’t have known all of this had been black with soot and damp with water just a few short weeks back. The cream carpets made the place look bright, and the walls were all pristine white.

  Into the lounge, and yes! The sofas and the new bookshelves were there, the curtain poles were up and my lovely dusky-pink and cream patterned tab-top double-lined curtains were hanging neatly either side of the three sash windows.

  The overall effect was overwhelming. I pushed all thoughts of lost belongings firmly out of my mind as I took in my restyled surroundings. The cushions I had picked on that fateful Saturday afternoon on the King’s Road were doing a great job of making the place feel like home, and the ornaments and knick-knacks I had acquired were stacked tidily on the shelves, waiting to be
liberated from their packaging. With only a few short hours of work, the place would be mine again. I let out a deep breath and sat down on the sofa.

  Home.

  While it had been undeniably lovely to live at Dan’s house with all the perks that had brought, I hadn’t realized how much I missed my own space. And even though there was the tiniest sense of feeling a little lonely in there, I knew I would soon fill the void with someone else’s presence. I just knew. This absolute certainty came to me as I was sitting on my brand new sofa contemplating my future. I could almost see Steve sitting there with me, drinking a glass of wine or a cup of tea, idly flicking the remote.

  The vision was so real, so vivid, I had to blink a few times to ensure that I was imagining it, that he wasn’t actually there already.

  It was like a strong premonition, but a good one.

  I busied myself unpacking my suitcase and loading the washing machine before unwrapping new ornaments and furniture. I also, very carefully and quite reverently, hung my perfect little dress in the wardrobe, squashing my other dresses to the far side to give this one plenty of space.

  At some point, I got hungry and did a mercy-dash to the supermarket by the Tube station, stocking up only on essentials for now. Milk, bread, butter, honey, chocolate, crisps, wine, a bottle of cava, pizzas, prawns, pasta…

  At least I was ready. I picked up the phone to ring Rachel, still at her parents’ house in Cardiff. It was a good call.

  “Sophie!” she exclaimed with glee. “Were you good? Or were you…really good?”

  I smiled. “We were both good. It was brilliant. But it was all innocent. I swear.” I gave her a detailed rundown of events in Berlin. She grew very animated when I told her about The Song.

  “I heard it a few times,” she gushed. “I nearly called you because I was sure that was you, but I didn’t know whether it was public knowledge.”