Sophie's Encore (6 page)

Even though I had derided Dan’s idea of putting Emily into playschool, his gentle and serious voice kept playing in my head all night as I lay tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Evidently, Josh’s starting school was unsettling the family in more than one way.
A new beginning
, Dan had said. What had he meant by that?

I hadn’t considered myself as needy of a fresh start, but now that he had planted the idea in my head, it had taken root and was growing fast. I supposed Emily
was
ready for playschool, even if this hadn’t featured in my grand plan. Maybe I had been sticking my head in the sand a little bit, because, after all, what would
I
do when she was away in the mornings?

Evidently, there was a job to go back to. Rick, my former boss, was still willing to have me back at
Read London
, full-time, part-time or freelance, and every so often he would ring and try to nudge me in the right direction. While I could do with the money, I wasn’t sure whether I was ready for that level of professional commitment. So what
would
I do?

No easy answer presented itself, and the prospect of having time to read books and watch daytime telly was no longer so appealing now that it could be within reach. I resolved to keep Emily at home for the time being.

Chapter Nine

My resolve lasted until precisely Thursday morning. After three additional mornings of continual whining and the never-ending tantrums ensuing from incurable toddler boredom, I caved in. On Friday, I dropped Emily off for a trial session in the playschool nursery and she shooed me out the door before I even had time to introduce her to the staff.

When I picked her up at noon, she was radiant, tired, and content for the first time that week. Her chatter on the way home revealed that she had done ‘dawing’, painting, played with play dough and Lego, and also reorganized the role play area. How could I compete with so much stimulation?

I rang the playschool before we had to pick up Josh from school and booked Emily in for morning sessions starting the following Monday. There, I had done it. I was a bad mummy, sending my children out of the house so that I could sit round like a lady of leisure.

“You’re not a bad mummy,” Rachel comforted me over nappy changing and formula making at her house that weekend. “You’re simply giving your child what she needs.”

“You’re not a bad mummy,” my Mum advised when we spoke by phone on Sunday morning. “Are you saying
I
was a bad mummy, sending you to nursery from age two?”

“You’re not a bad mummy,” Dan echoed everyone’s thoughts on Sunday night after the kids had gone to bed. We were watching a film and chatting over a glass of wine. “I think you made a brilliant decision, and look how excited Emily is about going tomorrow. She’s hardly feeling pushed away, is she?”

No,
that
, she wasn’t. All afternoon, she had picked out outfits to wear to her official playschool debut the following morning. Chattering away to the best of her not-quite-three-year-old ability, she had selected and dismissed clothes like a mini-me getting ready for a night out. Dan kept a straight face throughout her entire discourse while I quietly choked into my hanky. Emily was feeling a lot of things, but maternal displacement wasn’t one of them.

“Now, you, young lady,” Dan broke into my thoughts. “I don’t want you moping around your house tomorrow or, God forbid, spend your hard-earned three hours of freedom cleaning.”

“I won’t,” I promised, although I had mentally made a list of all the jobs that needed to be done.

Dan regarded me critically. “I know you. You are planning to wash the curtains and sofa covers, and hoover under all the beds. No way, my friend. You’re coming to my house instead.”

“I am?” I echoed, surprised.

I hadn’t been to Dan’s house alone in five years. I had visited, of course, but always together with Steve or at least the kids. We hadn’t had any un-chaperoned time together since before I got married. I frowned uncertainly and Dan erupted into one of his famous belly laughs.

“I promise I won’t ravish you the minute you walk in the door,” he teased. “I only want you out of this house. I’ll make some tea and we can have some cake and you can tell me what you think about the new album. How’s that?”

That sounded delightful. It sounded like something that the old Sophie would have jumped at, and I was taken aback to feel a finger of excitement deep down in my belly. It would be fun to do something out of the ordinary. It would be fun to be privileged enough to listen to Dan’s work once again before the rest of the world got the chance. After almost five years of being a mum and more than two years of being a widow, I was surprised to find little shreds of
me
rising to the surface.

Dan watched my face eagerly, no doubt scrutinizing the display of changing emotion, and he breathed a sigh of relief when anticipation finally emerged.

“Yes,” he shouted and punched the air. “I believe there is an excited girl in there somewhere. It’ll be like the old days!”

“Ah, but I thought I was due for a new beginning,” I teased, reminding him of his wise words in the restaurant.

“New beginning, a re-discovery of self, it’s all much of a muchness as long as…” He didn’t finish his sentence.

“As long as
what
?” I prompted.

“As long as… As long as that sadness leaves your eyes,” Dan whispered, suddenly serious and tender. “It’s been breaking my heart seeing you so unhappy. I know, I know.” He held up his hands before I could speak. “I know what you’ve been going through, and you’ve done it brilliantly. You’re an awesome mum and a fabulous friend. You’ve laughed with your children and turned them into happy little beings. But still, the whole time, you’ve been sad. And it’s killing me.”

The great lump in my throat threatened to dissolve into tears, and I swallowed hard. Enough tears, enough crying.

“I don’t want to be sad, but it feels wrong to be anything but.” I finally confessed the thought that had been haunting me for weeks. “I want to move on, but it’s not even been three years, and…”

As I was in confessional mode, I carried on. “Sometimes I can’t quite remember what Steve looked like. And I can’t recall the sound of his voice. And I feel so guilty.” I wrapped my arms around my chest to hold myself together.

“Don’t feel guilty. You’ve got to let go. At some point, you’ve got to let go. Steve wouldn’t want you to be sad—”

I stifled a howl, but Dan continued. “No, he wouldn’t want you to be sad and lonely. Gosh, even by traditional standards, not that I believe in them, but even by the most reactionary standards of mourning etiquette, you’ve done your time. You are
allowed
to move on.” He held my eyes, daring me to challenge his words.

“How do you know so much about mourning?”

Dan had the grace to look discomfited. “I did a lot of reading up on it lately. I was getting worried, and I wanted to understand better what you were experiencing and… well, how long you should be putting yourself through this. At what point it’s appropriate for a friend to try and extract you from your self-inflicted exile.”

“And?”

“Two years.” Dan paused. “Actually, one year. One year of heavy mourning, and within the next year, a widow graduates to light mourning, being free to live her life and
court
.” He smiled at the old-fashioned word. “So there. No one will fault you or judge you in any way if you come out and have a little fun again. Not with
me
,” he added hastily. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.” He scratched his head. “In fact, I’m not really talking about dating, just, you know, doing things for you. Fun things, things that challenge you, or entertain you, or stretch you a bit.”

I took his arm, trying to halt the flood of words. “It’s okay. You can stop digging now. I think that hole is deep enough.” I giggled. “I know what you mean.”

And I did. I couldn’t quite fathom
why
his little speech had made a difference, but it had. A small weight had been lifted. A door opened, if only a crack, and there was a sliver of light. Perhaps I
could
permit myself to lighten up and look after myself a little bit every day.

“All right.” I returned to our original conversation. “All right. I’ll come to your place after I drop Emily off tomorrow. For tea and cake, and to listen to your new music.”

“Tea and cake and music,” Dan repeated. “Deal.”

PART TWO:

FALLING

Chapter Ten

Ten thousand déjà-vu’s and a million conflicting emotions crashed in on me as I rang Dan’s doorbell the next morning. Standing on his doorstep brought back too many memories. I stamped on them and pressed the bell again. At last the door was flung open and a smiling Dan greeted me. “You came!”

“Of course I came. You made me promise. Now can I come in?”

Dan stood back and held the door wide.

“Work first, or tea and cake first?” he demanded as I stepped into his hallway.

“Work? What work?” No work had been mentioned yesterday.

“Oh, I need your advice on something. You know, the songs. I want to play you my new songs.”

Ah, now
that
I did remember. A brief silence settled between us while I pondered options. Technically, I had only just had breakfast and it was too early for cake. On the other hand, it was
never
too early for cake, but it was
distinctly
too early to venture downstairs into Dan’s sanctum, his recording studio. I suddenly felt awkward at the prospect of finding myself alone with Dan in that secluded space.

“Cake and tea would be lovely,” I finally resolved, and Dan ushered me into his lounge. My eyes were immediately drawn to a lovely cake stand adorned with dozens of little fondant fancies in shades of white, pink, and light blue. The ensemble looked pretty and delectable. I faced Dan with astonishment, but he simply laughed.

“Nothing to do with me. I told the housekeeper you would be coming and she got terribly carried away. I think she likes you. From, you know, way back when.”

“But—” I struggled with the logistics. “It’s only half past nine. When did she make all of these?”

“Um.” Dan blushed. “I texted her last night and she came in at seven. She’s off now for the rest of the day, but we can always go for lunch if we get hungry.”

“I’ll need to collect Emily at noon.” I rained on his rather too enthusiastic parade.

“Of course, of course,” Dan conceded. “I was just saying. Anyway…” He gestured toward the tower of cakes. “Shall we?”

We sat down on a sofa each, facing each other, and Dan poured tea from a dainty teapot. I lifted one of the bone china cups to my lips, but set it down again before I drank. Dan mirrored my actions and looked at me with a puzzled expression.

“What’s wrong, Soph?” His voice was laced with genuine concern.

“It’s… I don’t know. This is so weird. It’s not you, really, or me.” I tapped a fingernail lightly against my cup, producing a soft ping. “Before…you know, in the old days…we simply used to dump teabags into mugs and pour milk straight from the bottle. I didn’t know you’d gone all posh.”

Dan rose and collected the tea things onto a tray. “I haven’t. Jenny was simply trying to impress you. Let’s do it the normal way.”

I opened my mouth to protest, now feeling worse than before, but Dan had already disappeared into the kitchen. I heard him fill the kettle with water and flick it on; the banging of various cupboard doors suggested that he was hunting down cups, teabags, and spoons. Within three minutes, he returned to the lounge bearing two steaming mugs and looking much more himself. He walked carefully around the sofa and sat down next to me.

“There. Better?”

I accepted my mug and sat back, relieved. “Yes, much.” We sipped contentedly at our tea, and Dan offered up the cakes again. “Go on, they look delicious.”

I took one, he took one. We bit, we chewed, we swallowed. They were fabulous.

“Have another?”

We both took one more, a pink one this time. Next we had a blue one each to see if they tasted different. Twenty minutes later, they were all gone, and I lay back on the sofa, feeling full, fat, and a little decadent. Dan reclined the other way, and we let our feet rub together as though we were dry-cycling.

“Phoar,” Dan groaned. “There’ll be hell to pay when my personal trainer weighs me next.”

“You have a personal trainer?” I was dumbstruck. “When did this happen?”

“A few years ago. Remember when I had some issues with my back after a tour and I had to see a physio, and she recommended upping my core strength and exercising to keep supple. Enter the personal trainer.”

After this little confession, I couldn’t help looking him up and down pointedly. He
did
look very fit. As gorgeous as ever, in fact. It simply had never occurred to me that he would be working at it these days. My interest was piqued.

“You kept that quiet. So what do you do? And how often?” I had visions of heavy-duty gym equipment, bar bells, and all manner of torture devices.

Dan shrugged. “Pilates, mostly. Three times a week. For half an hour. I didn’t want to turn into a bodybuilder or anything like that. I simply want to be able to do my shows without doing my back in. And I want to keep touring for a good few years yet.” He smiled his irresistible smile.

I nodded. “Looks like you’re doing well.”

“Why, thank you kindly, young lady,” he retorted in a mock brittle voice. I laughed. It felt good to be back here again. It was lovely not to have to rush around and pick up toys and discarded clothes. I could feel myself relaxing by the minute, and I relished the moment of being
me
.

Somewhere in the house, an alarm clock went off. Dan rose, clapping his hands together. “Time for work,” he declared, holding out his hands to help me up.

“You set an alarm? To get to work?” This was getting weirder and weirder. What had happened to my friend, who normally didn’t rise before midday?

“Well, I knew our time would be limited, and I really do want to show you my songs so…”