Sophie's Run (12 page)

I eyed the four solid walls of my suite with mixed feelings. Obviously, I didn’t want temptation, obviously I was totally, totally over Dan, and obviously I was still holding on to my Steve-moments, but this brought back so many memories that I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed at the similarities and dismayed at the differences.

Depositing my pink carry-on suitcase in the wardrobe, I took a quick tour of the suite. A bedroom, a small sitting room, a sumptuous bathroom with a spa bath and surround shower. As always, Dan wasn’t stinting, bless him.

I was eyeing myself up critically in the mirror when there was a knock on the door followed by Dan’s impatient voice, “Hurry up, woman, we’ve got a city to explore.”

I snapped to and we were off.

Dan’s excitement was contagious. We fair skipped out of the hotel together and walked up the
Ku’damm
, taking in the traffic driving on the right side of the road, the big plane trees lining this major boulevard, and all the fancy shops. I was worried that Dan would drown me in extravagant gestures, but all we did was window shop and look at the sights. We stopped at a bakery-cum-coffee-shop where Dan ordered two coffees and two
Pfannkuchen
, which I assumed would be pancakes but turned out to be doughnuts. They were still warm and freshly rolled in sugar and absolutely to die for.

“My clever book,” Dan announced, unexpectedly brandishing a guide to Berlin, “tells me that these little delights are known as ‘Berliners,’ which translates into ‘doughnuts,’ all over Germany. Except in Berlin, these darlings are actually called Pfannkuchen, which the rest of the world would translate as pancake.”

My mouth must have been hanging open in shock because Dan nudged me playfully and said, teasingly, “Do close your mouth, darling, we are in polite company.”

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.

“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.