Sophie's Run (2 page)

Shaking myself out of my stupor, I glanced at my watch and broke into a run. Now I really was late!

The orchestra had finished tuning and the dress rehearsal was in full swing by the time I finally crashed through the church doors. I slowed my step and prayed that my heart rate would slow down, too, while I carefully tiptoed down the aisle to find my place in the choir stalls. Mouthing an apology at the choir director, I tried to make myself invisible as I crept past her and squeezed myself into the end of a pew. I opened my folder of sheet music and told myself to focus. Yet I appeared to be in the grip of a delayed stress reaction; I started to shake so badly that the music slipped right out of my grip and fluttered prettily to the floor. When did I become so clumsy?

“Don’t be nervous,” my pew neighbor whispered to me. “You’ll be fine.”

I smiled wanly at her and bent down to retrieve the sheets of paper, bumping my head against the pew and momentarily seeing stars.
Great
. At this rate, I wouldn’t make it through the concert.

Breathe, Sophie, breathe
.

Rehearsal finished with me barely noticing it had taken place. It was only a short twenty-minute break before the actual concert would begin. Most of the singers disappeared from the choir stalls, grabbing a drink or catching up with friends as the audience began to arrive. I simply remained in my seat, staring vacantly into space. My heart was still beating fast, and I had a strange sensation of heightened awareness. Every noise, every sound was amplified tenfold, and everything I saw appeared to be overly sharp, overly bright, extremely clear. I wondered if that was how Dan felt before he went on stage.

All too quickly, the orchestra musicians returned to their places and re-tuned their instruments. The high-pitched whining of violin strings being adjusted hung in the air and tugged at my nerves. I looked away from the audience and instead examined the intricate carvings in the woodwork of the choir stalls facing me, currently filling with basses.

I watched with wry detachment as they all sat down and took their music, readying themselves for the beginning of the concert. Yet abruptly, one man got back to his feet again, squeezing past knees and unsettling everyone in an effort to reach the end of the pew.

“What
is
he doing?”

“Who?” my pew neighbor chimed in curiously. She followed my gaze and sighed. “Isn’t he gorgeous? That’s Steve. He’s reading the dedication tonight.”

Something weird was happening to me. I had a strange tingling sensation, a kind of jubilant foreboding in my tummy that I had never experienced before. I heard myself speak without knowing what I would say.

“Has he always been in the choir? I’ve never seen him before.”

“He comes and goes. He’s not here very often. I think it’s a work thing…” My neighbor’s voice seemed to come from a long way away. My eyes were trained on Steve as if my life depended on him.

Suddenly, he looked up. His gaze met mine and our eyes locked. Time stood still.

Those eyes. Round and sparkly, they were like pools of melted chocolate sprinkled with stardust, mysterious and warm and oozing tenderness. A prickle ran down my spine, and the hairs at the nape of my neck rose in anticipation.

I knew without the slightest shadow of a doubt that this was the man I would marry. And I also knew that this recognition was mutual. Steve stood stock-still and I could practically see the electricity arc between us.

The moment passed; it had seemed like minutes but had probably been mere seconds. I rose to the surface as though I had been in a trance.
Entranced
.

“Are you all right?” my neighbor whispered.

“Fine,” I whispered back. “Absolutely fine.”

The concert went well until somebody arrived with the proverbial bang right in the quietest moment of the piece. The slamming of the church door made everybody jump, and the ensuing shuffling of feet and muttered excuses distracted most of us. I could see our conductor frowning, but she continued without missing a beat.

Everybody surreptitiously craned their necks to see who might be causing this disturbance. Everybody but me. I would have recognized that voice anywhere, at any volume, however muted or whispered it was. Plus I had been waiting for this moment, knowing that Dan would make an entrance of some description when he and the band arrived. Yet I blushed deeply, feeling responsible for bringing this rock-god, classic-klutz into the church.

I fiddled with my necklace.
The
necklace. The half-engagement-ring pendant with the beautiful sapphire that Dan had had made for me after I turned down his proposal on the plane back from Paris. He usually wore the other half—a kind of symbolic “we’re not really together, but we’ll always be together” gesture that summed up our friendship perfectly. To me, the pendant had become a good luck charm, and it reassured me now. It wouldn’t matter whether Dan liked the music or rated our performance; he had made the effort. And yet… part of me wondered whether this was actually a good thing. Had I made a mistake by inviting Dan into this part of my life that I had so carefully carved out for myself as a new beginning?

Distraction, double distraction, and now triple distraction. First Tim, then Steve, now Dan. And
now
I had lost my place. My pew neighbor actually clamped a hand over my mouth to stop me from having an unintentional solo moment, and I snapped to with a jolt.

Calm down,
Sophie,
I told myself.
No harm done. Nobody will have noticed
. Nobody except for… I could see Steve winking at me. I blushed some more, suppressing a wild giggle.
No more!
I admonished myself, turning my attention fully to the music. I resolved to meet Steve after the concert and, after that, tell Dan off for making such an entrance.

Best laid plans! The concert ended and before I could grab my chance, Steve loped off to the front to speak to the conductor and a group of people I didn’t know. I remained in my seat and speared Steve with looks while the other altos filed out one by one.
Come on, come on, come on
, I urged him under my breath, knowing I was running out of time, knowing that any minute I would be claimed.

Too late. While I was still trying to generate some sort of invisible tether between myself and Steve, Dan had found me, dragging Rachel, Jordan and the rest of the band along with him as I had known he would. They swooped down on me full of kind words and congratulations, eager to let me know how much they had enjoyed themselves. General mayhem ensued as six people crowded into my pew, but Dan somehow managed to sit himself down next to me. He gave me a boisterous hug that nearly toppled me over. I was sure his voice could be heard all over the church as he half-roared, half-sang, “Sophie, that was beautiful. I am
so
impressed.” He regarded me critically and gently touched a finger to the bruise on my forehead.

“Who have you been upsetting tonight?” he joked, yet the gesture was undeniably tender. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Steve was watching us closely, and I squirmed uncomfortably.
This wasn’t meant to happen.

“No one,” I said, rather more abruptly than I had intended. “It’s nothing.”

I didn’t know where to look, but Dan was full of beans and didn’t even notice my agitation.

“Come on,” he said, pulling me out of my seat and onto my feet. “Come on,” he repeated for everybody’s benefit, motioning for the band and Rachel and Jordan to get up and get moving. “Let’s go have some dinner.”

And when I remained rooted to the spot, trying to make some kind of visual farewell connection with Steve, Dan took a formal bow, doffed an imaginary cap and boomed, “Milady, your carriage awaits.” I giggled despite myself.

If I was reluctant to leave, Dan utterly failed to notice. I was swept along in his slipstream, and a little part of me was excited that Dan had come to collect me. It felt quite nice to be made a fuss of. But the bigger part of me shrank and shivered in dismay as I finally caught one last look at Steve, watching Dan’s exuberant Sophie-extraction-performance and looking—disappointed? Sad? Amused? Impossible to tell.
Still
, I reasoned as I was being dragged out of the church,
he was a member of the choir even if his attendance was patchy; there would be more rehearsals and more concerts after the summer break, I
would
find this man.

It turned out that Dan hadn’t been joking about the carriage. That man certainly was full of surprises. I was half-expecting the customary stretch limo, but certainly not a horse and cart. Dan exploded with laughter.

“I told you your carriage was awaiting!” he exclaimed gleefully.

“Well, I know,” I muttered back. “I didn’t think you meant an actual… What
is
this?”

“This,” Dan announced, gingerly patting the horse’s head, “is our transport for right now. You know…rock gig, big limo. Classic gig, classic transport. Fits the occasion, don’t you think?”

I observed the horse cautiously, not sure what to make of this equine encounter. “Where on
earth
did you find a horse and cart in Central London?” I persisted.

“Oh, you know, there are hire companies about,” Dan responded airily. “And anyway, this isn’t a cart, this is a proper carriage. Won’t you go and check it out?”

Before I could say anything else, Rachel opened the carriage door with a great squeal of excitement and climbed in. “What are you waiting for?” she shouted back at me. “Come on in.”

“You’ve got to be joking, right?” I challenged. “This… this is too over the top. I mean, who
does
this kind of stuff?”

“I
do,” Dan responded, looking slightly crestfallen. “I thought it would be a laugh.”

Seeing the sadness in his face, I finally caved. Anyway, I was only protesting for form’s sake, lest
Candid Camera
or something should pop up any minute.

The inside of the carriage was simply sumptuous. It was done out in red velvet upholstery with two sets of seats facing each other. Small imitation candles in all four corners cast a soft, but barely sufficient, glow. Rachel and Jordan sat on one side with Joe (Tuscq’s drummer) and I sat on Dan’s lap on the other side, squeezing in beside Mick (the bassist) and Darren (lead guitar). There was the teensiest fridge stuck under one of the benches, and Joe swiftly produced a couple of mini bottles of champagne.

“It’s like way back when on that coach…” he commented, giving me a wink as he popped the first cork. “Let’s try not to spill it all this time.”

I grinned back. I had always liked Joe and he had a knack of defusing situations with his easy-going, happy demeanor. We all clinked glasses, holding on for dear life as the carriage rocked and wobbled through the London streets. I let my misgivings and confusion drain away and allowed myself to relax.

Dan had reserved a table for us at
Zeus!
, the flagship restaurant of one very flamboyant and multi-Michelin-starred TV celebrity chef. If the maître d’ was astonished by our mode of transport, he didn’t bat an eyelid. Instead, he greeted us like royalty and showed us swiftly to a secluded table. A couple of years ago, occasions like this one had featured quite heavily in my life, and I recalled the initial heady excitement and disbelief at my good fortune in having linked up with my favorite band, and taking part in their lifestyle. I smiled to myself, feeling a little nostalgic for the innocence and naivety of those early dates. Now, of course, I was much more sophisticated and worldly-wise. Well, possibly, a little bit. I could be serene, and poised, and elegantly glamorous with the best of them, I applauded myself inwardly, skillfully shooting an olive across the restaurant while trying to spear it with a toothpick.

Rachel gave me a strange look. “Are you all right?” she mouthed into my ear.

“What?” I whispered back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Rachel shook her head. “You’re being weird.”

Weird? Who, me?

Trust Rachel to read me like a book.

“I’m not being weird,” I hissed. “I’ve got something to—” The “tell you” stuck in my throat as I knocked over my glass of wine in the effort of communicating with my friend without being heard by the others. Rachel jumped up and flapped about with a napkin, wiping at her trousers and shooting me murderous looks.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I gabbled, joining my own napkin to her dabbing efforts, and seizing the opportunity to whisk her off to the ladies’ room. Five pairs of male eyes regarded us with amusement as we ambled off, holding a napkin over the incriminating wet patch.

The doors had barely shut behind us when Rachel turned on me.

“Right,” she announced. “There’d better be a jolly good reason why you just spilled an expensive glass of wine over my favorite designers, so I’m listening.”

I looked at her, trying to gather my thoughts, trying to work out how to communicate the enormity of the situation.

“Rach…” I started, then caught sight of her wet patch and erupted in involuntary giggles. “Let’s tidy you up first.” I grabbed a few luxury paper towels from the dispenser, but Rachel wasn’t having any of it. “That’ll dry. It’s only white wine. Go on.”